Author's notes: I'm publishing this chapter a little sooner than I normally do. There will be probably two more before I go on hiatus for at least 4-6 weeks beginning in November. Anyway, please read and review! Also, don't forget about the game from last chapter - it is still open for play until this Saturday (15 October, 11:59 pm EST).
Chapter 27: Sanctuary
The plumber pointed his crowbar at the man's throat. "Hello, Bowser. I'd ask what the fuck you're doing in my house, but I think the better question is why the fuck did you break in to my house? Also, your kids miss you, jackass. Where the fuck have you been?"
John held up his hands. "Mario, Jesus! You scared the shit outta me!"
Mario scoffed and rolled his blue eyes. "I scared the shit …? Oh, you're somethin' else! You broke into my house and slept in Luigi's bed! Now start talkin' before I bust your fuckin' knees! Where the fuck have you been all this time?! Also, you owe me three bucks for the ketchup."
The redhead raised his eyebrows and began to laugh at the irate Italian. "I've been hidin' out in the last place that anyone would look for me. I hear you and Cristina took the kids to California to see the finocchio."
Shrugging a little, Mario pretended to drop the crowbar when his left hand connected with John's cheek. As the man swore at the explosion of pain in his face, the plumber growled, "Call my little brother that again, and it won't be my hand that whacks you next. Got it, you Irish dickhead?!" John looked up at him, clutching his cheek. "Now, let's try this again. Who are you hidin' from and why?! And how did you know I went to California?"
"Fucking asshole," muttered Bowser, inhaling deeply to manage the sting. "Heard one of the cops talkin' about the special permission to take 'em out of state. And I told ya – someone put a hit out on me and my family. Mostly me."
DK's ship is as leaky as the Titanic, thought Mario. "Well, it wasn't Fat Tony who did that shit. Ain't his style. Also, who the fuck's Polina? Not Pauline, my ex, but Polina? And don't lie to me! She's apparently your piece of shit brother's baby mamma."
Except for the red mark on John's cheek, the color drained from his face. "Minchia!" he swore under his breath.
Mario flipped the metal bar to rest against his shoulder. "Ah, I take it you've heard of her. Good! Now who the fuck is she?" he demanded angrily.
"No one you want to deal with," he explained cryptically. "And I fuckin' mean that one, plumber. Polina's a crazy bitch. Peach's bad, but this ragazza is infinitely worse."
"I want a full name."
John shook his head adamantly. "Mario, deadass – no way! That woman's … If you thought my brother was bad, then she'll turn your stomach. Just let me stay here a few days."
Crowbar still in hand, Mario deliberately pulled out his cellphone from his jeans pocket. Unlocking the phone with his hand, he pretended to reflect aloud, "Hmm. I wonder what Tony and Jackie will say once I let him know that I have their pet Irish trash in my kitchen …"
Bowser's brown eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't dare!"
The plumber raised a bushy eyebrow and replied flatly, "Sure, I would." He began to dial a number.
"Okay, goddamn it! I'll tell you, but don't blame me when you regret it later!"
Thumb still poised over the green call key, Mario repeated his question, "What's the crazy bitch's name?"
"Polina Lepeshinski. I haven't seen her in years – since before Marco and Peach were married in Italy. Right after she gave birth to Wendy, she left 'em both with Ma. I swear! Why you askin' about her, anyway?"
"Well, dickhead," began Mario in a deceptively light tone, "after you disappeared, I kinda had to call the cops. We were trying to locate next of kin since your ex-wife and sisters wouldn't take 'em. We found out that Polina used two different aliases on Wendy's and Louie's birth certificates. You wouldn't happen to know why, wouldya?"
Bowser shook his head. "No, I have no fuckin' clue. Ma enrolled the kids in school and did all the official paperwork, so I just assumed … Fuckin' Marco!" he snarled. A moment later, he shook his head and added, "I never knew Polina that well. Marco was doin' his own fuckin' thing by the time you and I was in high school. The old man was workin' the beat, except when he'd come home drunk as hell. So I learned to stay out of the house. You know that."
Putting away the phone, the plumber lowered the crowbar and stepped away from him. John rose from his defensive position on the floor, and they headed to the living room. He sat down on the couch while Mario took a seat on the coffee table directly in front of him. "You cannot tell Tony of this," murmured John. "I don't know who exactly put the hit out on me. I was … skimming a little from the bar and made a few bets – you know, NFL, MLB, ponies – the usual. I, uh, got in a little hot water with Paddy Curran. He's a bookie …"
"I know who he is," interrupted Mario tersely. "Well, I know of him. Word on the street's that he's Irish Mob. Jesus, John! Those crazy motherfuckers are worse than Big Jackass or the wiseguys in Newark! You think he'd waste time putting a hit on you? He'd just ask one of his buddies to do it pro bono. How much you owe, anyway?"
"Sixty thousand. Initially, that's who I thought it was. Mario, those assholes kill family members to make a point! But I know of people who owe more, but are still breathing. I mean, not without gettin' the shit kicked out of 'em first. Truth is, dead men don't pay up. I gave Paddy twenty for now. He seemed okay with that, for now at least. When I tried goin' back to the house, the place had been torn up. It wasn't Paddy or Tony. I know because someone left a message for me written in blood on the bathroom mirror. It was in Italian, I think, so I didn't have a fuckin' clue."
"No, you generally don't have a fuckin' clue. Incidentally, DK searched your place; he didn't say anythin' 'bout that," said the plumber, rising from the coffee table. Walking into the kitchen, he fetched two glasses and a bottle of Scotch from one of the cupboards. Returning to the living room, he poured a little in each glass and handed one to Bowser who mumbled a "thanks."
"I was fuckin' freaked out by the whole thing, so I cleaned it up. I also didn't want the kids to see that in case youse decided to come back to Bensonhurst." He took out a cheap camera phone and held it up to Mario; the plumber leaned in as he took a sip of Scotch and read aloud the smeared, grotesque message: "'Raccoglierete quel che avete seminato.' It means in English, 'You will reap what you sow.' That ain't Irish Mob." Mario resumed a normal posture and looked up at his frenemy, "Piss off any paesani lately, Bowser?"
"Besides the usual – you, the fin- Luigi, and your cousins?" asked the taller man while swallowing his drink in one gulp. "Not that I know of."
"It's also plural – raccoglierete. Could it be talkin' to your entire family?"
He picked up the bottle and poured more of the liquor into the glass. "Fuck if I know. I've gotten the shit kicked outta me a number of times, baseball bat to the balls, but I've never received a message in blood before."
Mario nodded. "Well, you're in danger. You gotta go to DK and the cops."
Scoffing, John swallowed his Scotch. "If I do, Jackass and Carlo will say I'm a rat, and Junior will be lucky if he can give me a proper burial. And that's if Paddy's brother doesn't kill me first. I ain't goin' to the cops. No fuckin' way."
"Well, you can't stay here indefinitely. But I have an idea." Mario finished his Scotch with an evil grin.
Luigi nibbled on Daisy's neck and ear, fiddling with her polka dot blouse from behind as she tried to pack her suitcase. Swatting and growling at him playfully to stop, he continued his attempts to distract her from the task.
"Basta!" she finally cried in an exasperated tone.
The dejected plumber sat down on the king-sized bed next to her things and looked at the bedroom floor. For the next few minutes, they were silent; once she finished putting her clothes into the roller bag and zipped it closed, Daisy exhaled at the pitiful scene and ran her hand through his thick mane. He leaned into her touch, yet avoided her amber orbs.
"I'll be back in a week, sweetie. This isn't for a long time," she whispered.
He chewed on his lip angrily. "You just got here. I … You were just in Mali, I haven't seen you in more than a month, and I can't even …"
"You can't even what, sweetie?" asked Daisy quietly while slowly stroking his hair.
"I can't even go with you! I can't go to your parents and say, 'Hello, my name is Luigi Masciarelli; I'm your daughter's boyfriend.' I'm still the dirty dago in the old canned-goods shop."
She sighed, then tilted his blazing blue eyes up to her sad amber ones. "You are not a dirty dago! Don't ever say that!" As he turned further away from her, the lioness sank down in the space between the suitcase and his body, wrapping her arms around him into pull his head into her bosom. "I promise you, sweetie, that when the time is right, I'll tell them."
"When? How long do I have to remain in the shadows? When you graduate law school? When they send you to Jerusalem to marry a nice Jewish lawyer?"
Daisy rolled her eyes and rose to face him squarely. "Forgive me, but five months is still a little early in a relationship to meet the parents, especially mine!"
Luigi sighed and held up his hands. "I – I know! I know I don't have the right to feel so …" Deliberately raising his bright blue eyes to meet her irritated ones, "territorial, but I do. Daisy, I … I have never felt this way about anyone I've dated! Not Éclair, not Mark! Neither of them had ever met Giuseppe, Salvatore, to say nothing of Mario. Yeah, the first two weren't planned, but frankly, I don't care. I … I know that your family wouldn't be tolerant of you dating an Italian Catholic plumber. I also know that maybe you're not decided on me as your guy." He scoffed self-deprecatingly, "Shit, meeting Lucas and finding out that my mother's family is in the Mafia is enough to give anyone pause." Suddenly, the green-shirted plumber stood up to stand in front of her. "I just … I'm trying, and I don't know where we stand!"
The woman raised an incredulous auburn eyebrow at her boyfriend. "Let me get this right – I come back from Mali early, I spend my first week with you instead of going home or joining my family in Brazil, I lie to my father about my whereabouts, I'm sharing your bed nightly, and you don't know where we stand?! Where the hell's this coming from? Lucas? Mario? Giuseppe? All of the above?" At Luigi's silence, she nodded sarcastically. "Yeah, okay. I don't need to justify myself to you, Luigi. And since we're laying all of the cards on the table, answer me this – Lucas made a cryptic response about you, Bensonhurst, the Mafia, and 'crabs in a bucket.' While English is my third language, I do understand the expression: the 'crabs' pull down the one who's escaping, which would imply that the escaping crab is himself Mafia. I'm getting the impression that you didn't tell me everything in the bath and haven't been. In fact, I know you haven't. So don't lecture me about honesty, Luigi Masciarelli!"
"Non sono mafioso!" yelled Luigi. "Mai e poi mai!" Taking several deep breaths to control his temper, he returned to the bed and sat down on the edge. "You're right; I know what the fucker's talking about. At least, I think I do." He stared at her face as if memorizing it. "I … I'm going to wager that you'll end … us … by the end of the conversation," he began dully, "But you're nonetheless owed an answer. Let me preface this by saying that I am not Mafia nor would I ever join them by my own choice. But … there was some sort of deal made between my father and Carlo Morano. Carlo's son, Jackie, is a known moron and was a fuck up even when I briefly lived with him. And I do mean briefly. My mother died of ovarian cancer. From what Mario told me, she started getting sick around 1984 or 1985, shortly before I was born in June of '86. Pops had at that point been FDNY for eight, nine years; still, he wasn't high up in the ranks, and he couldn't afford the piling medical bills. The doctors in Brooklyn even recommended abortion to prolong her life. To save us both, Carlo had her moved to Lenox Hill, which had and has one of the best oncology and OB-GYN departments in the world. Our lives were saved, but we came with a price – Carlo made my father … promise that I would be given to them as a replacement for his fuck-up son. That's what Colorado was about, though I didn't know it at the time."
"Caralho!" swore Daisy. "Hence what your uncle said about the code of silence."
"Yeah. Daisy, I … It's okay if you want to end this. When I first started dating you, I didn't know about any of it – Carlo, Jackie, the Rigassis. I mean, I knew Jackie's a fuck up, but I stay clear of him. I haven't spoken to him in almost twelve years. Now, you're on Lucas's radar and … you're dating an Italian guy with connections, albeit unwittingly, to the Mafia. I have no job, no tangible future. I'm no lawyer or hotshot engineer, and you can do so much better than me. I want you happy and well, cat-face. Even …" Luigi wiped a small tear from his cheek and sniffled. "Even if it's not with me."
Daisy growled in anger. "Well, Luigi, why don't you pick up your cross and then nail yourself to it?!" His mouth dropped open at her uncharacteristic sacrilegious language. "You seem to have decided what I should do for me! Well, you know what? Dane-se! I will make my own decisions!" Inhaling to check her language and anger, she continued in a heated tone, "Haven't you heard one thing I've said? I am dating you and sharing your bed of my own volition. You're right that I need to tell my father about you, but I will do so when I have less to risk financially. And yes, I have one, well, two reservations about this relationship, neither of which includeyour Mafia relatives. Let's start with the primary: you think that the worst will happen at the first millisecond of trouble or difficulty. And I have to consider whether you'll run away in the future because you don't trust me."
Luigi stared at her in shock. "I … I …" He shook his head violently. "No! I lo … I trust you with everything I have and I want! It's not that!"
Several moments of silence passed. "Then what is it, sweetie?" she asked tiredly to break the awkwardness.
"I don't know," he admitted softly. "I told you before I … I don't know happiness. Yeah, I've had moments of happiness here and there. And I'm grateful for them. But … every time I've been consistently happy, something happens. And then I'm … left in anguish. And I'm scared, Daisy, that … I'll lose you." He wiped his water eyes. "I'm sorry that you were put in that position with Lucas because I didn't tell you everything. That's my fault. I just … I was afraid that if I told you, you'd tell me to fuck off then and there. But in the end, you told me to fuck off because I was afraid of telling you. What's the second reservation?"
She walked toward the bed and sat next to him, taking his hand in hers. "Lucas is the second. Every time I leave, or if Mario or Miles aren't here, will you let him play you? Will you get drunk or … lower your inhibitions?"
He nodded. "Fair point. Can I be left alone? Can you trust me?I guess … I guess your concerns both have their root in one thing. Fear. Fear of being alone."
"Yeah," she agreed. "And more to the point – trauma." He turned to her questioningly. "Luigi, I have a pretty good guess as to what happened to your father. Something like that happening to a teenager … And not just that, but getting tormented by the Bowsers, getting a concussion as a child. All of these things have an effect and in ways we're often not aware of. And while mine doesn't compare to yours, I know something about trauma because I have diagnosed PTSD from Tatanga. I still see a therapist for it." She rubbed his hand. "My family's important to me. But so are you, and I will tell my father. You have my word. Notice that I used present tense, sweetie. As for your actions, I know why you react the way you do. I also know that it can't be 'redirected' overnight and can't do it for you. You have to work on it."
"How?" he heard himself ask. "I … I don't want to let you down, Daisy. I know it's only been five months, but I … I want to be the man that you can trust. Above all others."
"I know," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "But you need to open up, whether it is to your family, to me, or better yet, to a therapist. I don't think you're crazy or unworthy, kerido. I do, however, think you're in pain, and that pain is bubbling to the surface to the point where it could ruin what we have if you don't deal with it. Stanford has a student health service; you can start there and then find a permanent therapist in New York."
"Okay," he assented. "I'll, um, see what I can do tomorrow, about finding … someone to talk to. You're right that … I need to do something about it. And I … trust that you'll tell your father when you can."
Daisy smiled a little. "Bom." She stood up, to Luigi's immediate alarm. He watched her move the suitcase to the corner of the room and then return to the now clear space on the bed. She made eye contact with him; her Mona Lisa smile shifted to a lascivious leer as she teasingly slipped the polka-dot tunic over her head and unbuttoned her jeans, revealing a lacy black bra and matching panties. She smirked in satisfaction as her boyfriend started to pant and shift uncomfortably in his position on the bed. Toying with the straps, she growled in a sultry voice, "You know what I told Lucas at lunch?" Gaping at her exposed skin and lace-covered breasts, he gently shook his head. "That my plumber had quite the … pipe that I love to ride reverse cowgirl. That he makes me scream and leaves me satisfied. Well, my dear idraulico, I'm more than ready for an encore of the no-fuckboy experience."
In record time, Luigi jumped off the bed and stripped his clothes.
Bowser grumbled as he felt Luigi's red Suzuki parallel park. Mario had called an aggravated Peach to let her know that he would be home late as well as to assure her that he was neither gambling nor fighting in some sketchy Bensonhurst establishment. Ordering takeout Chinese, Mario and John ate lo mein and dumplings in comfortable quiet and waited for dark. At around ten o'clock in the evening, he instructed Bowser to lay down in the backseat of Luigi's car, which he covered with a heavy black blanket. Murmuring a mea culpa to his little brother for 'borrowing' his beloved piece-of-shit car to shuttle the worse piece-of-shit to safety, Mario took its keys from the kitchen wall hook and drove it from the garage to a few streets north of 62nd Street. Keeping a close eye on potential underworld and NYPD cars in the rear view mirror, he drove around Bensonhurst and Mapleton for fifteen minutes before parking alongside a light-brown brick church.
"Alright, asshole, get out and keep your fuckin' hat on," spoke Mario as he unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the latch.
"Goddamnit," the redhead swore from underneath the blanket. "Do I really have to?"
Mario swiveled in the driver's seat toward the back. "'Ey, if you wanna take your chances with the fuckin' whomevers chasin' ya, be my guest!" He exited the car, shut the door, and locked it irritably.
Bowser reached for the rear passenger door, opened it, and slid out feet first. Locking and shutting the door, he sighed as he lowered the "I ❤️ Mets" cap over his eyes. His longer, jeans-covered legs easily catching up to Mario as the plumber rounded the sidewalk toward the building's entrance, the man growled, "I fuckin' hate you, Mario Masciarelli. I thoroughly and utterly detest you!"
The plumber chuckled as he stepped up the set of three stairs toward large red and gold doors. "Ah, quit your bitchin', John. At least your ass is still breathing." He opened the door, pushing it open for Bowser, and walked inside. They entered a large, dimly-lit hall with wooden pews on both sides; in front of them was a Renaissance-style fresco painting of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus and a simple altar with a wooden crucifix; above them were several blue and green painted glass windows; to their left were several figurines of the Apostles positioned below a black crucifix; to their right, a life-sized Mary surrounded by glowing red candles. Mario dipped his fingers in the bowl of holy water and made the sign of the cross, then reverently walked toward the altar and sat down in one of the frontmost pews. Bowser rolled his eyes; he removed his cap, wet his fingers, crossed himself quickly, and slumped into the empty space next to Mario. Even as a lapsed Catholic, he was unwilling to risk the wrath of his dead Sicilian mother's and Irish grandmother's spirits by disrespecting a church. At least he could remove the damned cap of shame.
"What the hell, Mario? You brought me to a Catholic Church?! You've officially lost it, plumber!" he whisper-hissed.
"Shh. You're in the House of God, John," snickered the Italian.
Bowser rolled his eyes again as Mario waited calmly for something. As he was about to demand what they were doing, he heard a male voice ask behind them, "How ya doin'?" Yelling a Jesus Christ, he jumped out of the pew and, while the plumber continued to giggle and snort, faced an olive-skinned, middle-aged man in the black suit and the white collar of a Catholic priest.
"What the hell is this?" inquired the bartender. "Mario, you brought me to your do-gooder uncle?!" The still cackling plumber shrugged.
"Hello, John," greeted Father Sal. "It's been a while since I've seen you here. I think the last time was …"
" … At my brother's funeral," he finished for him. "Yeah, y'know, I've been busy."
"Yeah?" Sal inquired seriously. "I, uh, saw online what you've been up to. You certainly have a way with the ladies." Unable to hold it in any longer, Mario erupted in boisterous, shaking laughter. A mortified Bowser's face became as red as the plumber's hoodie. You'll pay for this, Masciarelli, he thought.
Rubbing tears out of his eyes, Mario coughed to gain some semblance of control, though a giggle managed to slip past the façade of seriousness. "So, Zio, Bowser's, ahem, gotten himself into trouble. And not with the, heh, ladies. Someone's after him, Sal. John, show him the picture. You know, with the message and not of my fratellino's ragazza beatin' your dumb ass."
Muttering a few choice Gaelic curses that he had heard from his Irish granny, he slid the phone out of his pocket and showed Father Sal the bloody message. Salvatore took the phone and his black eyebrows raised into his thick hairline. "Well, John, that's … very Biblical in a murderous sort of way. The handwriting's American cursive, so I doubt an Italian wrote this. And I know Tony and his father didn't do it. If they wanted to kill someone, they wouldn't bother with a letter." He handed the phone back to him. "Where are your children? Are they safe?"
"Yeah, Zio," replied Mario. "I've got Wendy and Louie with me in Manhattan. The other six are in Queens."
"Bene," said Father Sal. "And I assume you're not going to the cops because of your association with Tony and Jackie?"
"Yeah," answered Bowser. "That's the gist of it. If I go to cops, I'm dead, even if I got no clue who did this."
Salvatore studied him for a few moments, the redheaded man becoming increasingly uncomfortable under the man's gaze. "Aight," he finally relented. "But John, here's the deal: you're gonna work for sanctuary and if I find you're lying to me in any way, not even the Almighty will be able to help you. Even though I'm a priest and firmly believe in both forgiveness and redemption, per the sacrifice of our Lord Jesus Christ, I have not forgotten what your family has done to mine." The measured, yet icy tone in the priest's voice shocked both Bowser and Mario.
"Yeah, I, uh, I understand, Father Rigassi," mumbled John obediently.
With a nod, Father Sal stood up and gestured for them to do the same. "Alright, John. You'll stay in back. And, uh, let's get you into a habit. I think black and white will suit you nicely."
Bowser's brown eyes expanded into large orbs and he looked fearfully at the pink-faced, gleeful Mario, who gestured him to go with the priest. Father Sal chuckled and motioned for the taller man to follow him while whistling "Hail Holy Queen." Giving a final chin flick at the plumber, he walked behind Salvatore to the clerical offices in the private area of the church.
After they disappeared into the heart of the cathedral, Mario exited the hall and building to drive Luigi's car back to their garage. Sliding into the driver's seat, shutting the door, and starting the engine, he felt a cold chill move up and down his spine. He had never before heard Father Sal use such an icy tone, not even with known murderers and criminals to whom he administered last rites or other aspects of their faith, nominal as they might have been. John was not his brother; of all the Bowser men, he was arguably the lesser of evils, having raised eight children, only half of whom were actually his. Like crabs in a bucket, the dysfunctional, alcoholic family forced him to give up a lucrative minor league contract and potential to sign with the New York Yankees to care for his sister's and brother's brood as well as a bi-polar mother who refused medication. Though they remained married on paper, Jimmy and Constanza (nicknamed "Connie") Bowser lived separate lives, with the former having more or less abandoned the family when John turned eighteen. The vendetta between the Masciarellis and the Bowsers had lasted three generations, culminating in Luigi's near death at the hand of Marco Bowser as well as the latter's abuse of Peach. Was that what Uncle Sal was talking about? In both cases, while Mario would agree with him had Marco been requesting his help, as big a fuck-up as John had been, he had nothing to do Luigi's assault or Marco's marriage to Peach. Why would Sal hold him responsible for someone else's crime? He shook his head as he drove his little brother's car into the garage and pushed the clicker button to close the door behind him. There were still three weeks left of Luigi's absence; Mario hoped that he could last that long in dealing with the Bowser-Polina situation on his own.
The corner lamp dully lit the bedroom and bed where Luigi lay face down, his body partially covering Daisy's bare back. She smiled sleepily as he softly moved his dry lips on her neck. "Definitely no fuckboys," she whispered, her hair and skin slicked with sweat.
Luigi reached up with his free left hand to stroke her damp auburn hair. "Mmm. No fuckgirls, either. I don't think I've ever told you that."
She snorted loudly, giving him a toothy grin. "Fuckgirl? Well, I guess that's the feminine version."
He lifted himself off her so that he could face her properly. "Daisy?" She rolled back against the pillow to look at him. "I'm … I'm sorry. About how I've acted. I don't want to act like a possessive or controlling asshole. You should spend time with your family, and it's up to you to decide when it's a good time to … you know." The ashamed man dropped his gaze. "Independence is such a part of who you are – the best parts. I … I'll take my cues from you and I promise you that … I'll be more skeptical of Lucas."
"Luigi," she began, reaching over to cup his cheek, "you're not a controlling asshole. Tatanga was a controlling asshole, so I know what that looks like. The very fact that you worry about being a controlling asshole shows that you're not. And the fact that you recognize and, more importantly, respect what I hold dear and my decisions makes this entirely workable. Apology accepted. I'm going to see my family, but I am not leaving you."
They spent the next few moments gazing at each other, with Daisy moving within inches of her lover's face and chest. Luigi's voice abruptly broke the silence. "I'd like to take you on a date in San Francisco, cat-face, one in which I wear a suit and you wear … something nice. Sometime before we return to New York. We haven't done that in a while."
"I'd like that," she beamed.
"C'mere," mumbled the plumber. Daisy closed the remaining inches to kiss him; instead, her boyfriend gently turned her so that her back was against his chest. He then took the comforter and sheets to create a cocoon. Reaching behind him with one arm to turn off the light, he encircled her smaller body and laid his head next to hers. She let her eyelids droop in contentment. "Daisy?" she heard him whisper.
"Hmm?" she asked wordlessly.
"D'you got a middle name? You know, my name's Luigi Gabriele."
"Yeah. Well, sort of. It's not … common for us to have middle names. We're given Hebrew names at birth. Mine's Sarah."
"So," he kissed her cheek, "Daisy Sarah Abravanel. It's beautiful."
"Mmm, thank you. But actually, my full name is Margarida Sarah Abravanel Trott. Before I enrolled at the collège and lycée, the registration people would either always misspell my name or note my last name as 'Trott' instead of recognizing the Hispanic-Iberian tradition of using the surname of each parent. So after second grade, I started going by Daisy Abravanel. Daisy being the translation of Margarida."
"Still beautiful. Boa noite, cat-face," he said, nuzzling her hair.
"Buona notte, amore."
The next morning was spent at the house for both Luigi and Daisy, as Friday classes were cancelled to allow the students to progress on their midterm research and prepare for the last three weeks of instruction plus finals' week. After their shared shower, they ate croissants and fruit for breakfast. At around eleven o'clock, the taxicab came to bring Daisy to Pacific Heights; she bid a blue Luigi goodbye and promised him that she would return the following weekend. Keeping his promise, he rode to campus and Stanford's student health center to make his first therapy appointment. The receptionist informed him that there was a week wait, even in summer, due to high demand of year-long residents and full-time students; however, she could get him into an hour-long consultation next Thursday afternoon with an associated therapist in the Palo Alto community. Luigi agreed, and she handed him a card with a name and time of the appointment: a two o'clock slot with Dr. Rosalina Czernin.
Mercifully, Lucas neither called nor broke into the house that weekend; despite it being his twenty-eighth birthday on Monday, he sent a brief text to Luigi that his L.A. team were in the process of rolling out and marketing War Rampage 3, so it would be better to celebrate the following weekend, especially "when the luscious Amazon Queen would be back from visiting her parents." Aside from the work on his projects, he called Mario, Miles, and Giuseppe. Once again, the older plumber complained about the kids driving him 'batshit crazy,' though he cryptically reported that Bowser was "alive and well" and enjoined his little brother not to prod further until he returned to New York in a few weeks. Mario also told Luigi that his background check had been strangely processed and approved, even though neither of them had received the paper copy of his practical exam results and he was no longer employed by Sal Maldonado; furthermore, the Department of Buildings sent him a request via certified mail for a medical certificate and a signed form stating that he did not owe any child support, much to their mutual mockery. At Mario's not-so-subtle nudging, Luigi requested that he 'table' the discussion until he returned to Brooklyn. Likewise, Miles described what he called 'indications' that the Mafia might be making moves within the union, as Slaughter had been replaced by a long-time union man who was also rumored to have close ties with the Moranos. He had moreover hacked into the city coroner's office network and read the preliminary autopsy report; Slaughter's body had been found hanging from the top bunk-bed by his cellmate, a former NYPD officer who was awaiting trial for racketeering and extortion. As for Lucas, he had no additional information, but he was working on a plan to backdoor him at the release of his War Rampage game on August 1. Luigi told Miles of the processed background check and request for documents that Mario had received in the mail; the hacker promised that he would look into the Department of Buildings as a next step. Throughout the weekend and into Monday, Luigi's call to Giuseppe went to voicemail.
Through the middle days of the week, he had heard from neither Giuseppe nor Lucas. He debated whether to call Aunt Lucia, but ultimately rejected the idea, as she, Mario, Cousin Maria, or even Miles would have called him had there been a problem. Daisy had called him once and texted him several pictures of the Shabbat meal: pescado frito, stuffed artichokes, injera, and olives; baklava and coffee for dessert. His mouth watered at the very Italian-like food display and he texted back a sad, begging emoji face. The two subsequent pictures took him by surprise. The first was of a tall, olive-skinned man in his early fifties with thick brown hair that framed his face in ringlets; he wore wire-rimmed glasses and a white button-down shirt and dark pants. The second was of an African woman about the same age, who wore tailored suit pants and blouse and had her presumably black hair wrapped in a shiny green scarf. Harry and Yael, he thought with a grin. Luigi thanked her for the photographs, which he put in a special saved file that was, thanks to Miles, protected from the potential spy named Lucas Kariolis.
After his last round of midterm exams on Thursday, Luigi biked fifteen minutes from the Engineering complex to the Vaden Health Center on the southern edge of campus for his first therapy appointment. At ten minutes past two o'clock, a tall platinum-blonde-haired woman dressed in a sky blue and white suit dress came out to greet him. Dr. Czernin was in her mid-thirties and had a calming voice that immediately put the nervous Luigi at ease. Inviting him into her consultation room and shutting the door, she asked him if he would like a cup of tea. He declined, though that did not stop her from filling up her own mug with hot water and a chamomile teabag. Taking seats in plush maroon armchairs, they sat at the opposite ends of the small room. Luigi eyed the bookcases filled with psychology books and journals, then dropped his gaze down to the industrial gray carpeting.
"So," began Dr. Czernin, "I see on your intake form that you're a visiting student at Stanford from New York. Where do you normally go to school?"
"Uh, I, uh, don't go to school in New York. A friend of mine – sort of a friend of mine – got my file to the admissions committee. I'm – I was – a plumber."
She raised a blonde eyebrow at the man's numerous self-corrections which were characteristic of social anxiety and transitional life changes in a short period of time. "How long had you been a plumber?"
"T-ten years. Well, more than that, actually, if you count the two-ish years I spent with my Uncle Joe. He taught me when I was in high school."
Dr. Czernin smiled and took a sip of her herbal tea. "That's unusual – going from plumbing to Stanford Engineering. I saw that your grades are stellar. That's not to say that they wouldn't be, but why did you choose Stanford and not, say, Columbia or NYU?"
"I …" Luigi inhaled deeply. "My father always wanted me to go here. Life experiences, uh, changed that. I went to Brooklyn City High. I don't know if you're familiar with the New York City school system, but it's a magnet school on par with Stuyvesant High School. You gotta test to get in. It's where all the working-class and lower-middle-class Brooklyn kids go if they want a shot at Harvard or MIT. I transferred to Staten Island Technical High; it's a good school and all, but, uh, it's not Brooklyn City or Stuyvesant. I went into plumbing right after I graduated."
Rosalina hummed and took another sip. "And I'd imagine that you finished at the top of your class in Staten Island?"
Luigi's eyes shifted. "Er, not exactly. I finished with a 86% average, so maybe top fourth. My uncle brought me out to Staten Island following … my father's passing."
"I'm so sorry," answered the clinician compassionately. "And your mother?"
"Died when I was almost four. Ovarian cancer."
"So you were raised by your father and then Uncle Joe?" she asked.
"Yeah, both my father and Uncle Joe raised me after Mama passed. Joe lived in Bensonhurst – south Brooklyn for youse in California – up until the early 1990s. But even then, he was always around, y'know. My father used to work shifts – he was a firefighter for the FDNY – so he'd watch me until I was a little older. My brother was around, too."
Dr. Czernin discreetly made several notes on her small pad. "Is your brother older or younger?"
"Older by eight years."
"He didn't take you in after your father passed?"
"No," replied Luigi deliberately. "He, uh, went into the Army. Special Forces. He did a couple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Mario – my brother – came back in late 2009."
Rosalina quickly did a mental calculation as to how old Luigi may have been when he lost his father as well as noting the older brother's entrance into the Army shortly thereafter. Her suspicions having been proven circumstantially correct, she knew that she would need to choose her course of action carefully. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Luigi, but it sounds like you lost a lot in such a short time – your school, for which you needed to study and test well, your father, your brother, and your home."
He suddenly felt the urge for a cigarette. Was therapy always this hard? "Yeah, something like that."
She nodded. "Tell me how you coped. Did you have any friends, hobbies?"
"In Staten?" he asked, to which she nodded again. "Not really. I was a loner. I worked and … Well, I did have a sort of …" He frowned a little. "This is a confidential session, right?"
"Yes, absolutely, Luigi," responded Rosalina. "I'm clinically- and legally-bound never to reveal anything you tell me unless you're a danger to yourself or others. Or if you seek treatment elsewhere, and you give written consent for access to your records."
"Okay, fine," he assented. "I had a friend of sorts named Mark. We hung out until we graduated and he went off to school in Chicago. We played video games, smoked weed, and, uh … fucked at his house. I did have a few friends that I later reconnected with – Miles and Yoshi – when I was in my first year of apprenticeship."
"Were Miles and Yoshi at Brooklyn City, too?"
"No, they're three years younger, so when I was graduating, they were beginning at Stuyvesant. By the time I was in my third year of apprenticeship, they were gone to MIT. They were in Cambridge; I was driving a cab between jobs. The Financial Crisis wasn't kind to the plumbing or construction industries – hell, New York in general – so I sometimes went weeks without regular work."
She paused her notes to verbalize a particular thought. "A lot of the people that had been your support system subsequently transitioned in and out of your life. Was Mark your only boyfriend?"
Luigi shifted somewhat uncomfortably in his maroon chair. "Er, I had a girlfriend before him. Éclair. She was at Brooklyn City. I didn't know that she already had a boyfriend," he answered mirthlessly. "After her and Mark? No, not really. I did the online dating shit for a while – men and women. Really, they were hookups. I just … I was living on my own, in my childhood home, and I needed to feel someone's embrace. All of this was before I met my current girlfriend, Daisy."
She smiled as she took more notes. "How long have you been together?"
"Five months," he beamed. Then just as abruptly, he frowned. "She's, uh, the reason why I'm here, Dr. Czernin. Recently, we had a … disagreement. She knows a little bit about my anxieties. The fact that I don't like Manhattan, the fact that my parents died. The issue is that … she went to Mali and partly as a result, my anxiety went through the roof. Al-Qaeda and all that. I don't want to lose her."
Rosalina took a quick sip of tea to calm her nerves and remain objective, knowing that the elephant in the room was looming over them – FDNY, Manhattan, Al-Qaeda. Out of the corner of her eye, she checked the six-month calendar that was pinned to her wall – roughly three weeks remained in the Summer Quarter. She knew if her preliminary diagnosis was proven correct in the course of their three sessions, Luigi Masciarelli would need long-term counseling. It would not necessarily be with her, but with a clinician in Brooklyn. Her purpose would be to guide him toward that goal. "What happens when you have these anxieties?"
The plumber let out a sad sigh. "Um, well, uh … Dr. Czernin, I'm sorry, but could I trouble you for that cup of tea? My fingers are tremoring for a goddamned cigarette."
Shaking her head unjudgmentally, the psychiatrist got up to pour some of the remaining hot water. "I have Earl Grey, Chamomile, or Ginger."
"Earl Grey will work, thanks." She put the tea bag into a black mug filled with hot water and set it next to Luigi on the small adjacent table. "Thanks," he murmured, picking up the mug and watching the liquid slowly change color. "My anxieties. I smoke Marlboros. Mario tried flushing them down the toilet to no avail. That's my drug of choice. I figure it's better than the shit I was doin' in high school." At her silent question, he specified, "As I mentioned before, I smoked weed. But, um, a friend – the same friend who persuaded me to apply to Stanford – and I did lines of coke for shits and giggles. I also liked to drink Smirnoff if the coke didn't do the trick. I stopped both when I got to Staten Island, though I still snuck the cigarettes."
"What happens if you can't smoke? You mentioned that your fingers shake."
Luigi took a gulp of the hot liquid. "My entire body shakes. I can't concentrate. If I'm in Manhattan because of a plumbing job, I, uh, vomit and feel like I'm dying. Daisy tried to arrange a date in Manhattan … She didn't know."
"Do you have nightmares?" she asked.
He stared at the now deep brown tea for several minutes before murmuring, "Yeah, though I don't really remember them. I just wake up … shaking and sweaty."
The sound of windchimes echoed throughout the room. "That means our time is almost up for today. Luigi, I could proscribe anti-anxiety medication. But I'd like to try something first, if you're up to it?"
"Uh, sure. What do you recommend?"
"It's what we call 'homework,' with which we end every session. For homework, I'd like you to do an activity, preferably physical, that you once did when you were young, but no longer do. Something that you enjoyed doing. And if you're comfortable, we can resume our discussion next week at the same time?"
"Yeah to both. Okie-dokey, I can … I can do that." Setting the mug down on the end table, he rose out of his seat as Rosalina finished reserving the same time for the next few weeks and opened the door to let him pass out of her office. She walked him out into the waiting room and bid him goodbye until the next Thursday.
Outside of the student health service, he sent a quick text to Daisy: "I just had my first therapy appointment. It wasn't that bad."
At around six o'clock in the New York evening, a sound knock rapped at the front door of the small mansion-like red brick house. The small blonde, Nancy, who was dressed in the cashmere sweater and black jeans of an upper-middle class Forest Hill housewife, walked into the foyer and opened the door to reveal a tall, spectacled man in a blue zip-up hoodie and jeans. Frowning in confusion, as she had never seen him before, she greeted, "Hello, can I help you?"
"Uh, yes, ma'am," the middle-aged man pleasantly answered in a strong Brooklyn accent. "My name's Joe Masciarelli. I work with the plumbing union. I know your husband, Scott. Can I have a word with him, please? It'll take five minutes, tops."
Still suspicious of the man's motives, she responded while keeping the outer glass door shut, "Yes, one moment. I'll see if he can meet you." He thanked her as he coughed a little. Closing the door and locking it behind her, she walked into her husband's study where, at the large mahogany desk, he was playing online poker on his laptop. Contrary to his put-together wife, the man wore a white tee-shirt and black gym shorts, having concluded his workday three hours earlier. "Scott, there's a man outside to see you. He said his name's Joe Masciarelli."
The color drained out of Scott Pichler's face. "W-who did you say it was? Joe Masciarelli?"
"Yes, that's what he said. Do you want me to tell him to go?"
The medium-build man rose out of his seat. "Nah, Nance, it's fine. I'll handle this, thanks." He moved past his wife in what he hoped was a relaxed posture. Nancy shrugged and went back to her vanilla cupcake baking in the large kitchen. Once Scott reached the front door, he gulped, then opened it to the waiting plumber. "Joe!" he began in a pleasant tone, opening the outer glass door, "it's been a while!" Glancing quickly over his shoulder, presumably for his wife, he shut the front door behind him to approach the unreadable Giuseppe Masciarelli. Out of his wife's earshot, Scott hissed, "What the fuck are you doing here, Masciarelli?" He put a hand on the Italian's shoulders and attempted to guide him toward his truck. "Why don't you go back to Staten Island and keep out of business that doesn't concern you, hmm?"
In order to distract him, Joe allowed Scott to turn him toward the sidewalk and curb. Making his move a few seconds later, he spun on his right heel, grabbed the man's tee-shirt with both hands, and slammed him against the cold brick. Joe growled and coughed into the man's face, "That's where you're wrong, you slimy shit! Luigi Masciarelli – note the last fuckin' name – is my business! Now, I don't give a flying fuck what underworld motherfuckers you and the union decide to jerk off with. But the minute that you brought my nephew into it, you fucked with me! And by me, I mean you've fucked with the wrong Italian."
"What are you gonna do, Joe? Murder me right here in Forest Hill? That'd play well for the New York Post," Scott taunted, albeit in shallow breaths. "I can see the headlines: 'Psycho Plumber Kills Queens Family Man.'"
Giuseppe grinned malevolently. "As much as I'd love to squeeze the life outta ya, nah, I ain't gonna kill ya. But I am gonna make you tell me who's pullin' your strings."
Laughing at the man, Scott spat, "Go fuck yourself, you crazy asshole! I'd rather call the cops on your ass."
"G'head. But something for you to consider; food for thought, if you will. Do you know who my late brother married?"
"Do I give a shit?" chuckled Scott.
Tightening his grip on the man's thin tee-shirt, Joe's blue eyes narrowed into black points. "Oh, you should. My sister-in-law's maiden name was Rigassi. Do you know that name? No? Let me give you a little genealogy lesson, Scott. Gabriella Rigassi was the first cousin of Jackie Morano. I believe you're acquainted his father and her uncle, Carlo Morano."
For the second time that evening, the color drained from his face. "I've – I've heard of Carlo Morano, yeah."
"Yeah, well … How do you think Carlo's gonna take it when he finds out that you've been screwing with his great-nephew, hmm?" Scott stared at Giuseppe in fear. "Usually, I stay clear of the Moranos. But the thing is, Scott, if I go to him and ask his crew to intervene, he absolutely will. And do you know what they call Carlo on the street?" Scott mumbled an answer. "Sorry, what? I'm gettin' old, can't hear you?"
"Cutthroat Carlo!" he barked audibly.
"And why do they call him that?" asked Giuseppe patiently.
"Because!" yelled the man in a terrified voice, "Because he cuts the throats of rats so they can't talk even in the afterlife."
The Italian tightened his grip. "Now that we're on the same page, you cowardly piece of crap, tell me who's payin' ya!"
Visibly shaking, Scott hurriedly confessed, "Lucas Kariolis! He was behind Slaughter, too. He … He said that he wanted 'the little prince' at all costs. I didn't know what he meant until now."
"And who else? Inasmuch as that little shit's dangerous, he ain't the only one here, and I can't believe even he would risk Carlo Morano's wrath." Scott shook his head vehemently, as if refusing to utter the name. "Fine," he hacked out a cough, "I'll give Carlo himself a call."
As Joe turned to leave, the smaller man cried, "Okay, okay!" He lowered his voice, "There is someone else contributing money, not as much as Kariolis's giving me, but it's there. Initially, I thought it was Carlo's guys wanting to clean it, but I later found out that it's in coin. You know that heist from a few months back? It started comin' in right after. Jackass and Fat Tony are too stupid for that. I don't know whose it is."
The plumber rolled his eyes in disgust. "So you took money that didn't belong to you, had no recognizable origin, and are now hidin' it from the Moranos? You fuckin' moron!" He shoved Pichler against the brick, releasing him haphazardly. "There's a reason why I never got mixed up in the union shit. Youse are human garbage. But I warn you and whomever: stay away from my family, otherwise I will end you. There'll be no sanctuary for you anywhere, not even in the pits of Hell. See, I'm on my way out of this life, so I got no more fucks to give. Feel free to pass on the message."
Giving Scott a final cold look, Giuseppe left him against the house and started to amble toward his truck. "It won't work, you know?" Pichler uttered in a sing-song tone. "If Carlo Morano wants your nephew, then he'll get your nephew. You can't change that fact, Joe. The future's already been written."
Abruptly, Joe stopped as if to consider what Scott had said; the man straightened his white tee-shirt and gave the older man a toothy chuckle. Whistling a waltzy tune, he sauntered to the front door to return to his waiting poker game. As he was partially facing the door, Scott failed to see an incoming male fist that slammed him against the white door; a sickening crack of broken cartilage and flesh reverberated throughout the empty street. "Fuck!" the man yelped, wiping blood from his nose and lip. "You … You fuckin' broke my nose! You'll pay for this, Masciarelli!"
While leaving the man to moan and curse him, Giuseppe lightly shrugged and sneered, "Bill me, you slimy fuck!"
An excited Lucas squealed his purple Porsche's wheels up Luigi's driveway at around half past two on Friday afternoon, right as the plumber walked his bike toward the garage. "Yo, Weeg, my man! Bullshit's done. Time to par-tay! Get a couple changes of clothes, your passport, swim trunks, and one of your Italian suits! The plane's waiting!"
Luigi blinked in surprise. "Um, hi. Lucas, where are we going? And my passport – I thought that we were going up to Napa Valley? I got school on Monday; it's the sixth week, so I can't just burn time!"
Lucas put his hands out placatingly. "Weeg, don't worry! I'll have you back late-ish on Sunday evening. You can do your work on the plane and send whatever to your teammates once we land. I'm perfectly aware that you've got school, my man! But honestly, you haven't had a lot of fun lately, and it is my birthday bash. So, change of plans! We're going to Cabo San Lucas for the weekend!"
"Look, Lucas," sighed the plumber as he used his clicker to open and wheel the bicycle into the garage, with his frenemy following, "it sounds like fun, but …"
"You don't feel comfortable going without Daisy," he finished flatly. "Not a problem. That's the great thing that about having one's own plane. Give her a call and ask her to come." At Luigi's visibly uncomfortable look, Lucas rolled his eyes. "Oh, c'mon, Weeg – it's fucking Cabo! Azur waters, white sand bitches, nightclubs, killer snorkeling, tasty fish tacos! Think of it as a gift to you for being such a great bro! Sell it to the Amazon Queen as a romantic getaway, all expenses paid!"
The temptation of going to Mexico as well as spending a few days at a fancy beach hotel proved too much. Fishing out his iPhone while Lucas pumped his fist in the air, he dialed Daisy's number. "Hey, sweetie. Are you on the road? Not yet? I mean, I don't want to bother you if you can't ... Uh-huh. Your parents are working this weekend? Um, how would you feel about … spending a weekend in Cabo San Lucas? Yeah, yeah, okay. See you in thirty." He ended the call.
"I assume she's coming?" asked the man in the purple suit with a self-satisfied smirk.
"Yeah, she just needs to get her passport, add a few things, and call a cab. She'll meet us at the airport. I assume it's San Francisco International?"
"Yep! If we all get there by 3:30, we can be in Cabo at 7:30 or 8 pm, just in time for dinner."
"Aight, let me pack and text her to confirm that we're meeting at the private air field at San Francisco International."
As Lucas made himself at home in the living room, Luigi hurriedly went into his bedroom and stuffed into his backpack a couple pairs of khakis, tee-shirts, a pair of swimming trunks, his toiletries travel kit, an unopened package of condoms which he stuffed underneath his clothes to avoid any unwanted comments, a nice set of clothes with shoes, and his laptop and charger. Zipping up his full backpack, the plumber opened his night table drawer and pulled out his unused passport, which he placed in the front pocket. Finally, he texted Miles on the burner phone that Lucas was taking him and Daisy to Cabo San Lucas. His friend immediately replied by asking him to leave the burner in California as it was not globally enabled; he would communicate with him via encrypted email on Daisy's phone.
Emerging from his bedroom, backpack slung over his shoulder, Luigi called out to Lucas that he was ready to leave. They locked the house and left in Lucas's Porsche. As the Manhattanite zigzagged between lanes up Highway 101, Luigi munched on a granola bar, not having eaten lunch or a snack since breakfast. Lucas stole a glance at his friend and said, "Don't worry, Weeg; I'll have them get you a sandwich and a few snacks for the flight. Did you eat lunch?"
His passenger shook his head. "Nah, I didn't have time. After Machine Learning this morning, my Systems group and I met up to revise our paper and poster presentation. Then I have to prep my presentation on the same topic for Entrepreneurship. While I didn't plan on Mexico, I knew we'd be going out for the weekend, so I got all my work done early."
"Nice surprise, eh, Weeg?" inquired Lucas with a wry grin, gripping Luigi's left shoulder. "Napa's cool – good food, good atmosphere. But … once we get back to New York, we have some funding trips planned. Need to start getting used to international travel. We'll start small, then work our way to the big places."
Luigi stared at him. "H-how long? And what about school?"
Lucas shook his head. "Don't worry about it; Stanford or Princeton will still be there. You still have to finish summer quarter; if you do well, we can negotiate a correspondence in the fall and actual in-person classes in the spring, which was the original plan. Remember what I said: the normal rules don't apply to entrepreneurs or the extremely wealthy, especially those with a genius I.Q. You're a non-traditional student, so they'd be less likely to oppose it."
"What about Daisy? I can't just leave her."
"Daisy'll be fine, Weeg." He changed lanes to merge to the right and San Francisco International Airport. "She's got her thesis and law school applications, so obviously, she can't come with us. But I promise you that we won't travel every week or even every month. There'll be at least two to three international trips – Canada, Mexico, and such. Nowhere distant. Companies in the European Union won't even consider funding projects until after August anyway, so we wouldn't travel until the late-spring or early-summer of next year. Relax, man!" Glancing at him again, he said in a softer tone, "I'd have thought that Daisy would have fucked the worries out of you. Is she not getting the job done?" At Luigi's death glare, he chuckled. "Alright, alright! Jesus, you seriously need to lighten up!"
Ten minutes later, they arrived at the private parking lot for General Aviation. Lucas and Luigi exited the Porsche, each carrying an overnight bag, and walked up to the building where Daisy was waiting with a small orange duffle bag. Her medium-length hair blew in the light wind, framing her sunglasses-covered eyes and face. Both men gazed at her, one with adoration and the other with lust. "Luigi, Lucas!" she called out to them.
Luigi smiled happily and, running over to her as Lucas growled, gave her a passionate kiss. "Hey, cat-face," he murmured. "Ready for Cabo?"
She nodded. "Yeah!" Then she whispered in Italian, "Che cosa trama?" ["What's he up to?"]
He kissed her and answered lowly, "Non lo so ancora." ["Don't know yet."]
"Daisy!" interrupted Lucas, who strode confidently toward them. Inching an incredulous Luigi aside with his shoulder, he took her hand and kissed it. "I am pleased that you could make it!" He held his hand out toward the door. "As we say in Greek, αν έχεις την καλοσύνη. My lady."
She passed through the entrance way first, followed closely by Lucas; as Luigi held the rear, he rolled his eyes and mocked his frenemy under his breath, "Oh, my lady."
The security screening was painless for all three passengers, and the private jet took off at around 3:30. For the first two hours of the flight, a sour Luigi ate a turkey sandwich and baked potato chips, listening to Lucas's attempts to impress his girlfriend with his trips to France, Mexico, Greece, Italy, and Spain. Over French press coffee, Daisy smiled ironically and humored the braggart while stroking the bottom of Luigi's arm reassuringly. In the safety of his mind, the plumber reminded himself both of his promise to trust her and of her impassioned words – "The only way Lucas could ever win me over is by being you." During the final hour, he unexpectedly felt fatigued; from the plush seat next to him, his lover stroked his cheek and coaxed him to close his eyes.
When he opened them again, Luigi found himself standing on the side of a darkened road; the reflective paint on the stretch of gravel in front and behind him, the tall lighthouse in the distance, and a beautiful arc of purple, green, pink, and dark blue in the sky illuminated the ink-like scene. Like looking at a long-exposure photograph, he recognized the sight; Montauk Point State Park, where he and his father used to look at the stars every February. Just as he did when he was ten and eleven, Luigi tilted his head all the way back toward the sky, which made him feel like he was floating within the stretch of the Milky Way. He let his body fall backwards, only to be caught by strong hands that calmly pushed him upright. Luigi's shocked blue eyes gazed down six to seven inches to a set of identical ones. The man had his hair – a thick wavy brown with streaks of gray – and the curvy mustache of his brother. His portly, middle-aged figure was further accentuated by a faded black and yellow fireproof jacket. Luigi watched him roll his blue eyes upward toward the billions of stars in the night sky.
"So many stars," he finally said to the younger man. "See any constellations out tonight?"
"Um …" stuttered Luigi, who then squinted at the sky. "I think I see … Canis Major. Yeah, 'cause Sirius is just north of it."
"Yeah, I see that, too. Kitty corner's Betelgeuse and Orion's Belt. They're much brighter than I remember. But then again," he added with a smile, "I haven't seen 'em in a while. Memory's a fragile thing."
"Yeah," replied Luigi tearfully. "We haven't gone in a long time."
He pointed to another constellation. "What's that one?"
Luigi smiled back, eager to impress the man with his knowledge, like he had many times as a child. "Cassiopeia!"
"Yeah, you're right," responded the firefighter. "Upside-down chair of the Queen. Ah, I'm outta practice. I shouldn't have started with such an easy one! Aight, that one up there!"
The plumber's eyes narrowed at the constellation partly obscured by the galactic clouds and exhaled in frustration. "Ah, did I stump little Galileo?" he heard the man chortle in a teasing voice.
"Castor and Pollux – Gemini!" Luigi cried out exultantly.
The man nodded with pride. "I thought I had ya for a second there. Castor and Pollux, the twins. One was the son of Zeus, the other was the son of a mortal. On a cattle raid with their cousins, Ideas and Lynceus, there was a fight over whose share was whose. Castor, who was the mortal son, died, having tried to live the risky life of a half-god. Now, Pollux was so distraught at his brother's death that he begged Zeus and Hades either to pull Castor outta Hell and into Mount Olympus or to send him down there with 'im. But a god can't die. Depending on which version you read, Pollux either spent every other day in Hades in Castor's place or Castor spent every other day on Mount Olympus in Pollux's place. Eventually, Zeus put 'em both in the night sky to spend eternity together." Still studying the constellation, Mario Senior whispered, "Either way, still a sad story, figlio."
Before he could ask his father what he meant, he felt another hand on his left shoulder. Pivoting his head toward it, the night sky rapidly shifted into the bright interior of an airplane. Upset at whomever had taken him from his long lost father, Luigi cried out angrily.
"Sweetie," began Daisy with a worried expression, "we've landed."
"Huh? Wha?" he managed.
"We're in Cabo, man!" exclaimed the tall man standing behind her. "It's time to deplane and get your passport stamped by México! Vamos, muchachos!" He grabbed his carry-on and marched toward the exit.
Ignoring Lucas, the woman stroked Luigi's cheek. "Kerido, are you okay? Did you have a nightmare?"
"N-not exactly. I'll," he swallowed sharply, "I'll be okay." Rising from his chair, he grabbed his backpack and handed the orange bag to her. "Shall we?"
