The Good Daughter (5 page)

Then there was the large, rather intimidating man who came to her door. Strangers didn’t just show up on her doorstep. Not many people outside of close friends and family even knew where they lived.

Her heart pounded anew. She was onto something. She trusted her instincts. Something was definitely wrong. Sandro was trying to keep her from finding out about...something. What?

Determined to find the truth, she left Daniele playing happily with his blocks and toy cars while she searched for the number of her childhood friend turned New York FBI agent, Dave Armstrong. Though she didn’t live in the city, having a ready-made friend living in the same state had been a reason she hadn’t objected moving to New York instead of her home state of Texas when they had returned from Italy.

Now her friend could be useful as well. She had memorized the plates of the BMW Sandro left in, and if Dave could tell her who owned it, perhaps she could begin to piece together the puzzle. If Sandro were in trouble, she would find a way to help.

When she picked up the phone, she remembered the earlier missed call and checked the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number. They left no message, either. With a mental shrug, she called Dave. But of course with the sort of day she was having already, he didn’t answer, and she had to leave a voice mail.

“
Damn,” she murmured. Now what?

“
Momma, watch!” Daniele crashed his small cars into a block tower he’d built, clapping his hands when the blocks scattered.

She squatted down beside him, love for the tiny boy swelling in her battered heart. “Awesome crash, sweetie.”

He giggled with delight and began to restack the blocks.

Perhaps Brad would know what was going on, she thought as she handed Daniele a red triangle block to put on top of his new tower. Sandro and the team’s goalkeeper were almost as close as brothers. If anyone knew anything, he would.

Brad would still be out on the soccer pitch practicing and wouldn’t have his cell phone. She could track him down but she’d need someone to watch Daniele. Since he was recovering from a recent ear infection, she didn’t want to drag him out in the ever-increasing cold winds. Not wanting to disturb Sandro’s aunt and uncle this early if she didn’t have to, Nia called the neighbor’s daughter hoping she would get lucky and the college girl would have no classes this morning.

Luck. Nia snorted. It would be nice to have a little good luck. It had certainly started out as a bad day.

Chapter 7

Nia pulled her cream-colored Mercedes sedan to the end of the long driveway and stopped. A black Lincoln Navigator blocked the end of her driveway. She couldn’t go anywhere until it moved.

To her surprise, the passenger door on the SUV opened, and the big Italian who had been at her door earlier looking for Sandro stepped out.

Confused as to why he was still at her home, blocking her driveway, Nia became all too conscious of the chill crawling up her spine as she pressed the button to roll down her car window. A bad feeling hovered in the air.

She took a deep calming breath before saying, “I told you Sandro isn’t home, and I don’t know where he is. Would you move out of the way? I’m in a hurry.”

“
Scusate
,
Bella,
but you must come with us.”

“
What?” Was he kidding?

“
Please.
Vieni qua
. Come.” His words were polite, but his look was deadly serious.

Her heart rate spiked, but she forced confidence into her voice. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“
Really, I must insist.” He reached for the door handle.

She hit the automatic locks and hurried to roll up her window, but the large man was sticking his arm inside--

Car tires screeched around the corner. The Italian turned toward the sound. A dark blue sedan squealed to a halt. Nia recognized the car and started to breathe easier.

Dave opened the door, gun drawn. “Freeze! FBI. Nia, get out of here! Go!” he shouted at her.

The Italian banged his fist against her now closed window startling a scream out of her. When he reached under his suit jacket and she saw a big gun, every nerve ending ignited with danger signals.

Escape
!

Adrenaline flared through her and she stomped the accelerator, jerking the steering wheel hard to the right. The luxury Mercedes 230 shot forward, smashing small green hedges and brightly-colored ornamental flowers under unforgiving tires. The seatbelt clamped tightly across her chest as she bounced off the curb.

Shots rang out behind her. She looked in her rearview mirror. The Italian had dashed back into the SUV, shooting at Dave who had ducked behind his car door. Oh, God, Dave would be killed.

Then a new fear. With a burst of power, the Lincoln Navigator sped after her. In her rearview mirror, she saw Dave hop in his car and follow, firing shots after them. The big Italian was shooting back at Dave, out the passenger door window.

The black SUV pressed steadily closer to her own car. Were they after her? Or running from Dave? She pressed the gas pedal harder, and at the last minute, made a sharp right turn onto a side street, her tires squealing.

The Navigator made the turn soon after. God. They
were
chasing her! Her hands started shaking so much, she squeezed the steering wheel to keep a grip.

Glancing between the road and her rearview mirror, her fear grew when Dave didn’t make the turn. She heard the pops as the big Italian shot out the tires on Dave’s car. It careened and bounced off a red Corvette parked on the side of the road, before spinning around in a crazy circle. Immediately, Dave jumped out and fired off a few futile shots.

“
No! Dave!” she gasped before her breath stuck in her throat.

Now it was the Italians. And her. A streetlight in front of her changed to red.

“
Not stopping, watch out!” she warned drivers who couldn’t hear her, hoping no one would get hurt.

She kept the accelerator floored, her heart rate as high as the speed of the car. Squinting her eyes to slits so she wouldn’t see any oncoming traffic and hesitate, she barreled through the intersection. She heard honking horns and screeching tires but no one hit her.

A glance in her rearview mirror. SUV still there. Although she thought she was pulling ahead. The heavy Navigator was no match for the Mercedes’ performance engine.

Then she felt it. A thud. Heard it. Then another. A crash of glass. She didn’t need to look in her mirror again to know her back window had shattered. They were shooting at
her
now!

Forcing back the panic rising from her chest, she kept her head low as she weaved through the growing traffic, trying to make her car a harder target. She hoped someone else wasn’t hit by mistake, but couldn’t let that thought worry her.

She jumped as a loud explosion sent the back end of her car wildly careening. They’d shot out a tire. She let off the gas, fought the steering wheel. She struggled to steady the almost out-of-control car. Stopping would be the wrong choice. A ruined tire rim was nothing compared to being caught by those madmen.

“
Help me, help me, help me,” she prayed, her brain not able to form a more substantial thought. “Help! Me!”

Sweat beaded on her forehead as she wrestled with the car. In spite of her efforts, the car lost speed. She yanked the wheel, forcing another sharp turn, whipping in front of an oncoming car. The black SUV turned behind her, passed the other car, and soon loomed on her tail, closer than before.

The tire rim scraping on the pavement sounded worse than a metal file grinding against an axe. She clenched her teeth against the sound and frantically searched for a safe place.

A silver Lexus sped into the next intersection and squealed to a stop, blocking her way.

She slammed on the brakes. The car bounced and jolted on the bad rim. At the last second, she wheeled her car hard to the left to avoid crashing into the Lexus.

Trapped! Her heart sank. She would have to make a run for it. She snapped her seatbelt free and jumped out to dash away. She was the fastest player on her soccer team. She prayed her speed wouldn’t fail her. There was a shopping strip ahead. People. Phones. Help.

Wait. Her cell phone.

No time to go back. She sprinted.

They came at her from everywhere. Five men with guns. One woman. Bad odds.

Two of the men cut her off and grabbed her arms. Gasping to catch her breath, she tried to twist away.

“
Where you think you’re going, bitch?” This one was a native New Yorker, his Italian descent still obvious despite the accent.

“
Careful, he don’t want her hurt.” The big Italian again. He was huffing and puffing from the chase. “He only wants to question her.”

Who wanted to question her? “I told you I don’t know anything. Leave me alone.”

Gathering the fear pounding through her body into energy, she thrust a sidekick to her right. Connected with a knee. One captor fell in agony. Her legs were powerful. She jerked an arm free, but immediately, it was trapped again.

They dragged her toward the black SUV. No one rushed forward to help her. No one was even in sight. The people had disappeared like cockroaches in sudden light. She couldn’t blame them. Five men with guns were bad odds for anyone.

Frantic not to get in the car with them, she dug her heels into the concrete.

“
No fight, please,” the big Italian said, not unkindly. “Carlo just wants to talk to you.”

Carlo. Carlo Peruzzo. She was right. The realization made the fight momentarily desert her. If the well-known crime boss wanted her husband, then Sandro had to be in trouble.

What sort of trouble could he be in that involved men with guns?

She tried bravado. “Who are you?” Nia demanded. “What does Carlo want with me?”

No one answered.

“
Leave her car here,” the big Italian directed. “He’ll find out faster that way.”

Who would find out? Sandro? Was this a ploy to make him show himself? Or was fear making her illogical?

She knew she should never go to the second location. It was better to make a stand here than disappear into a car where no one could track her. She screamed. A hand clamped across her mouth. She bit until she tasted blood, and her attacker screamed as loudly as she did. Then the backhand came. She saw stars, and they pushed her into the SUV.

The New Yorker, the one who called her a bitch, slid in beside her. The big Italian and his driver climbed into the front seat. The other two drove off in the Lexus she’d nearly crashed into, and her cream-colored Mercedes was left sitting in the middle of the street. Punctured with bullet holes. Deserted.

What happened to Dave? Would he be able to find her? Was he okay?

The New Yorker aimed his big black gun at her. “So’s you don’t get no ideas about jumping out,” he said when he caught her eyeing the gun.

What ideas? Death by gunshot or death by throwing herself from the car? No choice there. She could tell from his tone, his body language, he’d love it if she tried something. She wasn’t stupid.

She sat tight. A way to escape would present itself. And when it did, she would be ready.

Chapter 8

Dave slid out of the disabled car before it stopped rolling. He squeezed off his last three rounds at the speeding black Navigator. One hit the rear door, one hit the left taillight, and the last one went wide.

“
Damn it!” He slammed his hand on the hood of his car. “Son of a bitch!” He barely restrained himself from kicking the bullet-punctured tire.

“
Come on, Nia. Get away from them,” he muttered, though he knew it was useless. Pain gripped his heart knowing she had no chance, and his back-up wouldn’t arrive in time.

What had gone wrong?

Once discovering Carlo was after Sandro, Dave had taken Steve and Tony with him to the soccer field, but Sandro wasn’t there. Had never shown up, in fact. When the soccer team administrator mentioned they were the second group of men looking for Sandro, Dave felt hope. At least Carlo’s men didn’t have Sandro, even though he’d disappeared.

Dave left Steve and Tony behind to further question the administrator because at that point it was obvious the star player had indeed disappeared. Dave himself had headed for Sandro’s house to brainstorm with Nia where her husband might have gone.

But they were too late. Now the mob had her. And Sandro was missing.

There was still Nia and Sandro’s small son. The child Dave wished he had been able to have with Nia.

The boy hadn’t been in the car with his mother. Dave had to find him, get him to safety.

* * *

Promising to return soon, Marisa checked Sandro into a hotel amidst his protests. Leaving him to puzzle over a new throw-away phone, she ditched the stolen Beemer, made a quick dash to the computer software store, and still arrived at work by ten-thirty, only half an hour past her normal arrival time. Not so unusual it would be noticeable.