The Good Daughter: A Mafia Story

by Diana Layne

  “See what’d I tell ya,” Mikey said, feeling like he’d just loosened a quickly tightening noose. He settled back into his seat. “So, uh. . . do you’se think that Angie’s talked to Carlo already? He gonna chew me out tonight?”

  He asked the question as they approached a corner. Carmine turned right. He should have turned left to go to Carlo’s place. An ominous silence filled the car. Mikey’s heart started to pound as he waited for the answer.

  “Yeah, Mikey,” Joey finally admitted. “Angie’s already talked to Carlo. ’Fraid the news ain’t good.” The cold barrel of a small caliber gun poked the base of Mikey’s skull. “Normally, Mikey, you know I use a wire,” Joey said, referring to the braided wire he used to choke a person when Carlo ordered a hit. Mikey swallowed hard.

  “But Carlo said since he’s known you so long to make it quick,” Joey said.

  “Wait!” Mikey’s forehead broke out in a sweat. “That street bum back at the restaurant? That was Sandro!” He was grasping, he didn’t know for sure it was Sandro. If it was, he’d cut his hair. But if he could buy some time, get them to go back and look, maybe he could find a way to get away from them. He’d have to go on the lam, but that was better than dead. “I think he’s cut his hair,” he added to be more convincing.

  “We’ll check into it.” Joey pulled the gun from the base of Mikey’s skull.

  He relaxed a little, thinking he’d bought some time, that they would turn around and go look for Sandro.

  Mikey never heard the two shots that killed him.

  Chapter 15

  Instead of returning to her apartment, Marisa headed for her office. Earlier, she had a flash of inspiration where to look for Sandro’s wife. Things had happened so fast today that the idea hadn’t occurred to her until after she left Sandro getting dressed in his new clothes she’d bought. Her father owned numerous pieces of real estate--houses and businesses alike. He was bound to be holding Nia at one of them.

  By now, everyone would be long gone and she could access the company files. And while she was there, she could work on retrieving the passwords she needed from the information she copied off Roberto’s hard drive. Even though she could do that from her home computer, might as well try it while she was at work.

  Marisa stepped out of the taxi a block away from the office building. It was several minutes before the top of the hour when the security guard left his desk to make the rounds. Being early, she decided to walk the last block. Although she had an office in the building, she didn’t want to sign in and leave a record of her being there after hours.

  The typical night sounds and smells surrounded her. Honking cars, street lights flashing, heavy exhaust fumes, people jostling along the sidewalk even at this time of night, which by New York standards wasn’t late at all. After living here several years, the sights and sounds barely registered.

  At straight up ten o’clock, she peered around the corner of the entrance into the front door of the office building. The guard stood and stretched. He checked his gun, looped his baton over his wrist and walked away from his desk. Right on time.

  Waiting only moments, Marisa slipped her passcard into the electronic entry box. Avoiding the elevator, she hurried to the stairway entrance and quietly opened the metal door. She slipped off her black Manolo Blahnik pumps and ran up fifteen flights to the suite of Peruzzo offices. She was gasping for breath as she disabled the office security system and relocked the big wooden door behind her.

  Time was of the essence. She had to do her searching and be ready to leave when the guard made his next hourly rounds. Or else be stuck here until his midnight rounds and be late for her meeting with Sandro.

  The front of the office had a big glass window, and although the mini-blinds were shut, and the guard only gave a cursory glance down each hallway, she didn’t want to accidentally attract his attention by turning on the overhead lights. She pulled out a flashlight from her purse and clicked the on button.

  Something about the sudden LED light metaphorically illuminated all the challenges facing her. A sigh escaped, a temporary second of feeling overwhelmed, vulnerable. But only a momentary weakness before she pulled herself back together. Bringing her father to justice and getting away from this life was much too compelling to even consider defeat. She could no longer be chained to this life.

  Years earlier, in Italy, she had planned a different path. To testify against her father and escape with Sandro’s cousin, Paolo, who had been willing to leave the carabinieri and to go into Italy’s version of the Witness Security Program with her.

  Those dreams ended when Paolo died.

  Now her aspiration of freedom would end yet again if they couldn’t change those bank accounts and rescue Nia.

  Marisa went into her office, turned on her computer, and pulled up the files of her father’s real estate holdings on her computer. She scrolled through the list before her, looking for vacant ones, or ones which had no current rental payment history. She found eleven such properties, some in the area, some in upstate New York, and some in New Jersey. It would take time to check each of them, but she and Sandro could divide the list.

  Elation lifted her spirits. It was the best chance they had so far.

  She printed the information and slid them into her bag.

  Checking her watch, she had time to find those passwords. She pulled the flash drive out of her purse. Inserting it into her computer, she started to search through the information she’d taken off Roberto’s hard drive. Marisa’s heard thudded as account after account flashed before her eyes. Finally she tracked down the sites for the bank accounts. She debated on accessing the accounts; from her experience many had time stamps from the last time an account holder last signed in to the bank’s site. Would Roberto notice? Would he think there’d just been a mistake? Or would he get suspicious and change the passwords? She looked at the information on her computer. There were several bank accounts, and she needed to know if these passwords worked. She’d try one to see how easy she could access the information and hope he didn’t notice; she couldn’t pass up this opportunity. With a deep breath, she started typing.

  “Si, si, molto buona,” she murmured. Ten minutes later, thrilled that their plan seemed workable, she began the process of opening new accounts in her name.

  Her watch now showed it was a few minutes before eleven. By the time she got back down the stairs, the guard should be ready to go on his hourly rounds again.

  Shutting down her machine, she made certain nothing looked disturbed, reset the security system and locked the main office door behind her before heading for the stairway. At the bottom of the steps, breathing hard again, she waited, muscles tense, watching the guard through a small rectangular window in the stairwell door. When he moved out of sight, she pushed open the metal door. Then the security guard’s phone rang, and the guard reappeared. She quickly tugged the door shut, and squatted below the window while he laughed, purred and murmured on the phone. At last, he said, “See you at four, lover,” replaced the phone in the cradle, then whistling an odd tune, left again.

  Cautiously, she pushed open the door once more. With no sign of him, she slipped past his desk and didn’t stop, not even to put her pumps back on, until she was outside on the sidewalk. Gathering her reserved, in-control facade around her like a cloak, she glanced at her watch and noted with satisfaction she had timed everything perfectly. She drew a deep breath to slow her pulse.

  She still had time to go home and shower before she met Sandro. It had been a long, exhausting day and she was dirty and tired. With the thought of a refreshing shower looming enticingly before her, she hailed a taxi, already able to practically feel the hot water spraying against her skin.

  When she opened the door to get in the cab, she was rudely shoved from behind. “Scoot over, Princess. I’m going with you.” Dave shut the cab door before she had even sat down.

  She swung to face him, eyes narrowed, anger crawling up her spine. “This is my taxi. Get o
ut,” she ordered.

  “Don’t think so. And I’ll take these, thank you.” He snatched the printout of the vacant properties out of her bag before she could react.

  She reached for them. “Who do you think you are? Give those to me.”

  “Where you go?” the cabbie asked.

  Holding the papers just out of reach, Dave looked at her. “I’m with you.”

  Deciding to ignore him, she gave her address to the driver. Dave drew her unwilling attention again when he turned on a pocket flashlight to study the papers. The glow of the light reflected off his patrician nose, chiseled cheeks and strong jaw. He really was easy on the eyes she conceded, once again feeling that unwanted spark. And he was attracted to her, she knew. Even if he still loved Sandro’s wife, Dave found her attractive.

  Too bad he was a damned control freak.

  “Stop reading those. Give them back,” she said, as much irritated at herself as she was with him.

  She tried to grab the papers, but he easily held her off.

  “Hold on, Princess. I want to see what kept you up there for an hour.” He finished reading the list. “These places where your father might have Nia?”

  She glared at him, summoning a shield of haughtiness to protect herself. “Fuck you.”

  “Now, now, princess, what language. Unless . . . you meant that as an invitation?”

  The image of them naked, limbs entwined, slid into her mind, and as much as she hated to admit it, the thought made her mouth go dry while other parts of her swelled and moistened.

  Oh, no, don’t go there.

  Deliberately, she crossed her arms and stared out the window, knowing to reveal her weakness for him would be disastrous.

  “Thought not.” He looked back at the papers. “It wouldn’t have taken you more than a few minutes to get this information off your computer. What else were you doing?”

  The man was frustrating beyond belief. And it was easier to focus on that than deal with her attraction.

  She decided to answer him. “I had to wait on the security guard, you idiot. He goes on his rounds on the hour, and I didn’t want to sign in and leave a record. As if it’s any of your business.”

  His stare burned her. “I think you answered that much too easily.”

  At least he was bugging her and not Sandro. And she could handle the sexual innuendos. She could. “Tough. You’re not getting any more information about it from me.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that,” he said softly. “Where are we going now?”

  “We aren’t going anywhere. I’m going home.”

  “Good. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of your apartment.”

  “You mean you haven’t already?”

  “No reason to before now.”

  “There’s no reason now either.” Oh, no, she didn’t want him in her apartment at all. “You’re not invited.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Where you go, I go.” He folded her papers and tucked them into the inside pocket on his jacket.

  “You can’t have those! Give them back,” she growled. His high-handedness infuriated her, made her want to scratch out his eyes.

  “No can do.” He patted his chest. “These papers are going to insure you stay right by me.”

  “I didn’t know you cared,” she said sarcastically.

  “Wrong again.” His voice was grim. His hand slid across his forehead. “I care a lot.”

  His momentary show of weakness startled her. “Would you care as much if Sandro’s wife wasn’t missing?” Marisa deliberately brought up Dave’s obsession to keep herself from feeing any sympathy for the pain he was trying to hide.

  Dave paused, looking momentarily taken aback. “He’s been talking, I see.”

  “I asked.” Let him make of that what he thought.

  “Now, why’s that?” He recovered his smart-ass attitude quickly enough, and leaned closer, definitely intruding on her space. His voice dropped to a husky level. “Could it be you’re attracted to me, Princess?”

  Her heart beat so hard in her throat she had to swallow before she could answer. She covered it with a fake choking sound. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, ignoring the very rapid pulse that denied her words. “And stop calling me princess.”

  “I would have expected more honesty from you. Princess,” he added deliberately, running a finger along her jaw. “I saw how you were looking at me earlier.”

  Of course he would notice. Her skin rippled along the path of his finger. Deliberately, she moved away from his hand.

  FBI agents were trained to notice things. No way in hell she’d admit she was giving him the once--or twice--over. “You’re imagining--”

  “You said I didn’t remind you of a priest, I believe.”

  “A priest wouldn’t be so rumpled is all I meant.”

  He smiled smugly, crossing his arms. “Sure it is.”

  The cab pulled to a stop. Dave looked out the window. “Your apartment?”

  “I told you I was going home.”

  “So you did. But I didn’t believe you.”

  “I’m disappointed. I would have thought you recognized the address when I gave it to the driver.”

  “Guess I was too distracted to pay attention.”

  His sexual innuendo was clear, it made no sense to deny it. But it made no sense to let on it affected her either. “Should I be flattered?”

  She said the words casually as she was opening the car door. He still hadn’t answered by the time she paid the driver. Instead, he waited for her on the sidewalk.

  “You better tell the cab driver not to leave,” she warned. “This isn’t your stop. But hand me those papers before you go.” She held out her hand, proud that she managed to keep it from shaking.

  “Afraid I can’t do that.”

  Blood rushed to her head. She curled her fingers into fists while she fought off the childish urge to stomp her foot or throw something at him. She took a deep breath instead. “Doing your job does not include pestering me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Following you is my job. Will Sandro be at your apartment?”

  “No.” She spun away.

  “You’re meeting him somewhere else then?” he asked from much too close behind, obviously following her.

  Resigned to him traipsing after her whether she answered or not, she entered her apartment building, the glass door already held open at her approach by the doorman, a man in his mid-fifties who always had a smile for the tenants. “Hello, Murray.”

  As usual, Murray gave his trademark welcoming smile. “Good evening, Ms. Peruzzo.” His smile changed to a frown when Dave followed through the door. “He with you?”

  She turned, looked at Dave, rolled her eyes. “Afraid so.”

  “Is he pestering you?” Murray let the door shut and took an aggressive wide-legged stance, which looked rather comical. Face lined with tiny threads of wrinkles, thinning salt-and-pepper hair, and spiffy doorman uniform, he was shorter than Dave by more than a head. Yet instead of provoking the urge to laugh, the image warmed her heart.

  Marisa sighed. “Yes, but he’s a harmless pest. I’ll take care of him.”

  Not looking convinced, Murray said, “I can get rid of him for you.”

  To her alarm, Dave squared off with the doorman. “Back off, buddy. She said I’m with--”

  Hadn’t her day been long enough already? She stepped between them and shoved at Dave. Feeling squashed between the two men like a pickle on a pastrami sandwich, she managed to offer Murray a reassuring smile. “Really. He’s fine.” She grabbed Dave’s arm and jerked him toward the small, elegant lobby.

  “Why me?” she asked, more rhetorically than anything, stopping beside a Victorian-style wing chair. “Why follow me and not Sandro?”

  His gaze scanned over her, his look suggestive. “You have a nicer ass.”

  His blatant sexual answer, when she hadn’t really been expecting an answer at all, made the blood shoot straight th
rough her limbs. Her body tightened from the sudden rush.

  Fighting off the long dormant, but rapidly-activating-against-her-will desire, she tried once more to gather anger as a defense. She considered slapping him, but rationalized that would get Murray involved again when the older man didn’t need that kind of worry. “You think you can be crude because of who I am?” she demanded.

  “Just being honest, Princess. And you’re lying if you deny it. Anyway,” Dave continued, cutting off another protest, “I’m with you because I know you’ll eventually lead me to Sandro. You two are up to something, and I plan to find out what it is.”

  She laughed. “You think.”

  “I know.” He took a step closer, leaned toward her. “And besides . . .” he paused and looked into her eyes, a look that made her suddenly feel faint.

  “Besides . . .” he repeated as if he’d lost his train of thought. “I can’t do this to Sandro,” he whispered before he pulled her into his arms.

  And kissed her. The sudden unexpected, yet oddly gentle assault made her head spin. Already close to falling from the dizziness of long denied needs, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Then she was kissing him back, her lips as demanding as his while their tongues dueled in a mimicry of raw, wild sex . . . until she remembered Murray the faithful doorman was an audience. She jerked away, drew deep breaths, forced a calm back to her limbs she absolutely did not feel. Willed her heart rate to slow.

  “So is this a plan?” she asked, her voice husky in spite of her best efforts to sound normal. “Kiss me and pump me for information?”

  For the briefest instant, Dave looked as puzzled and disheveled as she felt, but he recovered fast enough. “Is it working?” he asked, with just the right tinge of boyish charm and hope in his voice.

  “You have one thing right. You can’t do that to Sandro. He’d punch you.”

  “Are you saying it’s okay to kiss you?”

  “Only goodnight. And since you’ve already had your kiss. . .then goodnight.” She turned to walk off, concentrating on a dignified retreat. Get away, get away, get away. Just past the gym door and around the corner to the elevators.