Author's notes: Please review or leave any comment! Merci d'avance / Grazie !

In this chapter, there is a lot of Italian. I tried to use as many context clues as possible for those who don't know the language, but if you would prefer a translation, please let me know.


Chapter 6: Snapshots at the Palace

"Casa mia casa mia, per piccina che tu sia tu mi sembri una badia."

English translation: "Home, sweet home; tiny as you may be, you'll always be a palace to me!"

Despite Luigi's grumblings and threats, the victorious Bensonhurst champion had insisted on celebrating with the guys at the Koopa Bar, dragging his little brother with him. After the fight, tens of Brooklyn guys who lived in the Bensonhurst as well as neighboring Dyker Heights, Bath Beach, and Mapleton streamed into the small, dimly lit establishment, ordering local IPAs, Italian wines, shots of tequila, and various mixed drinks. About thirty minutes into the impromptu party, Tony announced to a cheering and snickering crowd that a round of Bloody Russians was on him. As the bargoers merrily reveled in the Kahlua, vodka, and grenadine syrup concoction, Luigi sat cheerlessly in a booth, fist supporting his weary head, as he watched a battered Mario and several sycophants down beer after tequila. Thankfully, Lucas was occupied with proselytizing to a group of five computer-illiterate Bay Ridge guys on getting rich quick from cryptocurrency and blockchain. Luigi tried to sneak out twice but was foiled both times. On the first attempt, Tony pulled him away from the door and ordered a club soda with a squeeze of lime "for the kid." He kept him in his circle for several minutes before some 'mysterious' associates in business suits appeared and asked to speak with him. Like shadows in a dark Newark alley, they disappeared for the rest of the evening. Bowser intercepted him on the second attempt by shoving him into the booth and pointing his finger at him to stay put and not "let his brother see that disloyal bullshit."

Had Daisy been in New York, instead of being an one-man audience to this grotesque, self-licking display of hypermasculism, Luigi would have taken her to a movie or, better yet, watched a movie at her Carroll Gardens apartment. At this time in the evening, he would have preferred to do less watching and more interacting with her curves. He checked his watch – 11:06 pm. Daisy would still be awake, although with Shabbat and Purim, she would undoubtedly be busy with her father and Yael. Though they had been dating for a month – or was it four? – Luigi wanted to steal third from first base. He would start at her beautiful brown eyes, fluttering eyelashes, and auburn hair, run his hands through the strands of silk, put his mouth on her tanned and bare shoulders, and slowly drag his hands further downward. He shifted uncomfortably in his booth and attempt to clear his bored mind of its newly-generated movie short entitled, "Dirty Daisy at Third Base."

In his deep and rather disturbing visualization of Mario walking about the house in his tighty-whities, Luigi failed to notice the curly-haired Arab in a black fez sit down across from him at the booth. His Italian-made, slim-fitting charcoal suit elongated his short, muscular legs, and his white Oxford and silver-gray tie gave him a professional finish. The glint of the five-foot-five Jamal 'Rospo' Maghur's gold Rolex caught the dim light.

"Buona sera, Luigi. Com'e?" asked the Venetian.

Startled, Luigi jumped out of his seat. Taking a deep breath, he settled down at the sight of the man whom he had spotted at the fight. "Va bene, grazie. Cosa stai facendo qui?" he responded in Italian.

He shrugged. "Come te – sto guardando Mario rendersi ridicolo. La Dottoressa non sarà contenta di sentire parlare di questo."

"Si, I know this," replied Luigi in English. "This is gonna earn Mario another few nights in the doghouse with Peach."

"Why do you Americans always refer to it as a 'doghouse'?" inquired the man in accented English. "Although," he added, "Mario will be a very sad dog after this one. Peach is very, very angry already and will be even more so when she hears of this."

"Rospo, could you just not tell her? I mean," Luigi leans over the wooden table, "c'mon, you're married. Aren't there things that you don't tell your wife?"

The short man let out a belly laugh. "Certo! I don't tell her that I stay out just to win a few more bets, drink mint tea at the cafe, and smoke more shisha. She thinks I'm working for la Dottoressa when I'm just tryin' to get away for an evening. I love my wife, but there are only certain places that women belong. That said, she'd notice if I come home with bruises."

Luigi considered the man's words for a moment, then nodded. "You've got a point. But honestly, that was my last attempt at smoothing things over, Rospo. I'm done with this shit. Speaking of whom, where is Peach?"

Before Rospo could answer, Bowser appeared alongside their booth, massive arms crossed, glaring menacingly down at the smaller man. "Well, well, well," he began, "If it isn't the Puttana's toady himself? How is the two-timing donnaccia anyway? Ever since my brother died, she's treated me like neither my family nor I exist. Like it or not, her name's still Cristina Venier Bowser."

Rospo tilted his irritated regard at his lady's former brother-in-law. "I don't generally speak ill of the dead, John, but in your brother's case, I'll gladly make an exception for that abusive testa di cazzo."

Bowser's eyes blazed fire. "Fuck you," he spat. "You forget where you are. No one here will give a shit about a dead rag—"

Luigi slid out of his seat and put his hand gently on John's chest. "Do you want to do this at Mario's party? Talk about her? She ain't here, and there's money to be made."

The large redhead relaxed slightly, though he continued to glower at Rospo. "Get his ass out of here, kid. Like Cristina, he ain't welcome here. This is my castle. She can find another one to wreck."

Refusing to break eye contact with John, Rospo stood up from the booth, straightened his suit, and followed Luigi toward the door. Bowser quickly seized Luigi's hoodie, keeping him in place, and growled to Rospo, "Vatinni!" The small man held his hands up to Luigi, signaling that he would leave alone, and confidently left the bar. Bowser then shoved the lanky Italian back into the booth. As Luigi stubbornly tried to escape, John leaned in face to face and hissed, "You. Sit."

"Or what?" challenged Luigi.

"Fuck around and find out," he warned. "As you've pointed out many times, I got eight kids living at home. That's eight asses I've personally taken the belt to, so I ain't afraid of kicking yours. Don't bring that piece of garbage in my bar again."

"Screw you, John. He walked in; I didn't bring him," said Luigi angrily. "And why are you keepin' me here? You and Mario don't need my finocchio ass here."

Bowser rolled his eyes and shook his head in derision. Reaching into his pocket, he popped a lime-flavored Lifesaver into his mouth and replied, "You're such a little shit, Luigi. No wonder you and Peach seem to be … close – two pink princesses painting their nails and playing dress-up. I know you didn't grow up past fifteen, but at some point, you need to take your head out of whatever ass you might also be pounding and get on with it. Stop having your brother fight your battles. Everyone knows that you saw Matusz and blabbed like a schoolgirl to Mario. Show some appreciation like a man, even if you are a finocchio."

As the Irish bartender marched away to tend to the growing line at the bar, Luigi balled up his fists in rage. Who the hell did that walking STD think he is? Hostility and outrage made his six-foot frame silently vibrate. Fucking hypocrites, he thought. The remnants of the 65th Street Crew, a rag-tag collection of mafiosi, bigots, and thugs with criminal records, still thought that they were the 'tough guys' and 'men of respect' to a dying community replaced by 'homos' like Luigi who barely recognized their presence. He loathed being bound by a code of silence, a code of a society to which he never held a burning picture of a saint and swore allegiance. Most of all, Luigi hated standing helplessly by as his elder brother integrated into the murky world of codes, unspoken words, and demonstrations of power. Though he was never as street smart as Mario or Yoshi, Luigi knew one essential truth about the world of the Bowsers and Moranos: like a killer whale, it would swallow those who unadvisedly approach its mouth.


At around four in the morning, Luigi and Bowser struggled to shoulder-carry an inebriated and jubilant Mario into the Masciarelli family red-brick townhome. Several neighbors opened their windows and screamed at him to shut the fuck up as the drunk plumber loudly sang and slurred mixed-up lyrics to the Beastie Boys' "Fight for Your Right" and Afroman's "Because I Got High."

A single stream of light gradually brought a red boxer-clad Mario to painful consciousness at around nine o'clock. His cheek had turned a faint purple from the previous night's fight, and ice pick-like pains around his temples made him fall out of bed in a first attempt to reach his toilet. He was unable to breathe; weakly, Mario brought his swollen hands to his sternum to feel for any broken ribs or other injuries, but only perceived a vice grip of agony near his ribcage. He tried to call out for his brother; what came out of his mouth was a moan and vomit. Despite the pain, he immediately flipped onto his knees and emptied the malodourous alcoholic contents of his stomach onto the hardwood floor. Leaning in a sitting position against the side of the bed, he yelped for his little brother. A few moments later, a sleepy Luigi covered only in blue and green striped boxers appeared in the doorframe, wrinkling his nose at the steaming puddle of puke next to his hungover and injured brother.

"I'm not cleaning that up," Luigi said flatly.

"Call P-Peach," rasped Mario. "S-something's not right. C-Can't breathe."

Luigi's irritation quickly evolved into fear, his face draining of all color. "W-what's wrong? Maybe I should call 911 instead!"

Fishing out his iPhone, he began to dial the emergency services, but Mario cried, "No!"

"You're insane!" screamed Luigi. "Peach's in the City! Maimonides is ten minutes away!"

"No," insisted Mario whose breath was still labored. "They'll have to report the fight. It's an illegal club."

"Who cares?" Having entered the digits 9-1-1, Luigi's thumb was millimeters from the call key.

Mario's blue eyes narrowed. "The minute that … the NYPD interrogate you, you go down for bein' there. I won't … let you t-throw away … career, too. You … call, you … end us both. Call Peach."

Luigi began to pull at his messy brown hair and screech in frustration. Mario looked on impressively as his younger brother yelled inventive maledictions in both Italian and Sicilian for a full minute before deleting the 911 in his phone to dial a private number with area code 212. He put the phone in his ear and pleaded with a feminine voice to come as quickly as possible. He then hung up and went to the front door to unlock it. Having returned to monitor his ailing brother, Luigi glared silently at him for several minutes. "You know, the next time, you may not be as lucky, you fucking stunad," he said quietly.

The elder brother cracked a smile. "Hurts to talk."

Shaking his head disagreeably, Luigi moved to sit in the clean space next to Mario on his left. Wordlessly, Mario leaned down and put his head on his brother's shoulder as the latter extended his long legs in front of them. They sat together for a half-hour in silence save Mario's labored breath and Luigi's building anxiety. Suddenly, two new voices echoed throughout the house. A grey-suited Rospo appeared first, followed by a five-foot-nine, thirties-something blonde with icy blue eyes. Dressed in a designer pale pink sweater and blue jeans and clutching a black medical bag with a blanched right hand, the young woman scowled at her injured boyfriend who gazed up adoringly at her.

"Buon giorno, mia principessa," rasped Mario.

"Non provarci più, fottutissimo fesso," hissed Peach as she bent down in front of him to inspect his injuries. Luigi stood up and moved out of the ireful blonde's way. He made eye contact with Rospo who shrugged in a soundless apology.

"Ah," replied Mario, "but I'm your fuckin' dumbass." He yelped as Peach pressed on one of the greenish-purple bruises on his chest.

"I am not your on-call nurse, Mario!" she growled in unaccented English. After another minute of her medical examination, she added, "You're damned lucky that none of your ribs are broken! What was it this time? Another set of bricks? Another fight to put John in his place?!" She turned her head to Luigi who was looking down at the floor. "Luigi? Parla!"

As he was about to speak, Rospo interjected, "A Russian guy was harassing the community. Mario did what he had to do."

Peach bit her plush pink lips. It was not the first time that Mario settled a personal score or defended someone's honor. Unlike her late husband, whom she found out post-mortem had several affairs and produced multiple children throughout their four-year relationship and two-year marriage, Mario doted on her and remained fiercely loyal to their union. She had no doubt of his fidelity, especially as she had pushed him away numerous times to meet the stringent Italian divorce mandate of a three-year separation. Since both Mario and Marco were in the Special Forces, the former could also be reduced in rank and pay – or worse – if they had been proven to be having an affair, to say nothing about what her husband would have done. Peach was self-admittedly naïve and imprudent when she had first met and married Marco Bowser. While she was a lonely medical resident in London, homesick for vibrant and colorful Venice, he courted her as a young, lovestruck Italian-American soldier stationed in Germany. They emailed and called each other at least once a week, and he saw her in London or Stuttgart on every leave. Marco even charmed her father upon meeting and requesting her hand in 2005. The Signore, who had seen one too many spaghetti westerns, was easily taken in by Marco's wild stories of being in the Special Forces and defending America against terrorists – foreign and domestic. Yet as she discovered after their small, storybook Venetian wedding in mid-November 2006, Sergeant Marco Bowser manipulated and destroyed those who crossed him. Even in the prestigious and top-secret Delta Force, there was no con too small nor violent crime too grotesque for the man.

Ironically, her capture and the murders of her colleagues in September 2006 signaled the beginning of the end for her misery. She joyously remembered the kind blue eyes and thick masculine hands of Sergeant Mario Masciarelli as he carried her out of that cavernous Afghani hellhole and for another mile to their rendezvous point. His unit joked that she was his "Project Top Secret," as he visited her regularly in the base hospital and appointed himself as her personal bodyguard. She was sent back to Italy three weeks later, though Mario continued to email her over the course of the succeeding months, which she managed to hide from her sadistic, yet frequently absent husband. Peach winced at the memory of those blue eyes becoming pained and embarrassed when, during a video call right before Christmas, she told him that she was recently married. Those eyes maddened with envy, revulsion, and hatred when he learned her husband's name.

A wise man would have let her go; Mario only became more determined. He was re-assigned stateside to Fort Bragg in the spring of 2007. Despite his pleas to see her "once more," Peach tried, for both of their sakes, to keep a professional distance and stopped her emails to him. After receiving a love letter in Italian from the heartsick Mario, she gave in to one night of weakness at the Ritz-Carlton in Georgetown. He clung to that moment like a raw diamond torn from the earth. Following one incident in which Bowser's fist had split her lip for being "meddlesome," the recently re-deployed Mario drove his company jeep in a pure rage across Camp Fallujah, confronted her estranged husband, and, in front of his fellow Delta unit, promised to gut him nose to nuts with his Yarborough if he laid a hand on her again. Although Marco filed an adultery complaint with his commanding officer, nothing beyond an unofficial warning was given, as the well-liked Mario had just been promoted to Staff Sergeant and thus outranked him. Weeks later, Doctor Venier quarreled with the Staff Sergeant in an unused bunker, attempting to reason with him that further action would only result in the end of his career and possibly his life. As Peach pounded her fists on his well-developed chest, frustrated at his lack of acknowledgement, Mario's bright blue eyes burned with primal passion despite calmly informing her that Marco Bowser would be a dead man if he ever touched her.

Within three months, she was standing beside his flag-draped coffin in New York.

Mario's wheezing fit brought Peach out of her reflection on the past. Quickly, she pulled out her stethoscope and put the end to his bare chest to listen for fluid in his lungs. Eyes closing in relief, she took the cold disk off his bruised chest and replied, "Breathe easily and slowly, amore. There's no fluid in your lungs, but if you don't keep upright and take it easy, you could catch pneumonia." She turned to Rospo and Luigi, collecting her medical instruments and returning them to her bag. "Nothing tight around his torso to protect his lungs. No electronics, as he also likely has a concussion. He needs rest; no strenuous work and absolutely no fighting!" She glared once more at her battered lover. "You hear me?! No fighting! I don't care how many insults are involved!"

"Sei molto carina quando ti arrabbi," rasped Mario teasingly.

"Ti odio!" Peach yelled, launching herself from the floor and toward the door. Luigi and Rosco looked at each other with weary faces, then the younger plumber ran after her. Peach stormed out of the front door when Luigi walked outside onto the tiny porch steps. In spite of the cold Brooklyn air stinging his exposed skin, he stopped behind the blonde, placing a soft, non-threatening hand on her right shoulder. She halted and crossed her arms, noiselessly waiting for Luigi to speak.

"Look, Peach, Mario's a fuckin' moron. I wish he wouldn't do ninety percent of the shit that he does. I tried to talk him out of it. But you know how he gets. He was saving me. So hate me, not him," said Luigi.

"I don't hate him, and I don't hate you, cognato," she replied softly. "But one day, he's going to take it too far and…"

"I know," interrupted Luigi, not wanting her to express their mutual anxiety aloud. Even though he was mildly annoyed at her use of cognato, given that she had rejected his brother's marriage proposal, he swallowed his bitterness and continued with his plea. "But right now, he needs you. If you want to keep him from fighting, then … stay with him. Even for just tonight." At Peach's lack of movement or response, Luigi added, "Please, Peach. I'm asking you."

"Why can't he ask me?" she murmured tearfully.

Luigi did not answer; instead, he grabbed her shoulders to spin her around and into his chest. They stayed in a fraternal embrace for several minutes. The plumber then opened the door to guide her back inside the house. In spite of what he had vowed to Mario earlier, Luigi ended up cleaning his brother's bedroom floor of the dried vomit while Rospo and Peach eased him into bed, propping the pillows up so that his air passageway was unencumbered. She then wrote a prescription of painkillers for him and asked Rospo and Luigi to have the local pharmacy prepare it. Luigi hurriedly threw on a pair of jeans and a green long-sleeved shirt and left with Rospo.

Now alone and still angry, Peach applied ice to his bruises and sat vigil at the edge of Mario's bed. The plumber's blue eyes became dark with both remorse and lust, and he put his hand on her thigh to nonverbally convey his desire. She indignantly removed it, cursing at him in Italian that she was not about to fare l'amore con a hungover, concussed idiot. He unapologetically reapplied his hand, this time on her waist and then underneath her pale pink sweater to trace circles on her ivory skin. Peach glared at his advances, then slid away from him. Wincing at the pain in his chest, Mario nonetheless closed the distance, capturing the blonde's lips with his, pressing his nose to hers. She gave in to his kiss, trying not to gag at the putrid taste in his mouth. Remembering his morning vomit at the same time as she, Mario pulled away and aggressively relocated his lips to her jawline and earlobe. "Ti voglio," he panted and wheezed between open-mouthed kisses.

"No," she protested distractedly. "Assolutamente no! Hai bisogno di guarire. Idiota."

"Si," Mario insisted, lowering her down on his bed, hands dragging her sweater upward, and fiddling with her bra strap as he kissed the skin just above her satin-covered mounds. "Sono fesso, è vero, però questo idiota, ho bisogno … dell'attenzione personale dalla mia pesca molto sexy."

Peach's body stiffened, mutely giving her lover the absolute no. Disappointed and hurt, Mario withdrew his lips and hands from her porcelain skin, though he maintained the intimate space between them by laying his head against her breast. "Mi dispiace," he offered quietly, coughing on the last syllables. "Luigi … if he got hurt, he … I can't …"

She sat up, slowly pushing him upright, and rearranged her clothing. "I know. But how many times are you going to do this? Why can't you leave this place? Just sell the damn place and leave! You could come with me to the City or to Venice once your service is up. Luigi could come with us to Italy. His Italian is good enough to go to university and study engineering."

"You know why," answered Mario darkly. "And besides, I'd need to be married to go to Italy, even if I am Italian in every way except birth and time spent. I wasn't Italian or rich enough for your parents." He rolled his eyes. "God knows how Bowser was able to charm your father," he muttered irritably under his breath, causing another wheezing fit.

Peach narrowed her blue eyes at her boyfriend. "That's not fair," she whispered.

"Isn't it? Luigi's gonna make master plumber in a year or two. Maybe he'll even go to NYU or Stony Brook and get that fancy engineering degree. Pops always wanted that and working for the city would give him more than Italy ever could. He's my family. My blood family, my chosen family. You … Well, you know where I stand. The ball's been in your court now for years, Pasticcino mio. I've been with you for seven years, have wanted you for eight. There isn't anything that I wouldn't do for you." He traced his thick fingers along her rosy, pink lips.

"You won't give up ketchup for me," she replied through unshed tears.

Mario chuckled, pinched his fingers, and gave her a peck on her cheek. He then laid back against the pillows and, never breaking eye contact with his lover, intertwined their hands. They remained still for some time. His sparkling gaze then moved downward to the lower half of his body and he lasciviously lifted his eyebrows twice. Peach rolled her watery eyes at him, causing him to howl with laughter.

"You're a bastard, Mario Masciarelli," she said with a Mona Lisa smile.

He shrugged, then winced at the pain in his sternum. "It was worth a shot." His eyes began to close from exhaustion; as he coughed and Peach reapplied the semi-liquid ice packs, Mario murmured sleepily, "Ti amerò per sempre. Non ci separeranno né inferno né Iraq."


Luigi, Peach, and Rospo spent the rest of the afternoon in tranquility as Mario slept off his pain and previous night's alcohol overconsumption. Luigi and Rospo sipped Turkish coffee and played backgammon while Peach apprehensively watched the BBC's coverage at the budding crisis in the Crimea. Other than the probable, decidedly negative effects on future Russian-Ukrainian relations, the blonde worried that it would necessitate further deployments of American soldiers to Iraq, Mali, Germany, and Italy. Mario had nearly a year and a half left on his contract; even though he was now a reservist, the U.S. Army could and often did require 'seasoned' Special Forces sergeants to act as six-month "special advisors." Peach closed her eyes; her boyfriend was overdue for a final deployment, as his last tour was in 2009. Mario would be at the top of Uncle Sam's list as a staff sergeant with almost thirteen years of service and a basic knowledge of German and Persian.

Jamal looked over at his lady's pensive gaze at the news coverage of the inevitable conflict in the Black Sea. One of the biggest regrets of his life was that he was not at her side during her captivity in 2006; at the very moment when she was taken hostage, he had been at the service of the Signore and his latest underground party at which several prominent Italian businessmen and politicians attended, drank, and indulged in the wildest acts of debauchery and gluttony. He helplessly observed the Signora MariaCeleste's gut-wrenching screams and wails upon learning of her only daughter's abduction and the terrorists' demand for ransom. The noblewoman's grief was only alleviated when her aberrant husband informed her that his plea to the Italian prime minister himself proved a fruitful one: a group of elite American soldiers killed her abductors and rescued the badly injured, but alive Cristina. The latter never spoke of her three-week abduction but once a few weeks following the death of her husband. When the lead terrorist realized that the cave was being raided, he forced her and the remaining three prisoners to their knees. As they were blindfolded much of the time, Peach could only perceive sound and touch; she heard the cock of the man's weapon behind her head, the release of a loud bang, and then deathly silence. Believing herself to have been executed, she sank forward, only for strong hands to catch her. The blindfold was tenderly removed, and a pair of blue eyes appeared in her sight. Even if the Veniers refused to acknowledge it, Cristina was alive thanks to 'that New York terrone.'

The Italo-Libyan's loyalty to his lady and her plumber transcended even religion. He personally made sure that there was no evidence that her psychopathic husband could use to prove that a forbidden night in Washington had happened. Both the Qur'an the Hadith were clear on the Prophet's (صلى الله عليه وعلى آله وسلم) views on adultery as well as those who suborned it. However, Jamal made peace with the potential of going to Hell after death, as Peach had attempted to start the arduous three-year mandatory separation only for Marco to blackmail her into staying in the marriage. Rospo never knew precisely what the blackmail was, as Peach refused to discuss it, even after his death in Iraq. Just as Mario would do anything for his treasured almost-spouse, Peach loved him as fiercely and feared that one day she would receive a call from Luigi to report his death overseas or on the streets of New York because of his heroics.

Rospo rose from his chair. As Luigi silently looked on, he took the television remote from Peach's limp hand and turned off the twenty-four-seven report of hellfire and brimstone. "I've seen war, Habibi; you don't need to see it on TV," he said soothingly. "Vieni, let's think about dinner." She nodded mutely into his partial embrace.

Luigi stood up and attempted to cover his own anxiety at the scene before him with a leisurely stretch. "Tajik, anyone?" he offered.

"Yes," answered Jamal for both he and the troubled Peach, "that would be lovely, Luigi."

Normally, Mario did the ordering, as the restaurant staff's English was passable at best, and he could speak decent enough Tajik Persian for them to take down their order and address for delivery. Nevertheless, they understood Luigi's high-school Russian and brought meat pilaf, non, sambusa, and black tea for four just over an hour later. As they ate in a silence comfortable for Italians, meaning that they spoke at a decibel just above Midwestern conversational volume, all heard the rustling from the downstairs bedroom and a male grumble. Moments later, a sleepy Mario came out into the kitchen. Peach and Luigi exchanged a glance and snickered; aside from a certain type of invitation from his girlfriend, the only thing that could bring Mario Masciarelli out of a dead, snoring sleep was the smell of food. The shirtless and bruised Mario padded over to the dining room table and sniffed the meal. Meeting his approval, he grabbed the empty chair and eased himself down into it. Reaching over for the serving spoon and a plate, he dished up a large helping of the orange and yellow pilov and non. Peach shot him a warning glare about the "no-no sauce" to which he gave a soundless complaint. Her look of disapproval not budging one centimeter, he huffed sheer dismay and took a small bite of the rice, vegetables, and meat with the non, scowling at her. Jamal looked on nonchalantly while Luigi did his best not to laugh at his elder brother. They spent the rest of the evening eating and talking, with Jamal leaving the three of them at eight o'clock, promising to return the next day, as Peach decided to spend the night in Bensonhurst.

Peach spending Sunday at Mario and Luigi's house meant that, once again, the Masciarelli men would miss dinner with the Family. Just before bedtime, Mario phoned Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucia to express their sincerest regrets. Still raspy from the Friday night fight, Mario explained to Lucia that he caught some virus while doing drills in Massachusetts and did not want to spread it to them. In full Italian mama mode, Lucia offered to bring the sore and poorly Mario some meat ragù or Minestrone, but he declined to protect her from the viral nastiness. Reluctantly, she agreed and wished him a speedy recovery. Phone call of heaping bullshit completed, he grasped Peach's dainty hand and, wishing Luigi a goodnight, dragged her, albeit weakly, to his bedroom.

Luigi headed upstairs to his own room. Checking his carefully hidden, passcode-protected phone, he saw that his gorgeous Daisy left three text messages, the last of which showed her in a pink and gold tunic and a Persian-style headdress in the same colors. Grinning, he wrote back that she looked like a beautiful queen and the outfit appeared quite comfortable. Five minutes later, Daisy texted a laughing emoji and replied that yes, the dress was comfy compared to some modern couturier. Dialing her number, Luigi and Daisy chatted on the phone about the Purim party that she attended with a few of her Jewish friends from the Lycée français de San Francisco. They spent the next twenty minutes flirting; Daisy teased him about her Persian king 'suitors' at the party while Luigi expounded on his self-admittedly half-assed plan to steal her from Persia and make her a blushing Sicilian bride. Daisy abruptly quietened after hearing the last part which Luigi immediately walked back, frantically apologizing for being a pervertito. Exhaling raggedly, she smiled and accepted his apology. She also expressed regret for describing her suitors because there was only one whom she was considering, and he lived in the land of Bensonhurst. He hummed contentedly, responding that he missed his Esther and her sweet lips terribly, even if they had been dating for just over a month.

When she asked about his weekend, Luigi casually described a boring Friday and Saturday at home; he worked on his robotics class while Mario watched a few eighties-era action flicks on television. He explained that he was supposed to play basketball with Yoshi that afternoon, but the latter rescheduled it to the next weekend. Since he and Mario were both tired from the job, Luigi claimed that they would probably rest throughout the weekend.

"You must think I'm a loser," he concluded softly. "You go to all these parties. Me, I work, and I'm a homebody on the weekends."

"Not at all," she replied in an equal tone. "To be honest, most of the time, I'd prefer a quiet day at home or a run through Prospect Park."

Luigi excitedly sat up from his reclined position on his bed and asked her on a one-on-one date-cum-footie match in the park once she returned from San Francisco. He also promised her a pasta dinner and a movie. Daisy squealed in delight as no man had ever bothered to take her on an actual sports date; she mentioned that she had gone to a footie match between Tottenham and Arsenal with a previous boyfriend who, instead of enjoying the actual game with her, decided to get drunk and pick a fight with a hooligan of the opposing team. Luigi mentally filed the latter information under "Stupid English boyfriends, Article II" and "Stupid men who throw away rubies and diamonds." Oh well, he reasoned smugly; while the Italians may have lost more wars since the fall of the Roman Empire, they certainly were voted better lovers than the British. A half-hour afterward, and the New York Romeo bid his fair California Juliet good night before they were caught by her parents and his elder brother. They promised to talk in a few days during his lunch break and when her father and stepmother were at work.

Turning out the light and rolling over to his right side to sleep, the young plumber wondered if he was not proceeding a bit too quickly with his feisty auburn-haired beauty. He and Daisy were from two very different worlds: he was an anxiety-ridden, working-class Italian in the midst of a community with its head perpetually stuck up the early-twentieth century's ass; she was a wealthy Sephardic woman with her whole life and world ahead of her. He was normally a cautious man when it came to love; he had had only two serious relationships, and both occurred during in high school. With exception of the sporadic fuck buddy, his twenties were spent working through his apprenticeship and caring for Mario during his rehabilitation. He mentally kicked himself for his joke about making Daisy a Sicilian bride, especially as the old-world tradition was often used as a justification for forced marriage. Yet Daisy broke through nearly all his carefully constructed walls within a month's time. The prudent part of Luigi debated the amorous one, maintaining that it was illogical to miss someone whom he barely knew so ardently. The amorous part rejected the claim with the immediate examples of Mario and Peach, his own parents, and his paternal grandparents. Prudence retorted that the first was borne of infidelity, the second of heartbreak, and the third of war. Amore countered with the adage that it was better to have loved passionately than never to have risked anything. Prudence drew a black hole with an arrow-shaped sign that read, "Your passion is here." Amore smugly painted a mural of Luigi and Daisy engaged in acts of contrition to and for each other.

At some point in the night, Luigi failed to notice that the heated discussion between Prudence and Amore had carried on subconsciously and into the next morning, as his next thought was of the smell of espresso brewing and feminine giggles emanating from the kitchen. Rolling out of bed and putting on a navy blue tee-shirt to cover his bare chest, he descended the staircase to find Peach spreading marmalade on fresh bread while Mario stood behind her, kissing her bare shoulder, save for thin purple camisole straps, and whispering lowly which caused her to giggle once more.

"I see you're feeling better," began Luigi neutrally and diplomatically to interrupt the love fest.

A boxer and red long-sleeved shirt covered Mario wrapped his muscular arms around Peach's petite, light purple pajama-bottomed waist, and rotated to his younger brother. "Buondí to you, too, bro. Nah, I'm still coughing and sore as shit, but I got the best medicine right here." He lifted the back of her hand and kissed it sweetly. Peach waved to Luigi with the other hand, bread and jam having been stuffed in her mouth.

"Buondí," replied Luigi.

"Mangiu," said Mario. "There's bread, marmellata, and coffee. I was thinkin' that I would make lasagna for dinner since we're not going to Joe and Lucia's. Rospo should be here around noon. What are the Twin Dipshits up to?"

Having entered the kitchen for breakfast and now smearing a generous helping of marmalade on a slice of bread, Luigi rolled his eyes. "Okay, first, Yoshi and Miles are not dipshits. Second, you're an asshole. Third, I could text them to see if they want to come over, though they already told me that they had plans this weekend. Fourth, you're still an asshole."

Mario chuckled into Peach's shoulder. Even that morning, when he was feeling every bit of his thirty-six years, he loved to rile up Luigi. It was like ketchup on a bacon cheeseburger – rich and savory. "See this, Principessa; this is why you're lucky to be an only child. Having a little brother's a pain in the ass. Little bros have little dipshits as buddies." Peach shook her head at the juvenile retort while Luigi set his bread and knife down, removed his shorts, and mooned his brother. Peach quickly spun away from her lover's brother's bare ass while Mario began to wheeze audibly, bent over in uproarious laughter.

"Okay, basta!" yelled Peach. "Crescete un po'!" Her demand for the two brothers to stop harassing each other only made them both descend into hysterics, eventually stopping due to Mario's reduced ability to breathe. "Idioti," she grumbled, assisting the short, muscular man to a chair.

Carrying a piece of marmalade-slathered bread, a smirking Luigi moved past them to the stairs. He returned after a couple minutes, iPhone in hand. While Mario and Peach sipped their espresso, Luigi read and tapped the screen several times, occasionally rolling his eyes or snickering. The elder plumber raised his eyebrow at the silent exchange between his brother and the 'Twin Dipshits.' "Well?" he asked impatiently.

"Birdo and Yoshi can't make it, but Miles is game if it's in the afternoon," answered Luigi. "I told him two-ish."

"Bene," agreed Mario. "That'll leave just enough time to make the ragù, Béchamel, and put it together."

The mid- to late-morning hours were spent on a quick trip to the local market to purchase peas and beef instead of the traditional ground pork for the lasagna and preparing the ragù. Mario loved this particular recipe; he vividly remembered the smell of garlic, basil, oregano, rosemary, peppers, pork, and veal slowly cooking on his mother's stovetop and permeating the air for hours after the meal as well as helping Gabriella create each layer of noodles, meat, and vegetables. The slender, five-foot-six, black curly-haired, pale-skinned woman spent most of her marriage in the kitchen or playing with her eldest son. While Mario Senior made roughly half of the Sunday meals due to his twelve-hour rotational shifts, Gabriella never outwardly complained; she simply prepared his portion – half of the lasagna – and kept it warm in the oven for when he would come home late. If he came home the following day, she put it into a special container and in the refrigerator to be reheated in the oven.

Gabriella learned the lasagna recipe from her mother, Audenzia Rigassi (née Campisi), who had made it every Sunday in Palermo for her late husband, daughter, and infant son. After the 1963 murder of her husband, Luigi Rigassi, Audenzia took the five-year-old Gabriella and two-year-old Salvatore to safety in New York. Despite working long hours to support her two small children, Audenzia made sure to have lasagna on the table every Sunday after mass. Regrettably, Mario never met his petite, dark-eyed and olive-skinned Sicilian nonna, as she passed away from cancer a year prior to his young parents' marriage and his birth. A few months after graduation from high school, Mario Senior and Gabriella married in a small Catholic ceremony against the wishes of the Abruzzese Mario and Mia Masciarelli who viewed the Sicilian Rigassi family with suspicion. Mia habitually expressed her hostility toward the Sicilian side and never fully accepted her eldest son's wife. Mario recalled several instances in which she openly referred to Audenzia as "the dirty Arab" and a mafiosa. Eventually,Mario and Mia grew to tolerate Gabriella's presence, mostly precipitated by Mario Senior threatening to cut them off from their half-Sicilian grandsons.

Mario stirred the ragù a final time before letting it simmer and focusing on the Béchamel sauce. Eating lasagna at the family table was one of the few memories that Luigi had of their mother. After Gabriella's death from the very same illness that had taken her own mother, the heartbroken Mario Senior would rarely speak of her, which suited the Masciarelli family. When he returned from Bethesda, Mario took up making his grandmother's lasagna every month for Luigi and himself. Though his brother was normally taciturn during Sunday dinner with the Masciarelli family, he was chatty and humorous whenever he made lasagna all'Audenzia. That was the Luigi whom he preferred, not the brooding, almost lackluster tradesman that he became in his absence.

By two o'clock, Rospo and Miles had arrived at Mario and Luigi's red brickhouse and were gathered around the table in anticipation. Luigi and Peach, who had changed into long-sleeved shirts and jeans, set out some fresh bread, vegetables, and cheese as well as limon soda and red wine. Though Miles volunteered for any kitchen duty, both Mario and Luigi insisted that he sit and enjoy the cheese. Reluctantly, Miles sat down, although he soon found himself engrossed in the asiago and marcona almonds. Eventually, Peach and Luigi sat down as well, as the lasagna would still have another fifteen minutes of baking and cooling before it was ready to eat. Mario was leaning against the kitchen counter, leisurely watching the over timer.

As they noshed on the antipasto, Miles turned to Luigi and casually asked, "So where's you-know-who?"

Luigi's face blanched and he made a slight basta gesture with his fingers.

Mario, Peach, and Rospo exchanged a confused look. "Who?" inquired Peach, chewing on a piece of bread.

"Uh," Luigi began, "he means Birdo. Right, Miles?" He gave the young blond PhD student a meaningful stare. Miles had been on the receiving end of that specific stare a few times before; he learned the hard way that not heeding Luigi's silent, but deadly warning meant that his lab desktop would be remotely hijacked and changed to something obscene.

"Uh, yeah," said Miles weakly. "I, uh, meant Birdo, sorry. She, uh, was with Yoshi the last time, and I was wondering if they were coming." He quickly shoveled a piece of cheese into his mouth to avoid any follow-up questions.

Mario's blue eyes narrowed at the youngest of the 'Twin Dipshits.' Miles Prower was a horrible liar. The medium-sized blond was exceptionally bright, on Luigi's intellectual level or greater, yet honest and direct to a fault. Throughout the years, Mario and Luigi had to explain and interpret what he meant to uncomprehending friends and family, including Mario Senior and Pauline. On one occasion at dinner, Miles was a little too truthful about his lack of interest in baseball to his father, and was nearly banned from their family home. On another, Pauline burst into tears from his unintentionally savage critique of her dress. Along these lines, he had one of the easiest "fibbing" body languages: shifting in his chair, verbal ticks, and a lack of eye contact. Mario was especially curious to know the identity of the unknown "you-know-who" to whom Tails was referring – based on the aforementioned body language and rapidly stuffing cheese in his mouth, he knew that it was not Birdo. He gave an inquisitive look to Luigi who was nonchalantly eating a piece of bread. The elder plumber chortled inwardly; whether Luigi realized it or not, Miles had given the upper hand to him in this situation, as he could either intimidate him into confessing or make a phone call to his older brother and let the chips fall accordingly. Mario decided that, after lasagna dinner, he would choose which option pleased him more.

As Mario's eyes glanced at the timer on the oven and Peach resumed conversation with the three men seated at the table, the front door opened and shut firmly.

"Hey, Yoshi, did Birdo leave you – " Luigi stopped his insult mid-sentence when he spun around in his chair to face a lanky, fifties-something Italian with graying curly hair and stern blue eyes. Black Buddy Holly glasses sat atop the clean-shaven man's Roman nose; like Mario and Luigi's normal style, he was dressed in blue jeans and a jacket over a plain grey tee-shirt. His piercing blue eyes scanned the scene before him and contracted disapprovingly. Peach and Rospo's faces paled in recognition of the uninvited guest, and they attempted to avoid his voiceless j'accuse. Setting the freshly baked lasagna on the overtop to cool, Mario then calmly crossed his arms in response and arched his eyebrow at the older man. Miles contented himself to observe the scene, as he knew that any remark to this particular gentleman would prove fatal. No abort or retry; just the blue screen of death.

"Some virus," stated the man in a deceptively composed tone.

Petrified at the man's mere presence in their home, Luigi closed his mouth and gulped. He knew that flat inflection in his voice; it was the initial rumbling of Mount Giuseppe about to erupt.

"Uncle Joe," greeted Mario evenly.

"Lucia was worried, told me about your … 'virus.' Thing is, Mario, you've always believed that you're smarter than you actually are," he growled.

Mario shrugged and chuckled, which only made Joe visibly angrier and alarmed his dinner guests. "I had my reasons. You're welcome to join us. I made Sicilian lasagna."

Rospo rose from his chair and gestured to it. "Please, sir, take mine. It would be an honor."

Joe glared at Rospo viciously and bit out, "No one's talking to you. As for you, Signorina," he went on, nodding at Peach, "you're apparently too good to attend Sunday dinner at my house, eat my mother's food, yet you want to profane my brother's house doing Jesus Christ-fucking-knows-what? Good to know that Venetian princesses still don't give a flying fuck about manners." Peach's expression evolved from shock to a mixture of anger and shame.

"Uncle Joe," interrupted Luigi who held up his hands to calm his uncle, but one piercing blue-eyed squint hushed him.

"I ain't done," Joe replied. "I ain't even fuckin' remotely done. Inasmuch as I'm unimpressed with the wannabe paisan and the Grand Duchess here, I'm especially … incazzato at my two dishonest idiot nipoti who thought it was a brilliant idea to lie to me. Worse, you lied to your zia and nonna. So, Mario, what's the real story? I hear you've been a real fuckin' hero on the illegal fight circuit, as evidenced by that shiner on your face. Is that how the Army's recruiting nowadays? Cocks in a circle?"

Mario did not respond verbally; he uncrossed his arms and balled his fists, which did not go unnoticed by Uncle Joe. Unphased, the latter moved closer to Mario and placed his thin hands on the back of Luigi's chair. "You got something to say to me, kid?" challenged Giuseppe.

"This is my house," yelled Mario. "You have no right to speak to me or my guests like that. Yeah, I lied to you and Lucia. I didn't lie to Nonna. Know why? Because I wanted a weekend alone with my girlfriend and brother!" His rising anxiety suddenly triggered an uncontrollable bout of wheezing.

Before Peach could reach Mario to examine him, Giuseppe walked directly in between them and lifted up Mario's shirt. The middle-aged man's eyes widened at the brown and purple bruises. He eyed the weary Mario and then let the fabric slide from his fingertips. "You're insane," he breathed, voice cutting on the last syllable. "What you're doing, kid; it's a slow form of suicide." He took a cleansing breath. "At least she's a doctor. I'm hoping she's better at medicine than she is being a lady. But don't ever lie to me, 'cause those will be your last words." Joe lifted his right index finger and, pointing it at Mario, glowered, "And don't you fucking dare drag your brother into your shitshow again."

Satisfied that his point had been made, the incensed Joe Masciarelli slowly exited the kitchen and to the front door, only pausing twice to glimpse his youngest nephew who had remained frozen, ashamed, in his chair and an old photo sitting on top of the living room mantle. The photo, encased in a wooden frame and glass, was of a smiling pair in their mid-twenties – a short-haired, mustachioed man and a petite woman whose curls flowed about her face like a dark corona. The wind on that sunny day had made taking pictures difficult, but the stubborn Gabriella had insisted upon having an anniversary photo with the Brooklyn Bridge in the background. In spite of being a probie and thus obliged to be on call at all times, Mario Senior traded favors with the veterans in his firehouse and secured a day off to celebrate his fifth wedding anniversary. As the four-year-old Mario sat on the red picnic blanket, more interested by his toy cars than pictures, Mario Senior, Gabriella, and Joe changed locations every five minutes to avoid the wind and get the perfect picture. Thirty minutes of swearing, laughing, and complaining passed, and Joe finally pressed the button on the family's Canon AF35M. The fifty-four-year-old Giuseppe was now relieved that the photo survived. A happy moment captured for all eternity.

Across the street, an obscured figure watched Giuseppe totter out of Mario and Luigi's home. Oblivious, Joe coughed loudly as he opened the driver side door of a silver plumber's truck. The engine engaged, headlights brightened, and the vehicle pulled away from the curb down 17th Avenue, presumably to return to Staten Island. The observer grinned; while the Masciarelli Brothers knew pain and suffering, they would now taste the bitterness of alienation. This was just the beginning.