Free The Good Daughter by Diana Layne

athlete, she trained so much her periods were irregular anyway. But when her energy level dropped off drastically, she knew. It had been the same way with Daniele.
    Daniele. A pain hit her heart. God, her sweet son. Was he okay? Would she ever see him again?
    Of course she would. No negative thoughts. Positive thinking made her a success. Positive thinking would help her escape. At the moment, her options seemed limited, but she would find a way to get away from these criminals. Then she would find her husband.
    She rested her head against the plush chair. Closed her eyes. Just a little rest.
     
    * * *
     
    She was running. Running as if demons from hell were nipping at her feet. If she fell, she was dead. Hurry. Her heart hammered frantically against her ribcage. Her breath labored through her lungs. Move, feet.
    Move, move, move.
    Safety was close. Just a little further. She had to make it.
    Gunshots exploded around her. The noise was deafening.
    Instinctively, she ducked, and urged her churning legs to greater speed.
    Someone hurled a bowling ball into her shoulder. Another loud crack sounded. She went sprawling. She scrambled to stay on her feet, scraping her knees, her fingers clawing at the ground to push her upright.
    Blood dripped from her hand. She followed the red sticky trail up her arm. A bowling ball hadn’t hit her. A bullet. She’d been shot--
    Nia jerked awake, her heart beating furiously as if she’d tried to run a hundred-yard dash in an impossible two seconds.
    The dream. No . . . nightmare.
    It had haunted her for years, but hadn’t bothered her for several months now. Of all times for it to recur. She had enough fear to conquer without her own mind creating horrible scenarios. Even if it was a recurring nightmare, it still had the power to scare her.
    And always before, Sandro had been there to comfort her. Ease the irrational fears. Even the time she first had the dream, he’d been there. The same night she met him . . . .
     
    * * *
     
    Ten years earlier
     
    Italy had been in the states for a friendly soccer match with the USA team. Nia and her former soccer coach Giuseppe Zambrotta had tickets. The day had been magical. Not only did she get to see her soccer hero Sandro in live action, she learned he was Giuseppe’s nephew. Giuseppe and Sandro’s mother were siblings, different last names, which is why she’d never known there was a connection. That, and the fact that her coach had been mysteriously closed- mouthed about his famous relative.
    That night, Sandro would dine at Giuseppe’s and she was invited. From the moment she met Sandro, he stole her heart with as much certainty and skill as he’d ever scored a goal. Even more amazing, he seemed to be as attracted to her--later, he told her about the “thunderbolt” , an Italian man’s expectation of being struck blind with love. For her, he told her, she had been his thunderbolt.
    He even persuaded Giuseppe to let her spend the night, upstairs in the guest room of course, while Sandro volunteered to take the couch. Alone in her room, reviewing the day, she knew she’d never get to sleep. But she dropped right off, awakened a short while later by the nightmare.
    Too agitated to go back to bed, she went downstairs for juice. Only to be scared for real when Sandro, whom she thought was sleeping, whispered in her ear, “It is dangerous to walk in the dark.”
    “ Yikes! Sandro.” Her shoulders slumped as the tension eased from her muscles. “I thought you were asleep.”
    He turned her to face him. “I pretend. In case it was Beppe or Luciana.” He picked up the juice glass from the countertop. “You have trouble to sleep? Drink latte …milk.” The glass made a soft clink against the marble counter as he sat it down.
    “ I wasn’t having trouble sleeping, not at first. Then I had a bad dream. I don’t like milk, but I thought juice would help.” Realizing she was inanely chattering, she turned the question to him.