The Good Daughter: A Mafia Story

by Diana Layne

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Worrying about it won’t help anything. Eat something.”

  She eyed the food with disinterest, her sudden energy burst short-lived.

  “Come on. You got a baby to think about, you said. Eat something. You don’t want this, maybe some toast? Milk? Giovanni, we got milk--”

  “I don’t want milk.”

  “Okay, forget the milk. A soft drink. Here’s a plate. You want some of this?” He pointed to a carton of stir-fried vegetables with noodles.

  Reluctantly, she accepted. He was right. She needed to eat. Not only for the baby, but for the strength to escape. Because one way or another, she was getting away from this house.

  Alive.

  Later, after she nibbled at her vegetables, Giovanni cleaned up the empty cartons, while Angie took a phone call in the kitchen out of her hearing range. She put her plate down and idly picked up a plastic card on the coffee table. Woo-Sung’s Chinese Take Out, it advertised. On the back it listed twenty-six places Woo-Sung’s was available in the New York/New Jersey area. Nia idly flicked the card around, until a thought occurred to her. She remembered the lock on her door and looked at the card more closely. About the same weight and thickness of a credit card. Perfect.

  She quickly slid the card into her pocket before they came back into the living room.

  Just in time.

  “Giovanni’s missing a knife.” Angie walked back in the room. A dinner knife lay next to her plate on the coffee table which had been their informal dining table. “Ah, here it is.”

  “What? Did you think I took it?”

  “Wouldn’t put it past you. I did hear you threaten to tear out Mikey’s heart. I wouldn’t want you getting any ideas while I’m sleeping.”

  “You’re not telling me you’re going to let me roam around the house while you’re sleeping?”

  “Not on your life, Bella. You’ll be locked back into your room again. This time without your sheets.”

  “It’s getting very cold.”

  “You should have thought of that. And you should be grateful you didn’t escape earlier. With no jacket and those flimsy shoes, once nighttime hit, you’d have frostbite in no time.”

  Frostbite would have been better than being held prisoner with nothing more to think about than her future. Or lack of one.

  “I’ll leave you the comforter,” he finally conceded. “You won’t freeze to death tonight.”

  Great. She wouldn’t freeze to death tonight. But by tomorrow night. . .or the next, she might be dead. She didn’t for one minute believe Angie about Carlo not planning to hurt her. Once they found Sandro, they had no reason to keep her alive.

  She bit back a surge of fear. She was going to have to escape again. Tonight. Frostbite was better than dying.

  Chapter 14

  A clock seemed to be counting down in Sandro’s heart. Minutes, hours, days, and Nia could be dead. Did they have days? No, he didn’t think so. He pulled on the black leather jacket that matched the black shirt and jeans Marisa had purchased, and wished he could throw off the sense of doom that clothed him as surely as the new clothes. He hoped their plan worked, but he had to take action. Sitting, hiding, worrying, that was not his way. Cautiously, he opened the door and scanned the hallway. Marisa had left minutes earlier and they were counting on anyone watching them following her.

  With no one in sight, he slid through the door, closing it quietly behind him. When they arrived at this hotel, he had looked for the stairway. His feet made no sound on the carpeted floor as he strode quickly to the right door. Another quick look showed he was still alone. He pulled the door open and hurried through.

  The stairs weren’t carpeted. But they were concrete and not metal. His new black sneakers would barely make a sound. He ran down the steps, his legs pumping, his heart steadily beating. Once he heard a door open somewhere above him. He stopped. Listened. Breathed.

  Nothing.

  He hurried on. Down nine flights of stairs and into the parking garage.

  He found the maroon Buick and slid into the front seat, his nose wrinkling in distaste at the stale cigarette smell. Ignoring it, he located the right wires, touched them together and pressed on the gas pedal.

  The car engine started. He twisted the wires in place, put on his seatbelt, and left the garage. He drove around the streets for a while to check if he’d picked up a tail. When he found no one following him, he decided either Dave hadn’t had time to get men in place, or else he was giving them some breathing room until he could decipher their plan. Sandro decided it was the latter reason. He knew Dave had had plenty of time to get men in place.

  No, Dave wanted to know what they were up to without a chance of another leak. And he wanted a hand in helping to save Nia. Knowing the history between his wife and Dave, Sandro began to suspect the FBI man might be willing to go outside the limits of the law to rescue Nia.

  Sandro sighed. If Dave was willing to bend enough to help, perhaps Marisa was right and they should use him. And at the moment, Sandro found it could be reassuring to have one more person on their side. Even if that person preferred that Sandro himself was out of the picture.

  He turned the Buick uptown, heading for his restaurant, parking more than a block away. Sliding along the shadows of the buildings, staying alert for Carlo’s men, Sandro made it to the restaurant’s kitchen door without incidence. He breathed out a small sigh of relief. Unlocking the door with his key, he slipped inside the business he’d bought for his aunt and uncle when they moved to the States to make up for the business his uncle lost in Italy.

  Hiding inside a janitorial supply closet, he held the door slightly ajar listening to the noise and chatter in the kitchen. He had to find a way to isolate Georgio so he could get the information he needed about Jason, the gun-supplying nephew. Sandro thought the fewer people at the restaurant who saw him, the less danger for everyone all around.

  The walk-in freezer was located almost directly across from the supply closet. Sandro waited, and then opportunity greeted him.

  Georgio went to the freezer.

  Sandro whispered his name, hoping the slight sound would get his head chef’s attention.

  Stopping abruptly, Georgio turned, scanning for the source of the whispered voice. Sandro opened the closet door a little wider.

  Georgio squinted then said, “Sandro!” not thinking to lower his voice.

  “Shh.”

  Grimacing, Georgio lowered his voice to a whisper. “Your hair! Where is it? And where have you been? You and Giuseppe and Luciana have all disappeared, there are Mafioso in the dining room looking for you, and now you’re hiding back here?”

  “Peruzzo’s men are here, then?”

  “Si, guarding every door. They only check this one occasionally because I refuse to allow those filthy men to dirty my kitchen.”

  If the situation had been less tense, Sandro would have smiled at his head chef’s possessiveness. Por Dio that Giuseppe was so possessive. “I need help. Can you get rid of the other cooks for a moment? Perhaps with one of your famous tirades?”

  Looking thoughtful, Georgio murmured. “Si, I think the tomatoes look too ripe . . .”

  Sandro ducked back out of sight, waiting for the explosion.

  Georgio didn’t disappoint, and soon tomatoes were flying, Georgio was screaming in loud, virulent Italian and cooks and waiters were scampering for their lives.

  With the kitchen cleared, Sandro stepped out of the closet.

  “What did you need?” Georgio asked.

  “How can I find Jason?”

  “My nephew?”

  Unlike Georgio who was full Italian, Jason was half-Italian. Georgio had once told Sandro in a disgusted tone that his nephew’s American father had a fascination with the Greek myth about Jason and the Argonauts and had named his first born accordingly, which no doubt led him to the wrong side of the law. Fortunately, the rest of the seven children had good Italian names.

  “Si. I need
a weapon.”

  “He can get you one,” Georgio admitted with a nod. “He has many connections.”

  “Si, si,” Sandro said impatiently hoping to avoid a long dialogue on Jason’s underworld business. “How can I find him?” he repeated.

  “I’ll call him for you. Set up a meeting.” Georgio headed for the wall phone.

  “No, no!” Sandro stopped him. “The phone here might not be safe. Just give me his number, and I will call him.”

  “He won’t see you if he doesn’t know you. It’s the nature of his business . . . capito?”

  Sandro blew out a frustrated breath. “Then tell me where he lives. Surely once he sees who I am, he will let me in.”

  “But you look so different, I’m not sure he’ll recogn--”

  “Georgio! It’s a risk I must take. Please. His add--”

  “What’s going on in here?” A voice came from the double-door entrance to the kitchen.

  “Merda.” Sandro muttered. Shit. At least he and Georgio were around the corner and out of sight.

  “Quick. In here.” Georgio pushed him into the walk-in freezer. “Leave him to me.”

  “No, don’t lock--” Sandro was cut off as Georgio shut the freezer door. He couldn’t hear a thing, so he hovered by the boxed frozen food, the chill penetrating even his thick leather jacket. He waited. And waited. And wondered what the hell he was going to do if Georgio stayed gone so long he froze to death.

  Finally the door opened. At the first sound on the door handle, Sandro had Marisa’s derringer in his hand and ready. He was taking no chances on the wrong person opening the door.

  Georgio’s eyes widened at the sight of the gun. “You have a gun.”

  “I need a bigger one.”

  “You are in much trouble?”

  “Si. Is best you do not know.” Sandro shoved the gun back into his sock and rubbed his cold hands together.

  “No, I don’t need to know. Here’s Jason’s address.” Georgio shoved a paper into Sandro’s hands and hustled him toward the back door. “I wish you luck. I like my job here at your ristorante.”

  With a quick shove, Georgio pushed Sandro out the back door and closed it after him. The sudden thrust made Sandro stumble and unfortunately caused him to bump into a man walking by on the sidewalk.

  “Hey, watch it, asshole.”

  “My apologies. I lost my balance.” Sandro recognized the guy as one of Carlo’s men. He tried to look unobtrusive as he turned to walk away.

  His jacket was tugged from behind. “Hey, who’re ya? And whatcha doing coming out of the restaurant that way?”

  Sandro thought quickly. “Looking for food.” He hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands in his pocket to look down on his luck. Since it was now dark and the only light available was streetlights, he hoped the man wouldn’t be able to tell that the clothes he was wearing were too expensive for a beggar. “I have no home, no place to eat--”

  “Well, you stay away from the place, you bum.”

  “Yes, yes, I will. I am sorry.” Sandro kept his head down. He hated the placating victim’s act, but he didn’t want to test if his new haircut really altered his appearance that much. Especially not at this close range. Even if the lighting was dim.

  “And you apologize for bumping into me. You’re so dirty, you likely ruined my suit.”

  Sandro didn’t point out he’d already apologized. “Yes, I am most sorry. I was very clumsy.”

  The man grabbed his shirt and tugged him closer with his left hand. In his right hand, he held a gun pointed at Sandro. At the sight of the gun, two men walking by turned abruptly and headed back the other way.

  “You look familiar. I seen you around here before?” the man asked, so close to Sandro, even under the shadowy streetlights he could see the acne-scarred face.

  “I often come by here for food.” Sandro noticed the man’s right wrist--the wrist of the hand that was holding the gun--was wrapped in a tight bandage. He hoped that meant an injury that would play to his advantage if this Mafioso grew even more threatening. . .or worse, realized his real identity.

  “Well, don’t you come back here no more. This place’s too good for the likes of you. As a matter o’fact I think if you don’t kiss my feet, I’ll just kill you and put ya out of your misery.” He pressed his gun into Sandro’s forehead. “Well?”

  With a resigned sigh, Sandro bent down as if he were going to kiss the man’s feet. While he was bent over, he snatched Marisa’s derringer once more. In a quick move, he jerked upwards, knocked the mobster’s gun out of his hand and held the derringer underneath his tormentor’s chin.

  “I don’t feel like kissing your feet.” Sandro glared at the man. “Perhaps I’d rather you kiss mine.”

  “Hey, my wrist, man. I broke it today. It put me in a bitchy mood.” He swallowed. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by threatening ya. I was just fuckin’ with ya, y’know?”

  “Mikey, that you?” Another man stood outside an open car door down the street. “You better come on. Carlo’s waiting.”

  “Answer him,” Sandro said, knowing his position in the shadows hid him from view. “Careful what you say, though.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mikey answered the other man. “I’m coming. Be right there.”

  Sandro nodded. “Now, on your way, little man. And be careful who you’re fucking with next time.”

  Mikey walked two steps, then bent to retrieve his fallen gun.

  “No, no,” Sandro warned. “Kick it over here.”

  Mikey stared hard at Sandro. “Ah, fuck it.” He kicked the gun toward Sandro, who retrieved it and shoved it in his waistband, all without taking his eyes or his gun off Mikey.

  “Arrivederci, asshole,” Sandro told Mikey. “Have a nice trip.”

  Shoving his hands into his pants pockets, Mikey walked off, half-watching Sandro over his shoulder. Sandro suspected the man was expecting a bullet in his back any minute. Before Mikey could get to the car, and perhaps recruit extra help, Sandro took off at a run down the street. He turned the corner and slipped out of sight.

  * * *

  Mikey carelessly bumped into a couple who were walking along holding hands. “Hey, watch it, jerk,” the man said.

  Fury thrumming his temples, Mikey considered pounding the man, but then remembered his wrist. He had it x-rayed earlier, bitch had broken it for sure. Heading for Joey’s car, Mikey obsessed over losing his gun. He couldn’t believe a street bum had got the best of him. He hadn’t been expecting the cocksucker to come back and attack him. Most street people didn’t have those kind of balls when a gun was pointing at them. He walked on, lightly rubbing his aching wrist. Something was unusual about that man . . . .

  Mikey frowned, tried to focus. The man did look familiar. Had he seen him around the restaurant before as the man said?

  He couldn’t remember.

  “What the hell took ya so long,” Joey asked when Mikey got to the car.

  “Ah, just a street bum begging for money. Had to teach him a thing or two.” He certainly didn’t want his pals to know a nobody got the drop on him.

  “Well, get in, let’s go.” Joey, standing by the back door, slid into the back seat beside Ralphie.

  Only seat left was the front passenger. Carmine was driving. Mikey cringed. Carmine made a little old lady look like a speed demon. The car, an old beat up Chevy, didn’t look like it would win a race either.

  “Why the hell are ya in this car?”

  “Gotta make a delivery,” Carmine said. “It’s crap on the outside but it’s still got good parts.”

  Mikey nodded. Carmine made money off jacking cars and selling them to mob-owned chop shops.

  “Man, I’m starving,” Mikey said. “Hope this meeting doesn’t take too long.” He’d been at the doctor’s and hadn’t had time to eat before Carlo called a meeting. He’d been planning to swing into the restaurant and grab a snack when the bum bumped into him.

  “So, what’s the boss want?” he asked, ignor
ing his growling stomach and anger, no time for either now. “I hope it ain’t no job. I didn’t bring my piece.” He didn’t want to tell the guys a street bum took it off him. And what was a street bum doing with a gun like that stuck in his sock? Or that fancy leather jacket, come to think of it. Mikey frowned. The guy still looked familiar--

  “Why didn’t you bring your gun?” Joey asked.

  “I broke my wrist. It ain’t no good now for shootin’ a gun.” Though he’d managed to hold his gun on the bum, Mikey never would’ve been able to pull the trigger with his right hand. “I’m not as good with my left hand,” he lied. Actually he couldn’t use his left hand at all to shoot with. He needed to get to a shooting range tomorrow and practice.

  “So, how’d you break your wrist, Mikey?” Carmine asked as he put on the blinker and turned the corner.

  Mikey knew they’d ask questions. He was prepared with his answers. “Ah, I got in a fight with Pauline. I went to slug her one and she moved. I hit the wall instead.”

  “That’s funny. I heard Sandro’s bitch broke it, not your bitch,” Joey said from the back seat.

  An unusual chill went through Mikey. They were contradicting him to his face. “How’d you hear--”

  “Then you beat her up,” Carmine added, staring intently at the road.

  The bad feeling persisted. Mikey fought it. Tried to laugh it off. “Angie! That fat motherfucker’s already been talking.”

  “’Fraid so, Mikey,” Joey said, suddenly up close and breathing down the back of Mikey’s neck.

  Mikey’s neck quivered. He slid away and turned to talk to Ralphie, sitting next to Joey. “Well, you know she was one tough bitch. She kicked Carmine’s knee, after all.” Ralphie hadn’t been with them when they snatched Sandro’s wife. Then he added to Carmine. “Ain’t your knee still swollen and hurting?”

  “Sure is,” Carmine said. “If it’d been my right leg, I couldn’ve driven tonight.”