My Strict Daddy

His final destination was only three blocks west and a block and a half south of here and, Michael checked the time on his phone, he had over an hour before the assigned meeting time. His last preparation needed to be in place.

He still had the number programmed on his phone. They hadn't had much cause to speak to each other since their first, fateful encounter but Icepick Romano and Rafael Ortega, number three in the Columbian cartel and head of the local Latin Kings that ran the Pilsen neighborhood occasionally found each other useful.

Tonight he'd be calling in a favor.

The man picked up on the first ring, "Is this you?" he asked in a suspicious tone. They would never use the other's name on this phone, both of them were always targets for law enforcement.

"Yeah, it's me," Michael confirmed. "Listen, I've got a deal for you."

Rafael chuckled and inhaled deeply. Michael assumed that his nemesis was smoking pot and probably nice and mellow, for a heartless murderer anyway. "And why would you suddenly be so generous?"

The man had reason to be suspicious, Michael surely would have been if the shoe were on the other foot. "You remember where you stashed my daughter when you took her?" he asked Rafael, as if either of them could forget.

The gangster exhaled and murmured, "Yeah, of course I do."

"I'm in the neighborhood. Come pick me up at Austin and Archer and I'll tell you about my generosity."

Rafael might be high but he suddenly was on alert. "I'll see you in ten, primo," he said quickly before hanging up.

Michael paced in the shadows as he waited and hoped that this wasn't as crazy as it sounded.

***

Given that Irv's techno whiz kid had been unable to find anything on Mueller, Michael assumed that the motherfucker had the whole block on surveillance and he approached the garage slowly with his hands up. He had to assume he was being watched. He kicked himself one last time for not being even more paranoid, especially when it came to his daughter.

The rusty garage door was almost two stories tall and it inched up, it squeaked and whined all the way. The sound was burned into his brain. It was exactly the same the night that Michael had come to rescue her so many years ago. Michael's heart thudded louder with every inch. Where was she? What If this was the last time he was ever going to see her? This motherfucker, Madison better be okay. If he'd touched her, Michael shook his head. He had to stay cool, he had to be ready.

Once the garage door stopped, Mueller stepped out of the shadows. "Good, thank you for being punctual," he waved Michael inside as if they were friends meeting up casually.

Michael shook his head, "Not until I see her. Bring her into the light, Mueller."

"Oh, you're such a doting Dad," Mueller goaded him, "I've got her all dolled up for the occasion." He stepped back into the shadows and something squeaked in Michael's direction.

His daughter was tied up.

Mueller had secured Madison's wrists and ankles to a dolly, as if she were merchandise to be delivered. She wasn't blindfolded anymore and Madison's eyes were full of terror. She whimpered into the cloth that gagged her and Michael knew that if the gag were out of her mouth, she would be sobbing. There was blood on her chin and Michael felt his hands curl into fists. "Motherfucker," he muttered, and then warned himself once more, this was no time to lose his temper.

Mueller dismissed it, "Oh, we were just playing a little game. Something to pass the time, isn't that right sweetheart?" Hearing Mueller talk to her intimately, fuck, watching his fingers linger on Madison's forearm made Michael's stomach lurch. "You've seen her, she's fine," Mueller sneered, "well, mostly fine. Get in here. It's time to get this over with."

Michael stepped inside, hands up in surrender once more. He'd play his part, he'd do what must be done and he would hope to god that he'd get to make this up to her somehow.

Mueller drew out his gun and approached Michael carefully. "Keep your hands there," he gestured with the gun in his right and reached for Michael with his left hand. He quickly found the gun in the jacket pocket and sighed as if he found it highly annoying that Michael would come armed. "I suppose there's more where that came from," Mueller moved his hand slowly down his stomach, to his legs, down to his calves. There was the other gun tucked away in an ankle holster. "Like a cop, Romano? You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

Michael didn't say a word. His eyes were on Madison, nothing else mattered.

Mueller's left hand wandered midway up his left, inner thigh. "I bet you didn't want me to find that, did you?" Mueller chuckled.

Son of a bitch, Michael felt the rumble run down his body. His icepick, taped to his thigh, the one that he never left the house without anymore, he'd looked forward to pushing it through the hot, fleshy bit of Mueller's neck that would send his lifeblood spurting out. "Icepick Romano, what a fucking nickname," Mueller spat as he reached into the sweatpants and ripped the item from the tape. "You forget, Michael, I know everything about you." He tossed the small, metallic pick onto the floor and it rolled out of reach.

If he was going to die, he wanted to make sure that it wasn't in vain. "I'm unarmed, Mueller. I've done what you wanted, let Madison go," it was a command and Michael tried to keep the panic from his voice.

Mueller touched her cheek and Madison's squeal was muffled by the gag. "Doesn't she remind you of her mother?" he reminisced. "I'll tell you what, Michael. Certain things about her are so very Charlotte," Mueller used a low, intimate tone that made Michael shake to hear it. "But I'm sure that you know all about that by now."

Bastard, he'd fucking rip his spine out given the chance. Michael clenched his jaw and reiterated, "Let her go, Mueller."

Mueller untied her wrists and then knelt in front of Madison to reach her ankles. His fingers were slow on her legs and he sighed as he released her. "All good things must come to end, my dear," he told her as the last cuff was opened. "Run along, Madison."

Madison wasn't able to run, in fact, Michael watched in a panic as she crumbled to the floor after two steps. "What did you do to her?" he bellowed.

Mueller shrugged, "I guess she can't take the drugs like Charlotte could. Not much of a party girl, is she? Of course, how would you know?" Mueller whispered behind his hand, "you're not much of a father." The psycho laughed hysterically at his own joke.

"Why are you doing this, Mueller?" Michael had to know. "You said you knew everything about me. Why don't I know anything about you?"

"I was much more forgettable in your life," Mueller said sarcastically as he waved the gun at him. "Get on your knees, Romano."

"Don't shoot me right in front of her," Michael was as close to pleading with him as he had ever been in his life. He just needed a small miracle, the last thing he'd ever ask for. He just needed this fucking douchebag to be off his game.

"Shoot you?" Mueller coughed up a dry laugh. "I just want to see you on your knees. You're not going as quickly as Frank."

So it was all Mueller. "Tell me Mueller, tell me who you are!" Michael demanded, as much as one could demand on their knees with their hands in the air. "I mean it's the least you can do considering that you fucked my whole life up."

"Robert Sullivan," Mueller spat at Michael, "you remember him?"

Michael's mind raced through names and faces like an open catalog, he searched for the right name. Out of the corner of his eye, Michael realized that Madison could move and she inched her way across the floor, slowly and steadily. Even now, she must have been able to read his mind. "There was an older guy, I think we called him Sully. He used to run numbers."

Mueller huffed, "I'm surprised you remembered him at all. Yes, Robert Sullivan was my father. You remember what you and Frank did?"

It was a blur. He and Frank had been bad kids, and who was going to stop them? They were untouchable. Michael had at least tried to be respectable, his father insisted on it but Frank was a little stupid and much more of a wild card. "Help me out, Mueller," he just needed to keep the motherfucker talking. "It's been a long time and I've done a lot of shit in my day."

"You ruined him, with the Super Bowl and he was into your father for what, half a million? He never would have been able to pay. And you little snot-nosed, rich fuckers couldn't have given a shit." Mueller was waving the gun around and his voice came and went as if he were on the verge of tears. He was making Michael nervous.

"But you didn't want any money, Mueller! Come on, if this is all about money, then let me pay you. How much does it cost to make you finally go away?" Michael could feel his heart throbbing triple time as he watched his lovely daughter creep closer and closer. Don't let him see her, don't let him turn around, keep the gun and his crazy fucking eyes on yo

Mueller exploded, "He killed himself you dumb fuck!" He ran up and pressed the gun to Michael's temple, spitting on him as he asked, "how much is that worth? Huh, you tell me, how much was his life worth?"

The door in the back opened and Mueller put up his finger as if something had just dawned on him. "You dirty cocksucker, who came with you? You think I won't kill them too?"

He was panicking but it was too late.

Rafael Ortega had sent the troops but before Michael saw one of them, Madison made her move. She had crawled to the metal pick, palmed it while Mueller screamed and now, her hand went up in a fist with deadly force. "Die, you fucking asshole," she screamed. She buried the metal pic, down to the handle, in his upper thigh.

"Fuck," Mueller dropped to his knees where he stood. He choked, his hand shook as the crimson spray shot out. He baptized Madison with his life blood.

Michael couldn't have been more proud. Who said she wasn't a chip off the old block? His daughter hit the man's femoral artery with one shot. He reached for her, "Madison, honey, wait, I'm coming," he told her as he began to rise from his kneeling position.

The floor was slippery with Mueller's blood. The Latin Kings had invaded the garage and Michael heard them swearing to each other in a little English and a little Spanish. "Who is the fucking puta cop? Where is he?" A young Latino holding an AK47 asked Michael.

Michael pointed, panting, "he's there, he's already dead." Another step, another step to reach Madison and it seemed like he was moving in quicksand.

The garage door opened behind him and the lights made the hair on the back of Michael's neck stand up. Blue lights were never a good sign. Over the loudspeaker, Michael heard, "Chicago PD, everybody get down on the ground and put your hands in the air."

A shot was fired and Michael motioned to Madison, "Honey, get down, down on the ground." As the volley of gunfire began, Michael realized that the puddle of blood had now shifted and was moving in front of him as well. As he tried to get up from his knees, to provide a shield for Madison, he slipped and fell to the floor.

This blood was his.

Madison screamed, "Daddy," and suddenly she was there, he was in her arms. His head was on her lap and those stormy blue eyes had drawn him into her sunshine one last time. Michael could remember clearly the first time he looked into them. Lost, he'd always been lost there and he smiled.

"Little girl, I love you," Michael wasn't sure if he just thought it or said it, he couldn't hear his own voice. The garage was fading away and the floor was no longer cold. In fact, he could feel nothing. There was just Madison's eyes until there was nothing.

***

Irv was stuck in traffic on Lake Shore Drive with plenty of time to think. Thinking was something that he'd been trying to avoid for the last few days, ever since that night. He'd had a bad feeling when he hung up with Michael. It had been his experience with countless clients over the years that when they started talking about changing their will that there was more to the conversation.

When he hadn't received a call from Michael that night to update him, Irv had a knot in his stomach. Sure, Michael Romano had always been pretty tight-lipped. He'd been a quiet little boy and he'd grown up to be a serious man. The power had always weighed heavy on him and after he lost his family there wasn't much to talk about.

When he woke up the next morning, he had unfolded his Chicago Tribune at the breakfast table like he had for too many mornings to count. He had read, "Michael "Icepick" Romano" Dead After Shootout with Chicago PD" and sat in stunned silence.

His wife Gloria reached for his hand and asked, "What is it, Irv?" After almost fifty years of marriage, she just knew.

He had shown her the headline and his wife gasped.

The wake was a tearful affair. Michael was young and always the favorite, everyone was devastated. The family huddled in groups of two and three, the sound of tears always somewhere in the background. Irv had asked a couple of Michael's lieutenants if they had seen Michael's daughter but no one seemed to know a thing. Irv wondered if he'd be able to place her if he saw her. He vaguely remembered a tiny girl with big, blue eyes and one dimple but that was all.

The bitter cold snap had continued and the next morning and he had to wear a scarf over his mouth at the cemetery. Irv had realized as he watched them lower the casket that he had actually known Michael since before he'd been born. He remembered when his mother was pregnant with him. He was the apple of his father's eye and little did the younger Romano know that the elder hadn't wanted this life for him. Romano Senior had tried everything he knew to keep the boy out of this, if for no other reason than to have avoided burying Michael. Thank God his father was dead or this would have killed him. His boy, shot in the back, shot down like a dog by the police. And all because he was trying to rescue his long, lost daughter.

Besides just missing the boy that had been almost as much of a friend as he was a client, Irv knew that there would be real trouble with the Chicago family now. There was no heir apparent. There was no one with Michael's leadership qualities. Paulie was a dismal second. He was probably better than any of the other guys, but did he really have the cojones to take the lead? If the Romano family were no longer in charge, who would be?

Irv was devastated but he was also a realist. He was the best damn criminal attorney in the city of Chicago for a reason.

The sound of horns broke his replay of the tragedy and Irv came back to reality, annoyed that the car hadn't moved in at least twenty minutes. "Turn off at the next exit, we'll take the side streets," he barked at his driver. Goddammit, he had an appointment to make with a promising new client and he expected to be punctual.

As it was, he arrived at the agreed upon address two minutes past the agreed time and he shook his head as he got out of the car. His driver knew his boss was disappointed. He nodded and mumbled, "sorry Mr. Goldin."

Irv grumbled to himself under his breath as he checked his briefcase. It was almost impossible to get good help anymore. If he wasn't on his second heart attack, he'd still be driving himself but he'd promised his wife. "I know, you tried," he patted the man's chest and headed for the house.

Irv was actually surprised that he wasn't representing Rafael Ortega before now. After doing a little background check, Irv had learned that he was high up in the Latin Kings and had a lengthy felony sheet that included everything from drug possession to murder. He was Irv's favorite type of client and he hoped that this new bit of business might take his mind off of Romano's passing. Irv was going to miss all of that juicy Italian business after all of these years.

A young man in a tracksuit opened the front door for him before Irv could even knock. "Hello, young man, I'm Irv Goldin. Is Mr. Ortega here?"

"Yeah," he nodded and then yelled, "Pop, that dude is here."

A dark-haired, muscular man entered the room and smacked the boy on the head. The man's arms were covered with tattoos, right down to each and every finger. Thanks to the wife beater he was wearing, Irv knew that his chest was similarly covered as well as his neck. "Pendejo, he's not a dude. This is Mr. Goldin. Did you introduce yourself?" he asked the boy.

The boy grimaced, "Sorry, Pop. I'm Salvador," he whispered to Irv.

"Now get outta here, I gotta talk to this man," Rafael shook his head but smiled as he watched the boy walk away, pride radiated from him. "My son, he calls everyone dude."

Irv put out his hand to shake the tattooed hand. "No problem, nice to meet you Mr. Ortega."

They shook hands and Irv could tell that this was all about business by the hard-nosed look on Rafael's face. In spite of his street thug look, Rafael was known to respect the old ways of doing business. He was also reportedly heartless when dealing with enemies but Irv didn't have to be concerned. He was going to be Mr. Ortega's new best friend. "Well, Mr. Goldin, I'm going to need to give you a retainer right now so that whatever I say to you from this point forward is privileged. Is that okay with you?"

Irv nodded in agreement. It was good to see that Rafael had enough experience to know how these things worked and had some class about him. Mr. Ortega reached for his wallet and handed over a crisp one hundred dollar bill and Irv slipped it into his coat pocket. "Now you have attorney client privilege, Rafael. What is this all about?"

"Follow me," Rafael headed down the hallway, made a left and stood outside a closed door. "You ready?"

Irv shrugged. He was an old man and he'd been devastated before but after a week like this, who was ready for anything? He'd seen an awful lot of shit in his law practice. Defending criminals was always a bit of an enterprise and somehow, even after all of these years, something always managed to surprise him.

When Rafael opened the door and Irv saw the surprise, he whistled. The only words he could come up with were, "Holy shit."

***

Mr. Goldin hadn't wanted to leave her at the month to month kitchenette on Superior. She could tell by the look on his face that he was uncomfortable. "My dear, are you sure about this?" he had asked as he pulled his coat up around his throat, as if trying to make sure nothing contagious could get inside.

Madison could tell he was rich. Sure, he was a mafia attorney, he must be loaded so he'd never understand that by Madison and Charlotte standards, this place was magnificent. It was a furnished studio and even had a microwave. There didn't look to be any bed bugs or cockroaches and Madison knew how to spot both. "I'm totally sure, Mr. Goldin," she assured him, "this is great."

He shrugged, "Well, if you change your mind," he said as he handed her a fat envelope. "I know your father wanted you to be provided for so this should help get you settled."

Madison gulped as she took the envelope. She knew it was money and she knew that she needed it but she also knew what the consequences were for taking that money all too well now. Blood money never came without strings.

"Thanks," she whispered and promised herself that as soon as semester was over, she'd transfer to bum fuck Idaho and Mr. Goldin could just send her money to a post office box. She didn't want Michael's money at all and someday she wouldn't have to take it.

She just wanted her father back.

After Mr. Goldin left, Madison could finally stop pretending and she melted into the bed and pulled the cover up over her face. She was exhausted. Her body ached deep in her bones for sleep but it only came in bits and pieces; a few minutes here, an hour there. Occasionally on the bus when she wasn't supposed to nod off. The nightmares continued to haunt her in the daytime.