The Good Daughter (13 page)

“
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, ignoring 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.”

“
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.