The Good Daughter (37 page)

She looked down at her clothes. Her stomach rolled with queasiness. “You shot that man,” she said, her voice breaking in funny ways since her breathing was jagged, uneven. “He was. Right. By me. Shot him.” She turned to face him. “You could have hit me.”

“
Did I?” Dave demanded. “Did I hit you?”

She shook her head, and swallowed, struggled to get more air into her lungs than the jagged, gaspy breathing was allowing.

“
I’m sorry. I had to. You know that.” Concern etched his face.

She nodded once.

Seeming satisfied, Dave turned his attention to driving then, ramming into cars stuck in the traffic, forcing an opening where there was none. Soon, though it seemed an eternity to Marisa, they burst free on a side street.

Then Marisa heard it. A faint, far off yelling sound. She looked around, puzzled. “What . . .is. . .that. . .noise?” Her brain was still functioning at slow speed.

Dave glanced around then down at the seat between them. He picked up his phone. “It’s Sandro. I never disconnected the call.”

Putting the phone to his ear, Dave said, “Yeah, they tried to snatch her, I’m sure the whole traffic jam set up was just to grab her. But we’re okay now. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Dave disconnected and immediately started punching in numbers again.

“
What about Luigi?” Marisa asked. “I didn’t see the car he was in.”

“
I’m calling them now,” Dave said.

“
What if Luigi’s soldiers got him? He could ruin everything.”

“
Damn, they’re not answering.” Dave spared her a glance. “If they somehow managed to nab Luigi, then I’m damned glad you gave him those sleeping drops.”

Chapter 30

They called him a playmaker. A man who could make something happen out of nothing. Time and again, Carlo had watched Sandro take a game that everyone had given up as lost, and somehow--magically--slip through a tight defense and find the back of the net. Or find the perfect pass for another player on his team to score. Providing a victory where there had been no hope.

And now Sandro was playing him. Carlo thought he had the game won, his defense tighter than a young virgin, his offense effective and sure as a Romeo intent on deflowering her. When he captured Nia and little Daniele, Carlo thought there was no way Sandro could refuse to cooperate. Yet suddenly, here Carlo sat, at a distinct disadvantage, his game plan scattered.

He took his cell phone and punched in Luigi’s number. There was no answer. Carlo called the office next. “Is Luigi back? No? He’s not answering his phone. Where the hell is he?”

Massimo came back then.

“
You lost him?” Carlo asked, already knowing the answer from the look on his son’s face.

“
He has the Feds helping him. They expected us to go after him and had a trap to stop us.”

“
Hmm.” Carlo pondered a moment.

“
That’s not a bad thing, I don’t think,” Massimo went on to explain. “That means that Sandro’s promise to kill us were just threats. The FBI won’t let him go around murdering people, even if we are on their most wanted list.”

“
Sandro wouldn’t murder anyone anyway.” Carlo waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “He’s a crack shot, I know, but he doesn’t have what it takes to harm a person.”

“
He loves his family very much,” Massimo pointed out. “If the Feds weren’t involved, I’m not sure I’d agree with you.”

“
Obviously, if he’s been cooperating with the FBI, they are still planning to trap us somehow. Since he’s accessed our accounts, they may have found a way,” Carlo said thoughtfully.

“
I thought Roberto had all the money well accounted for.”

“
So he says.” It was true Roberto had an elaborate money laundering system set up.

“
Have you talked to our contact at the FBI?” Massimo asked. “Maybe he has some information.”

“
Other than letting us know what happened to Roberto, Mr. Madison has been very quiet lately. I believe the task force is on to him and he’s no use to us now. I can check and see if they’ve taken Luigi into custody.”

“
Yes, do that.” Carlo tapped his fingers on the table, pondering. Then he picked up his cell phone again. “Angie, I need you down here.
Si, si
, I know you’re watching Nia, but Giovanni can handle it a little while. If not, get Joey to help him. We’ve had something new come up.”

Carlo turned back to Massimo. “Find Luigi, and if he’s not in custody, get him here.”

Massimo nodded, then left his father sitting at the table, deep in thought. Massimo went to Carmine, a trusted soldier, but more importantly Massimo’s friend. “Luigi seems to have dropped out of sight. Contact some of his soldiers, see if you can locate him. Carlo wants him down here asap.”

Not for the first time, Massimo was disregarding his father’s orders. Knowing Angie--Nia’s watchdog--would be out of the way, Massimo had more important things on his mind than locating the missing
consigliere
. “As for me,” he added to Carmine, “I’ll be out of touch for a while. I’ve got someone else I need to see.”

* * *

“
Try another bite.”

“
Don’t want another bite.” Daniele slammed his fork down on his plate.

Sighing, Nia grabbed the green bean Daniele refused to eat and stuck it in her mouth. She wasn’t hungry either, but she knew she had to eat. Not only for the baby growing in her womb, but for the strength it was going to take to escape with Daniele when the chance came. With that in mind, she hadn’t been resisting her urge to sleep either, and took a nap when her son did. It was almost nap time. Remembering how she had been awakened earlier today, though, she was a little leery of going to sleep. Surely Massimo wouldn’t come back. Or if he did, Angie wouldn’t let him in to see her again.

Daniele clambered off his chair and picked up his scattered blocks and toy car--both presents from Angie. Using the blocks, he constructed a ramp for his car to jump. After fifteen minutes of that, he was bored. “Cartoons, Momma.”

Angie had also provided a small color television, but unfortunately it didn’t have premium cable channels with cartoons. She could only find game shows and talk shows.

“
There’s no cartoons on yet,” she explained, though he couldn’t grasp the concept. “Let’s sing songs.”

“
Don’t want to sing.”

“
All right, how about a nap?” She knew how well that would go over.

“
I want to watch TV.”

Since the incident with Massimo this morning, Daniele was fussier than usual. The whole situation had to be incredibly hard for the boy to process.

“
Okay, okay, we’ll watch TV.” She flipped through the channel and discovered that the television received a PBS channel, too. “The Mob In America” was on. As if she needed lessons. She had up close and personal experience with the mob. Too up close and personal.

She flipped the channel, but Daniele started crying. “Oh, sweetie, you don’t want to watch that show, do you?”

“
Change it, change it, change it.” He ran to the television, attempting to change the channel himself. Hoping he’d sleep soon, she flipped the channel back to PBS.

He quieted and she sighed. “All right, we’ll watch this, but come sit and let momma rock you.” The comfortable wooden rocking chair with the padded seat was courtesy of Angie, too. Since her son had been brought to her, Angie had gone out of his way to make things bearable for them. She was beginning to appreciate all his efforts.

Daniele climbed into her lap, settling comfortably. Nia rocked him, relishing the feel of his warm little body snuggled against hers, yet hoping he’d go to sleep quickly. Then she could turn off the television and take a nap herself.

It wasn’t long before the show focused on the infamous John Gotti. Back in the 80’s the media had dubbed him the Teflon Don because no matter how many times the FBI brought a case against him, he slipped right through the system without being convicted.

Physically, John Gotti reminded her of Carlo. Except Carlo’s hair had more gray and he was heavier. Yet their manner and bearing were almost identical. Both assured to the point of arrogance as if they were above laws that governed common men. And both fashionably dressed, their expensive suits tailored to look sharp even on frames that were beyond a youthful physique. And watching both men made chills crawl along her spine.

Nia remembered when she first saw Carlo. Not at the restaurant. No, years before that. It was the day after the spectacular night with Sandro, after a night on the town to celebrate Italy making the World Cup finals.

Sandro had gone to see the trainer about his injured leg. It wasn’t long after he left that a knock came upon her hotel room door. It was Francesco, the goalkeeper.

“
Did you enjoy last night?”

She smiled as memories surfaced. “It was great, a fairy-tale night. I felt like a princess.”

“
You certainly sang like a princess.”

There had been karaoke, and she took her turn on stage. She was touched and her smile spread wider. “Why, thank you.”

“
I couldn’t find you to tell you last night. You disappeared soon after.”

Her smile fell away. “Sandro’s leg was bothering--”

“
Ahhh. Sandro. His leg. That is why I’m here.”

“
You’re here because of his leg?”

“
Si.
The doctor, he sees my hand, when Sandro came in--”

“
Your hand? Are you okay?” She grabbed both his hands in hers, turning them over, looking at them closely.

He pulled his right hand loose. “Not too bad. Just a little strain on the wrist.”

“
You’ll be able to play?”

“
Si
.”

“
Thank goodness.”

“
The trainer sent me after you so he can show you how to keep Sandro’s leg wrapped.”

“
Oh, okay. Let me grab the key card, and I’ll go right down.”

“
I’ll come with you.”

The hotel management had temporarily converted the exercise rooms to training rooms for the soccer teams lodged there. Francesco punched the elevator button for the basement.

When the doors opened, he said, “This way,” and took her to the left.

“
Which room is it?” Nia asked.

“
It is right around the cor--” Francesco stopped abruptly.

Two men in expensive suits stood in front of the door.

“
What’s wrong?” Nia whispered, feeling suddenly nervous for no explainable reason.

“
Sandro’s there.” Francesco nodded toward the door. “But I do not recognize those men.”

Another man dressed in wind shorts and a blue “Italy” t-shirt stalked toward the door. After exchanging heated Italian--words that Nia couldn’t quite hear--with the men in front of the door, the man in shorts stomped toward them.

“
That is the trainer coming toward us,” Francesco said quietly.

“
What’s wrong? Why isn’t he in with Sandro?” Nia kept her voice lowered as well.

Francesco stopped the trainer and asked him. He spoke in Italian, not knowing that Nia could understand most of what was being said as she’d used the time away from Sandro to study Italian with a computer program.

The man in shorts stomped away from them, obviously pacing the hall.

“
What did he mean about the stupid Mafia?”

Francesco sent her a sharp look. “You understood? I did not know you could--”

“
I didn’t understand much of it. Just something about them running him out of the room. Those men are Mafia? What do they want with Sandro?” Her voice lowered to a mere whisper.

“
No, no,” Francesco hurried to assure her. “It is just the insult to call someone
mafioso
in
Italia
.”

Yet the nattily-dressed man with gray hair who came out of the room certainly looked like a Mafia guy to her. Or how she imagined a Mafia guy would look. And though he smiled pleasantly and nodded to her as he passed, he and his two companions still gave her the creeps.

And as it turned out, she was right. Carlo was not only a Mafia guy, but a head honcho.

She hadn’t thought of the incident in years. And now that she had, she wondered what Carlo had wanted then. Had it just been one loyal Italian fan wishing Italy’s soccer star luck, as Sandro claimed? Or even then, had there been something more sinister going on?

She couldn’t think of what it might be.

And she didn’t have to think of it anymore, since Daniele’s body was now relaxed in sleep. Carefully, she adjusted him on her shoulder, pushed out of the chair and turned off the TV. Too much of a bad thing was depressing.

Laying her son on the cot, she curled up beside him, ready for her afternoon nap. At least in sleep, as long as she didn’t have the nightmare, she forgot the bad things. If she was lucky, sometimes she even dreamed about the good things . . . .