Author's notes: This will be my last chapter for the next month or so. I'll be back in November or early-December! Please feel free to send comments or a review in the meantime.

The Twitter battle will come in the next chapter.


Chapter 29: Et in Arcadia Ego

Following the five-minute drive back to the resort and suite, Luigi led his Daisy inside, bolted the bedroom doors, and impatiently removed their clothes. The next few hours were spent in near silence, save for breathy moans and masculine growls of her name. Wrapping post-coital arms around her, he coaxed her to close her eyes against the faint light of the night table lamp. Although she fought to stay awake with him, sleep soon claimed her fatigued body. He stroked her hair with his thin fingers while staring at the door, expecting Lucas to try to barge in at any moment. Despite the early-morning hour, Luigi had not heard his frenemy stagger in drunk or bring in his latest conquest.

Throughout his time at Brooklyn City Tech, he and Lucas had been indivisible, with the latter filling in the void left by his father's untimely death, his brother's enlistment in the Army, and his abandonment by the rest of the family, although he had not known about the threats made against Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucia. Their brotherhood had served a purpose, albeit a dangerous and self-destructive one. As he continued to stroke the silken auburn strands of hair, Luigi wondered what would have happened had he stayed at Brooklyn City. Would he have graduated and ended up at MIT? Professor Omaya had resigned at the end of December 2001 and not long after, Lucas had turned the entire administration against him thanks to a sizeable donation by his father to make the cheating scandal disappear. By September 2002, he was truant, alone, and severely depressed. While Lucas enjoyed his manufactured status as number one in their junior class, Luigi stopped turning in homework, showed up to exams discernibly drunk or high, and though he scored ninety percent or better, openly told his worried math, engineering, and physics teachers that "he didn't give a shit anymore and his time at the school was ending." It all came to a head on a brisk October morning; Luigi emotionlessly drifted out of his English class, careful to avoid thinking about the smashed copy of a poem at the bottom of his beat-up red backpack. He made his way down the winding, multiple-floor staircase of the hellhole and escaped to the busy streets of Fort Greene. The adult Luigi remembered grabbing a bite at a hotdog stand with the couple of faded dollar bills that he had in his dirty jeans pocket, pawning the gold cross that he had received for his first communion, and visiting the school's drug dealer to purchase a final dose of cocaine. He returned to the tomb-like Bensonhurst house and, retrieving the little bit of cherry vodka that he had stashed away for a 'special occasion,' proceeded to snort the white powder and finish off the alcohol. He recalled very little else about that night, save for Giuseppe screaming into his cellphone that he needed an ambulance and begging him to "stay with me, kid." The next afternoon, the teenager woke up in Maimonides Hospital to a frightened Lucia and a fuming Joe at his bedside. Once it became clear that Luigi had intentionally overdosed from an illegal substance, the doctor called the police. The arriving senior officer, who had been friendly with both his father and DK, agreed to let the teenager off with a stern warning in exchange for the drug dealer's name and location. Per state regulations, Maimonides held him for an additional seventy-two hours before releasing him into Giuseppe and Lucia's custody.

Luigi sighed and kissed the top of his girlfriend's head, who nuzzled his chest like a pillow. Lucas was a remnant of his painful past; by his own choice, he resumed the friendship that had nearly led to his death. Why? And within weeks of his first date with Daisy. Was he trying to self-sabotage? He glanced down again at the sleeping beauty and decided to leave the psychoanalysis to Dr. Czernin. It's your life now, echoed his girlfriend's voice. The new question: would he be successful with Lucas? It did not escape his rational mind that Lucas and his father had been only too happy to throw him under the bus and would no doubt do it again. The difference was that his Mafia cousins would not allow it, so long as he did not cross them. In all likelihood, Dr. Czernin would not be able to help him with the Rigassis; he privately groaned at having to discuss this with Giuseppe, and he absolutely would not dare to involve Mario. Careful not to disturb the lioness, he reached over to his phone to check his messages – one voicemail from Uncle Joe's number that arrived while he, Daisy, and Lucas were having dinner. Not wanting to risk being overheard by Lucas, he decided that the conversation would wait until he and Daisy returned to Palo Alto. He set the phone back on the night table and, leaving the lamp alight, closed his eyes.

Only seconds seemed to have passed when Luigi blinked against bright sunlight, blue-brown ocean water, and semi-distant docks. Twisting behind him, he glimpsed the white, yellow, orange, and red-painted roller coasters of Coney Island. The world-famous landmark, normally densely populated with Brooklynites and tourists both foreign and domestic, was completely deserted. While he heard the motion of the machinery, he did not hear any excited screams or blaring music of DJs or loud speakers. He moved closer to the water and recognized the swish-swash of the waves and cries of seagulls flying in blue sky. Sitting on a rock next to the water was a young man in 1950s-era clothing – white dress shirt, suspenders, and black slacks – gazing out into the ocean. Although his face was obscured, the plumber guessed that the man was around the same age as he.

"This isn't my ocean. The sea near Palermo's bluer," he lamented in Sicilian-accented Italian. "Do you know where I am?"

"Yes," replied Luigi in the language. "You're in Brooklyn. It's, uh, in New York."

The man nodded uncertainly. "I've always wanted to go to America. See the world. Palermo's so … small. Do all New Yorkers speak Italian?"

Laughing a little, the plumber shook his head. "No. There are a lot of people descended from Italian immigrants here, but they don't speak Italian anymore. I only speak it with my family."

He nodded again. "Perhaps it's just as well. You're fortunate; America is the land of hopes and dreams. Sicily is … where we all go to die."

"Why?"

Shrugging, he answered, "Family obligations. They tell you where to work, whom to marry … It's no way to live."

"Did you love someone else?" asked Luigi hesitantly.

"No, I … I love the woman whom I'm supposed to marry, but … I hate the obligation. I wanted to teach and rebuild what the Germans had destroyed. It's better to build a world than to tear it down. I've seen enough bloodshed to last several lifetimes."

"Can you do both? Remain loyal to your family and rebuild your country?"

The man shook his head. "No. What about you? Are you trapped like me? I've heard that, in America, even a poor man can be an inventor or a famous engineer, like your Andrew Carnegie or Henry Ford."

Luigi walked closer to his companion on the rock, sand crunching underneath his feet. "Well, it's complicated. It's rare, but it has happened once or twice in recent history. We are, however, allowed to work where we want and marry whom we choose. Money is still a worry for many of us, though."

The Sicilian scoffed in sympathy. "It always is. Greed is at the root of man's most heinous acts. One day, we'll live in a world where there exists plenty of food and a scarcity of hatred. And maybe one day, I'll bring my children to live in America. I don't want them to grow up in Palermo."

As Luigi opened his mouth to ask another question, the sky suddenly changed from a bright blue to a deep and ominous gray. "A storm is coming, I think," he heard the Sicilian say. "Embrace the thunder."

A bright white flash and a loud crack woke the plumber from his dream. Gasping for air, he reached over to check the time on his phone. 6:24 am. Through the curtains, he could see a thin orange and blue line hovering above the Pacific Ocean. The lioness, who was sprawled across his chest, slept soundly and unaware of his nightmare. Strangely, his tattoo burned; checking his arm, he saw no apparent marks or sunburn, yet the colors seemed to be more vibrant, as if it had been recently applied to his skin. Luigi took a deep breath to calm himself, then loosely wrapped his arms around Daisy's bare back and studied the light freckles on her face.


By 10:45, Lucas had not re-appeared; when they had risen that morning, the bedroom door was left open, and both could see that his bed was still made. Subsequent to a mid-morning breakfast at one of the on-property restaurants, an irritated Luigi texted his frenemy to request his current location as well as the time of their departure. Fearful that he had stranded them out of spite, the plumber and his girlfriend went to the business center to research one-way tickets out of Cabo San Lucas. Luckily, there were two seats still available on a two o'clock, nonstop flight to San Francisco International. After one last attempt at communication that went straight to voicemail, the plumber paid roughly seven hundred dollars for the two economy seats. They hurriedly returned to the empty suite, packed their things, and handed their keycard to the concierge, who arranged for transportation to the airport. Arriving just in time for an international departure, they presented their passports and queued in the boarding lines for San Francisco. Due to buying their tickets last-minute, their seats were in different sections of the airplane, but one of the passengers sitting next to Daisy was too happy to change seats with the plumber, who had a window seat closer to the toilet. Luigi and his lioness embraced, content to be sitting next to each other during the three-hour flight home.

Landing in San Francisco at a little after four in the afternoon, it took an extra forty-five minutes for them to pass through customs which, aside from the long line, had been easy given a lack of souvenirs and checked luggage. Persuading Daisy to spend the night with him, they shared a taxi back to Palo Alto. Upon returning to the house at a quarter past six, Luigi turned on his phone with dread – nothing. Stupid fucker did try to strand us, he thought viciously. They took Luigi's rental car to have dinner at a nearby Indian restaurant and, an hour later, returned to prepare for bed early, as he had class the next morning. At nearly nine o'clock, and much to their mutual surprise, Luigi received an encrypted email from Miles with a secure video link. He and Daisy went into his office, connected his computer to the secure portable router, and clicked on the link to reveal a double window – one with Miles at his Chelsea apartment and the second with a tired-looking Uncle Joe.

"Jesus, Miles," began Luigi, "were you a stalker at MIT? How'd you know that we were back?"

Miles, who was wearing a ratty blue MIT tee-shirt, shrugged with a smirk. "Lucas's plane hadn't landed at Cabo, so I hacked into the commercial passenger manifests. I saw you guys came back this afternoon."

"Yeah, the fucker ditched us for god-knows-what," answered the plumber. Both he and Daisy noticed the older man's blue eyes turn gray with unexpressed outrage. "So, uh, I assume you want to talk about yesterday's meeting?"

The hacker nodded. "Indeed. We, uh, did a sting of sorts. I needed Pichler to make a move and force Lucas's hand, and your uncle volunteered with an idea."

Luigi raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Coughing a little, the curly-haired man in his trademark blue hoodie replied, "Nothin' that I shouldn't've done ten fuckin' years ago." At his nephew's and Daisy's silent question, Giuseppe flippantly added, "I went to the sonofabitch's house in Queens and broke his nose."

"Which caused Pichler to panic and dial D for Douchebag," interjected Miles.

The younger plumber shook his head in confusion. "Wait a second. I thought the Moranos were going to force the issue? Why did Pichler need Lucas to call the meeting?"

"That's the part we don't quite get, either, kid," spoke Giuseppe. "I'm certain that Carlo Morano would've required appeasement from those clownfucks, and I'm ninety-nine percent sure they had Slaughter killed. The fact that they were beggin' ya to take Sal's job proves that this was always the plan. Maybe Pete was waitin' for you to return from California. I, uh, called Sal afterward. He didn't know what the fuck was goin' on, either. Something was holdin' up what was made clear by Carlo Morano and Sal himself. It was the first time that he had actually seen Lucas with that shitbucket. Before I kicked the shit out of 'im, Scott admitted that Lucas set the fuckin' Slaughter thing in motion."

"What if Lucas is triple-dealing everyone here?" interrupted Daisy, arms crossed over her orange tee-shirt and pajama bottoms. "It seems to me that a slimy douche like him would try to play everyone, just to get the upper hand."

Luigi looked up at her and nodded. "Yeah, sounds like him. But why would he want to double-cross Pete or the Moranos? That would be, well, suicide. Speaking of which, Miles, who owns this house? Lucas or Pete?"

Miles lifted both his hands. "Dunno. I got as far as a Mecklenburg Property Management, LLC, complete with nice website and generic email, but nothing beyond that."

Both Giuseppe and Daisy snickered at the same time. Luigi and Miles first glanced at each other and then the others in total confusion. "Ah, I'm surprised that Daisy here got the reference, as it's about ten years before her time. It's definitely Pete. Karl Mecklenburg was a linebacker for the Denver Broncos back in the eighties."

Daisy guffawed at the comment. "My father's a huge fan of the New England Patriots. He, uh, hates the Broncos and Jets. No offense. When arguing with him over who has the status of G.O.A.T. – Tom Brady or Joe Montana – I had to know my players and stats."

Chuckling, Luigi said while rubbing her lower back, "Just don't say that shit around Mario. So Lucas lied about owning the house. Figures. That also means Pete had the idea of getting me out of New York. But why would Pete trust Lucas? Lucas's trying to control me to control the game he's playing with … him, Jackie, Tony? All of the above?"

"And then there's this bit with Marco Bowser's kids and this Polina character." The hacker crossed his arms and swiveled back and forth in his gaming chair. "None of this makes sense. Except …" He rushed to his terminal off-screen and typed a slew of commands. "What if that video that Lucas just happened to find was blackmail or manipulation?"

"Blackmail of who, exactly? If Pete is anything like he was in the seventies and eighties, he hates those fuckin' Bowser clowns as much as Mario and I did and do!" exclaimed Giuseppe.

"But the Bowsers are financially supported by the Moranos," reasoned Miles, steepling his hands together. "We know this because of Fat Tony and his games with Mario and Luigi. And if Fat Tony supports John Bowser, then he's also supported by Big Jackass who's the – I don't know – capo, boss, whatever. The problem is that Carlo Morano is also the godfather of Pete's crew in Colorado. So we have two opposing factions. Based on Luigi's observations in Colorado, Pete was sending Vinny to investigate Marco Bowser, a dead man, which wouldn't make any sense unless it were related to him. The question is, who supported Marco Bowser and his father? Given what Marco did to Mario and Luigi, I very much doubt it was Pete or Carlo Morano. What do we actually know about the Moranos? Is it just Jackie and Tony?" Muttering to himself, Miles leaned over to his terminal and began typing again.

Giuseppe coughed, then sighed. "I don't know much about 'em. Luigi's mama stayed clear of her cousins. Pete was an exception, up until he joined them."

"Would Uncle Sal about the Moranos?" inquired Luigi.

His Abruzzese uncle gave him a dark stare. "Don't go there, kid. Do not ask Father Sal."

Daisy and Luigi exchanged puzzled looks, and the hacker immediately stopped his searches. "Why, Zio? It's family history; I mean, it's not a state secret!" insisted the younger plumber with an incredulous laugh.

"Luigi Gabriele Masciarelli, I am warning you. Do not ask him. You will be opening Pandora's Box," growled Uncle Joe, pointing at him.

"Okay, Miles, Daisy, would you excuse us for a moment, please?" he demanded. Both nodding uncertainly, Miles and Daisy left their respective rooms, leaving an angry Luigi and stalwart Giuseppe. "Okay, Zio, I am in this fucking mess because of these goddamned secrets! In the span of six months, I have found out that I'm some sort of heir to a Mafia legacy, that I may have been almost killed because of it, that I'm being played as a fucking piece in someone else's game, and that I'm supposed to defend myself with – what? More lies?!"

"Figlio, I ain't gonna argue with you about this! You will not ask him!" yelled the older man.

"Why not?! Christ, give me a logical reason for once!" he shouted back. "Fuck, you brought him to talk to me, remember? In the car, when I got back from Colorado?"

Giuseppe's blue eyes became pained and desperate. "He insisted on coming, kid. I didn't ask him. If I could tell you, I would. D'you understand? You … You gotta let him come to you. Your Uncle Sal has a reason for everything he does and does not do. He isn't here, so take it in that context. Find another way. Let Miles do his research about the Moranos; he'll find out whatever the hell it is."

"How the hell am I supposed to defend myself? Defend Daisy? Lucas is out there doing fucking-knows-what, and I can't protect her! He threatened her, Zio!"

"Kid," he said softly, removing his glasses to wipe his eyes with his bony, threadlike fingers, "Daisy's involvement's trouble. If you love her, then you may need to let her go. I can't imagine that her parents would approve of her bein' around this shit. If it was Maria, Addy, or Lucy, I sure as hell wouldn't let them be around it. One day, when you have your own children, figlio, you'll understand."

Luigi's eyes turned from bright blue to a coal black, and his breath became labored. "Would you give up Aunt Lucia?"

"And what makes you think that I've never given up someone I loved?" countered Giuseppe cryptically. Coughing into his fist, he reached into his pocket and wiped his mouth with the green rag. His breathing under control, he faced the screen squarely and crossed his arms. "Sometimes, Luigi, you think because I raised you, I didn't have a life outside of that. Well, I did. And I'll let you in on a little secret: it's part of the human experience to constantly lose and get your heart broken time and time again. Eventually, you end up breaking even. But it doesn't make it any less painful."

The younger man's lips curled in offense. "Except for Cousin Maria, no one ever asked me what happened after Pops died. Not Lucia, not you. You think I'm some sort of ingenu when it comes to love and to heartache? It's what I told Mario: I've loved three people in my life and been with several more. You've met one, and she is the right one! I've already had this conversation with her, and guess what? She refuses to go anywhere else. She has made it clear to me that she is entitled to a choice. Does it scare me? Yeah. But insulting her scares me more."

"Jesus Christ," swore the elder man while raising his voice. "You're like your fuckin' father! Famous last words – he said that to me when he first signed up with the FDNY, that fuckin' Gabriella refused to leave him, even when the likelihood of him …!"

"And what was wrong with that?! Would you have preferred that she dump him? That neither Mario nor I were ever born?"

"Basta!" screamed the man.

The young plumber stared at him blankly. "You were jealous of my father, weren't you? He was a hero and he … had the girl you wanted." Luigi watched as his uncle, who had always acted the part of the paterfamilias, morph into a younger version of himself, one which obeyed his father at the expense of his own dreams, envied his brother's exciting life and family from afar, and mourned the loss of roads not travelled.

After several minutes of chewing on his lip, he bit out, "Of course I was. He did what I could only dream of doing! But guess what, kid? He left the family and became the Great Jumpman! He got all the fuckin' glory! Meanwhile, he sacrificed us all – your mother, me, your Zia Maria, then you and Mario! Gabriella had dreams, too, which she gave up for his fuckin' career! And he never once thanked her, not even when she got sick. Goddamned egotistical prick never recognized that we helped him be what he was at the expense of our dreams!" He exhaled a ragged breath, then went on, "Yeah, I loved your mother, but not in the way you're thinkin.' After your parents got married, Mario kept getting called away on three-alarm fire this and four-alarm fire that. Gabriella's mama had passed away from cancer and Sal … Anyway, she was alone with a baby. So I stayed with her, helped her from … sitting at that goddamned kitchen table and eyeing the phone morning, day, and night. Being the wife of a firefighter ain't easy, figlio. Not havin' anything better to do, the whole neighborhood started rumors that she and I were … which didn't help their relationship. When I got married to Lucia, I tried stayin' away. I couldn't. But your zia understood why."

"Because you didn't want us to grow up without a family," the younger man concluded.

He gave a curt nod, trying to suppress a hacking cough. "Trust me, kid: heroism takes its toll. There's always a price. Your nonno paid it, your father paid it, and now, I'm paying for it. Your brother, too."

"Then why tell me to come back and fight the union? Won't I pay for it?"

"Yeah. And that's why giving Daisy a 'choice,' while noble, ain't everything. Choice is one thing, living is another. Don't be your grandfather or your father and willfully confuse the two."

"Zio, you're assuming that Daisy's just a bystander in all of this. I already told her all of that! She's … still here. Even after fightin' with Bowser, she's with me. I was the one staring at the phone when she was in Mali!" At his stunned silence, Luigi insisted, "Yeah, she went to Mali and risked gettin' chased by terrorists for her project. And I had to live through, albeit briefly, what Mama did. And I'm living through it again with Lucas zeroing in on her! The thing is, Daisy goes where she wants. That's what the fight with Bowser was about – the jackass told her that she couldn't be there, and Mario – like you – tried to force her to leave for her safety. She told 'em both to get fucked. And she ain't afraid to tell you or me the same thing." Giuseppe coughed into his green rag and stared into a space off-screen while his nephew continued, "I'm not asking her to give anything up. If anything … I'll follow her, wherever she wants to go or do."

Outside of the room, Daisy pressed her back against the wall upon hearing what Luigi had said to his pseudo-father. Having given him and Giuseppe privacy, she waited in the den until she heard Luigi's raised, angry voice. Returning to the study and the mention of her name, she listened to what ensued. He's kept his promises. She felt a teardrop trace her cheek like a caress, and she gently brushed her fingertips to catch some of saltwater. Although he was obviously scared, when it came to her safety, Luigi refused to back down to Lucas or Giuseppe. Unlike other men, who would have insisted that they take the lead, he was supporting her right to choose. Since Tatanga, Daisy refused to indulge in romantic 'fantasies' or to believe that any man could or would treat her as an equal. Most did not; just as Lucas had done, many men in the Peace Corps, at Columbia, and her previous dates dismissed her accolades and goals as ornaments to an inevitable uxorial and childbearing future. Yet how could he be so sure after six months? She heaved in and out, her lungs seizing; while at her parents' house in San Francisco, she saw her own therapist, who made a difficult observation: the men who ignored or ridiculed her were, in many ways, comfortable, as she would never risk proving them right. Yet Luigi challenged her comfortable existence of never having to risk being vulnerable. Lost in her reverie, Daisy failed to notice Luigi exit the room.

"Jesus, cat-face, what's wrong?" he cried. "How … How much did you hear of that?!" She did not reply, instead she remained plastered against the wall like a three-dimensional painting. Stepping into her space, Luigi gently tilted her face so that his blue eyes met her watery, terrified amber ones. "Please talk to me."

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I … I heard my name, and I …"

Snaking his hands behind her back, he brought her body to his and kissed the top of her head. "Daisy, I … I don't know how much you heard, but the choice will always be yours. Ignore Giuseppe; he's … he's always been a cynic. He and my Pops used to argue constantly about everything. I was pretty young during most of those arguments, and normally, I'd flee the house once they'd start screaming at each other in Italian. In the end, I think that was their only form of communication. But … Uncle Joe has a hard time not being a meddling asshole, especially when it comes to me. He just … wants you well. Our relationship is ours. I'm doing what you asked of me; it's your decision."

Between sniffles, she laughed aloud. "Yeah, I got that part. I just … I'm … scared."

Wrapping his arms tightly around her, he murmured, "I know. I am, too. Sometimes, I'd rather … spend our time making love than admit that, with you, I'm …"

"Vulnerable," she finished.

"Yeah." He pulled back to face her again. "Daisy, it's your choice. I won't rush you ever. And … if you need space, I'll, uh, respect your wishes."

"My therapist asked me to try to … embrace my vulnerability. Luigi, I … I'm not sure of much outside of my career plans and the supremacy of the San Francisco Giants." She snickered at his eyeroll at her baseball reference. "But I do know that I … I want you in my life. And I refuse to run away from the bullies – Lucas or the goddamned Mafia. More importantly, sweetie, I don't want you to be alone again."

"And I won't leave you alone, Daisy Abravanel," he vowed. "Now, let's get to bed – to sleep."


Giuseppe managed to park his plumber's truck in the narrow space in front of the reddish-orange brick cathedral. Though a forty-five-minute drive from Staten Island and his shop, he had nowhere else to be on that Tuesday evening; Maria was at a early-evening job, Lucy was preparing for the upcoming return to school, and it was his wife's book club night. St. Rosalia's Catholic Church was a few blocks from where he had grown up in Bensonhurst. Come rain, sun, or snow, the entire family, save for his father who had a long standing grudge with the Almighty, walked fifteen minutes from 65th Street to 61st to attend Sunday Mass. From the early seventies until the late eighties, Father Rosetti was the parish priest; he had baptized Mario, his eldest daughter, and finally Luigi. After permitting the Moranos to be the latter's grandparents, he and Lucia shunned the church and attended mass in Eltingville, whose priest had no association with the Mafia.

Like in an old Super 8 in his mind, he watched the middle-aged Mia hustle the fifteen-year-old Mario, who routinely clowned around on the way, his more serious thirteen-year-old self, and nearly ten-year-old Maria into the church, always worried that they would be late. He chuckled at the long-buried memories as he exited the driver's side door. Like their father, Mario was never a believer in God; Mia and Audenzia routinely smacked him for taking the Lord's name in vain and calling the Bible "a lot of fuckin' Babylonian bullshit." When he was sixteen, Mia made him go to confession after she caught him with a copy of Playboy, to which he remarked that he was "doin' research for his and Gabriella's wedding night." Subsequent to that incident, Mario became smarter by hiding his "research" in old copies of National Geographic, which he duly shared with his brother as "the real literature on women." This ruse worked for nearly a year and a half until their sister found the magazines and told on both of them to their scandalized mother. The elder Mario, who was in no mood to deal with teenage boys' antics, beat them with a belt. The younger Mario used to goad his father into arguments just to serve as the convenient target. In the months leading up to quitting the shop, the teenaged Mario slowly stopped taking the violence; he stayed out nights and then entire days. Afterward, their father focused on Giuseppe, threatening to kill him if he dared to follow him.

Passing through the red and gold doors, he stopped at and dipped his fingers into the bowl of holy water and crossed himself before entering the great hall. Since the church was completely empty, he sat in his family's old pew, which was located in the midsection and halfway back from the altar. He remembered how opportune their seats had been for Mario, as he could ogle Gabriella without Audenzia slapping or reprimanding him, although they both suspected that she was aware of it. As for Giuseppe, Gabriella, the 65th Street Crew's Wendy Lady, was a beloved sister and a divine keeper of secrets. Even now, he missed their talks in the park and her patient, unjudging ear.

"I remember you used to sit a couple rows back from us," spoke a voice next to him. "Mario was always such a pervert when it came to my sister; he thought he was being coy. Gabby never minded. She always knew that she'd marry him."

Giuseppe's cloudy blue eyes met Salvatore's twinkling brown ones. "Yeah," he breathed.

Smiling at the memory, Father Sal sat next to him in the same pew. "It's been a long time since you've been here. A long time. Inasmuch as I'd like to believe that it was to visit our old stomping grounds, I know you came for a different reason. Our nephew." He turned to Giuseppe and stated matter-of-factly, "Luigi."

The other man did not reply, instead facing the altar. He suddenly felt submerged in various emotions and struggled to breathe; a wheezing fit echoed throughout the empty church, and he reached for his well-used green rag to cover his mouth. Salvatore bit his lip to suppress a surge of anguish at the suffering man.

"Is there anything I can do, Joe?" he whispered.

The curly-haired man shook his head. "No," he finally answered. "I got … time. But not much of it. The doctor said maybe a year or two if I'm lucky. It depends on how fast the cancer spreads in my lungs. It's, uh, a complex case, I guess."

"How long have you known? And does Lucia know?" he demanded with a hint of anger.

"Since late last year. And yeah, she knows. She, uh, wants me to quit plumbing and turn the business over to Maria," he said with a grin. "I will, now that Luigi's future's secure."

Father Sal frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

The plumber wiped his mouth with the rag and put it back in his pocket. "Luigi's replacing Sal Maldonado as the manager of the shop. He'll come back to the job in a few weeks. Since he passed the master plumber back in June, he's next in line."

"Che cosa?!" hissed Salvatore. "No, no, no. He can't! No, you have to … you have to stop him, Joe. Tell him to stay in California."

"Why?" he inquired innocently. "He gets forty-five an hour and a solid retirement. Enough for him to save for a family. He's datin' that Daisy, and he's gettin' serious with her."

An agitated Father Sal leapt off the pew and his fist tightened around his rosary to the point of blanching his skin. A falsely blasé Giuseppe watched the man silently argue with either the Almighty or himself over his next words. "Cazzone!" the priest growled. "You always knew which buttons to push! You told me this on purpose!"

Giuseppe chuckled and shrugged. "Nah, I just told you the truth. Did you really think, after all these years, your family would somehow drop their interest in Luigi? You knew it in April, Sal. Oh, and Petey came back into town a few weeks back, made sure to say hello to me. You know why. He also owns the house that Luigi's been stayin' at in California. Him and Lucas Kariolis have been in cahoots since at least February."

Salvatore stared at the man, his normally olive complexion now a sickly pale and slick with cold sweat. Sinking back into the pew next to Joe, he mumbled into his hands, "God is punishing me. They're taking Luigi in my place. I tried … so hard for this not to happen. Like Mario, I thought the kid was going to MIT, that he was out of their clutches! This is why he could never be allowed to go into plumbing!"

"See, this is what you and my brother never understood. They would have gotten him regardless! Only if he had gone to MIT, it would have been the equivalent of givin' the Germans the atomic bomb. That's what Pete has done – apparently, his son and nephew are skilled hackers. Their buddy Lucas Kariolis found a nice little tape of Marco Bowser sellin' secrets to Al-Qaeda."

Unable to listen to anymore of Giuseppe's 'research,' an enraged Father Sal jumped out of the pew and almost ran toward the altar and offices obscured by several wooden doors. "Bowser!" he yelled. "Get out here, now!"

As the plumber stood up in bewilderment and shock, one of the doorknobs twisted deliberately, and John Bowser popped his head out to face an angry Sicilian priest and Abruzzese plumber.

"What the hell is this, Sal?" shouted Giuseppe. "You've been the new pal of the Bowsers? The family that nearly killed your nephew?!"

Twisting to bark a "Hardly!" to Joe, Salvatore repositioned himself toward the redhead. "John, what did I say about lying to me?"

John toddled out to confront Giuseppe, who had in turn moved to intercept him. Ignoring Father Sal's question, he retorted while jabbing his finger in the air, "Hey, screw you, Masciarelli! I had nothin' to do with what my brother did to that little …"

"Watch your next words," interrupted Salvatore with a snarl. Looking up at the altar and the golden cross, he took a deep breath and regained a flat composure. "I'm not doing this in a church. Please forgive me."

"Fine, I will!" screamed Giuseppe. However, as he started toward John, who had assumed a stance to defend himself, Salvatore quickly zigzagged in between the two men, grabbed the scruff of Bowser's tee-shirt, and dragged the shocked man through the priest's exit adjacent to the altar. The plumber, equally stunned at his friend's actions, followed the men into a narrow alley which was obscured by a chain fence and the church walls. Stepping into the warm July evening, he watched with some satisfaction as the bartender wiggled like a daggling worm in Father Sal's iron grasp.

Throwing the man to the ground, the priest loomed over him. "I warned you, Bowser. I warned you that if I caught you in any lies that God Himself would not be able to help you."

The frightened man hastily shook his head. "I-I-I didn't lie to you, Father! I swear to God!"

"Oh? What's this about Marco selling secrets to terrorists? The same ones that killed my brother-in-law?"

"What the hell kind of shit did the Masciarellis sell you?! Marco went to fight those bastards, just like Mario did!" John tilted his head in Giuseppe's direction. "You're a fucking liar! Marco died a hero!"

"Nah," scoffed Giuseppe. "Your buddy, Lucas Kariolis, found a little government video showing that your 'hero' brother was double dealin.'"

"Lucas?!" he chortled at the curly-haired plumber. "Oh that slimy fuckin' putz! Well, ain't that sweet? You know he's your nephew's new boyfriend, right? Probably in a cute little ménage-à-trois with that little tight-assed bitch."

Salvatore grasped the man's tee-shirt with both fists. "He's also my nephew, smartass! And I am not someone you want to mess around with, John. Now, let's try again. How do you know the Kariolises?"

John put up his hands. "You know I can't answer that question. Not without Fat Tony's father putting a bullet in my head."

"Cousin Jackie's the least of your problems right now, Bowser," Salvatore replied coldly.

The redhead chuckled mirthlessly. "Yeah, between pissin' off the Almighty and Big Jackass, I'd rather take my chances with Saint Peter!"

Giuseppe laughed and muttered, "Oh, you dumb shit. Stupid is apparently an inherited Bowser trait."

As the bartender opened his mouth to insult the elder Masciarelli further, he heard Salvatore's icy voice utter, "He's right. You really don't have a clue. My last name might be Rigassi, and that may mean nothing to you, but … my mother's maiden name was Campisi. Do the math, idiot."

Bowser's eyes widened in pure fear. His breathing became shallow to the point where the plumber thought that he would lose consciousness. "You're … Cutthroat Carlo's … ?"

"Bingo. Now you will tell me everything I want to know. What is Cousin Jackie's business with Georgie and his son?"

"I-I don't know. Honest to God. I don't know. Lucas's some techie blowhard. But-but Fat Tony doesn't trust him. He asked me to spy on Mario and Luigi at the Mets-Yankees game a couple months back. I don't know why except that Luigi's been hangin' around him."

"Fine. Next question: why did Marco go after Luigi back in '95? Who gave the order?" commanded Giuseppe from behind Salvatore.

"I don't know that, either. I wasn't there! I was at baseball practice!" squeaked John in an almost childlike manner. "All's I know, Ma was beside herself when I came home. Said a bunch of shit in Sicilian that I didn't understand. One of my sisters told me that two big guys came and dragged Marco and Dad outta the house. That's all I know. Marco never said nothin' about it afterward! Fat Tony's never said anythin' about it, either. I only found out that he tried to kill the kid after his funeral."

"What the fuck's going on here?" spoke a fourth voice near the exit door. While Salvatore continued to glare at Bowser, Giuseppe and the terrified man looked to find a perplexed, red-hoodied Mario Masciarelli watching the scene unfold.

"Mario," said the priest carefully, "leave now. Forget that you saw anything. I will call you later."

The red-hoodied plumber shook his head and ambled toward the priest and Bowser. "Nah, I want to know what the fuck's goin' on. I want to know why Bowser's on the ground and why both my uncles are about to beat his ass. If he's stepped outta line, I'll …"

"Goddamnit, Mario!" growled Giuseppe. "Do what you're told for once, and get the fuck outta here!"

Standing next to Giuseppe, Mario crossed his arms in a wordless refusal.

"Asshole, both your crazy uncles are right. Get the fuck outta here!" gasped Bowser.

Mario smirked and responded, "That's King Asshole to you. And I ain't goin' anywhere. I'm watching the penance. So what'd he do? Not kiss the crucifix?"

"If you're staying, Mario, then you will say and do nothing. Is that clear?" enjoined Salvatore. "This is non-negotiable."

At the priest's deadly serious tone, the smirk on the red-hoodied plumber's face swiftly disappeared. "Yeah," he managed.

"Alright. Now, Bowser, where were we? I believe you were telling us about the Kariolises."

Bowser gulped as he faced Salvatore Rigassi's quiet wrath. In truth, his corrupt NYPD cop father and older brother had been the most involved with the Cosa Nostra and the Moranos. Fat Tony was careful never to discuss his family around him, except for the sporadic throwaway comment or threat. From those few remarks, John knew that the Masciarellis were related to the Moranos by marriage, which explained why Mario could insult Tony and not end up in a landfill or buried underneath a construction site. He had also heard rumors of an American Campisi relative who was, with the notorious Vinny Meat-Market, one of Cutthroat Carlo's most trusted killers. Until now, John had always attributed them to the steaming pile of urban legend bullshit for which Mafia wiseguys were known. Yet if Father Rigassi was the Campisi relative in question, he feared him more than even Big Jackass. "I-I-I don't know," he finally stammered. "I honestly don't know. I just know Tony's doin' business with Lucas and his father."

Mario's face reddened in pure anger and, fists balled at his sides, he hotly glared at Salvatore and the coughing Giuseppe. "Is that string-bean motherfucker the reason why Weegie's been leaving Brooklyn?!" Neither responded; they instead exchanged glances to debate how much to tell their eldest nephew. "Answer me!" howled the impatient man.

"Mario," began Salvatore coolly, "if you want to protect Luigi, then you'll stay out of this until we – Joe and I – tell you. Go home to Cristina."

The man in red snorted and took another step forward. "Peach would stand with me on this one. We are taking care of Marco's piccoli, so we are involved. My only brother and only immediate family is at the center of all this, to say nothing of his ragazza! Nah, nah, I'm not going anywhere until I get answers, Sal!"

Giuseppe sighed, coughed, tiredly spoke, "Careful what you ask for, kid. The more information you have, the more you're in the shit."

He sneered and crossed his arms again. "Good thing I'm a plumber."

Father Sal suddenly backed away from John who crab-walked a few steps, then stood to his full height. Pointing to the door, he whispered, "Get back in there, Bowser. You've told me the truth, which is what I requested. The best place for you right now is here. Neither Tony nor Jackie will harm you in my custody. But don't abuse my good will." A gulping, nervous John sprinted back into the church, leaving the three Italians in the alleyway. Twisting to face both Giuseppe and Mario, he said in a normal voice, "He doesn't know anything. I've just terrified a man who knows nothing. Happy now, Joe?"

Giuseppe raised his eyebrow. "He may not, but his … boss does. What do you know of the Moranos? Is Tony the only son or lieutenant?"

Shifting his brown eyes between Mario and Joe, the priest roughly exhaled and responded, "Every crew has multiple soldiers – made guys. Tony might be Jackie's heir apparent, but it doesn't mean it'll happen. In the life, you generally meet one of two ends: prison or six feet under. I don't know who's in his crew. And even if I did, I could never tell you. As for Tony, he's Jackie's only son."

"Then why is Luigi at the center of this?" asked Mario in a softer tone.

Sal anxiously ran a hand over his face. "Hypothetically speaking? Because, niputi, he is the remaining Rigassi heir, after Pete and me. Pete has his own crew in Colorado and has a half-Italian wife. And I'm a priest. Luigi's fully Italian and has the right lineage for the New York crews. There are … rules to be made, one of which is that you have to be fully 's also extremely intellectually gifted. For … possibly forward-thinking men like Cousin Pete or Uncle Carlo, they value intelligence over brawn. The body fades, and Carlo wants to create a legacy. They share the same vision as your bisnonno Rigassi back in Palermo."

"And what, hypothetically, would be Big Jackass's reaction to that? I can't imagine he'd be thrilled," he hissed.

"No," replied Sal in a measured voice. "I can't answer on behalf of Jackie, but no one wants to be replaced with a kid and an atypical one."

"Jesus!" swore Mario as he swiveled his feet against the gravel. "And this Lucas Kariolis prick? Why come back now?"

"His father, Georgie, is an investor of sorts. He was also involved with the Sicilians, though I don't know in what capacity. Lucas, I'm sure, is into similar things."

"What if I make a deal with Carlo and Pete? Get 'em to let Luigi go?" he asked his uncles. "I did it before, to save the shop."

Salvatore shook his head. "Mario, this isn't one of Tony's immature games. Your father tried that same approach; he made a deal with the Devil thinking it would save the people he loved. He lost. Colorado was a vetting process, and Luigi passed Pete's test, whatever it was. This means he's committed to Luigi as his choice, as is Uncle Carlo."

"Fine!" Mario bellowed, raising a finger. "Once the Bowser kids are safe, youse can all go screw yourselves back to Sicily. I'll take Peach and Luigi to Massachusetts. And if I fuckin' need to, I'll take the goddamned promotion to first sergeant and house my family on base or send 'em overseas! Let the Mafia take on the entire motherfucking U.S. Special Forces – see where that gets 'em!"

"Kid, they'll try," grumbled Giuseppe. "You do not know Pete. He's not a moron like Big Jackass, and he has no qualms about taking what he feels is his by blood. He will ruin you, he will ruin Cristina, and anyone who gets in his way. Besides," he inhaled which resulted in another hacking fit from his weakened lungs, "Luigi's comin' back. Sal's retiring in a few weeks. The union made nice, and because he passed the master plumber, he's now in charge. It's done."

Mario shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah, so he's comin' back. He'll be in Brooklyn. The union recognized what Slaughter did, and so now it's good." Both Giuseppe and Father Sal gave him a meaningful stare, encouraging him to think it through in further detail. A few seconds later, the plumber became pale, and he directed enraged blue eyes at his uncles. "You … Nah, wait a sec. Are you fuckin' sayin' that Pete and the Moranos own the shop?!"

Father Sal let out a single mirthless laugh. "Niputi, the Moranos own the entire plumbers' union. That includes roughly half of the plumbing shops in New York City. No one gets to be manager or business rep without them knowing or approving it. Although I've always wondered how John Slaughter rose up through the ranks. My guess is that Jackie made that crucial mistake. Carlo's old school; family first, so he'd cover Jackie's ass."

The younger man's normally blue eyes morphed to a determined black. "I don't give a shit!" he glowered. "I refuse to give up Luigi to those fucks. He's more my blood than Pete's or even youse! Next time you see Don Pietro Morello, tell him to get horse-fucked for me." He spun on his heel to leave his uncles in the alley. Opening and slamming the door to the interior, Mario marched through the hall to the red and gold doors. Exiting St. Rosalia's Church, he jogged down the stairs and around the corner to the company truck, whose name seemed to taunt him. His brother would be the new manager and controlled by the goddamned Moranos. He needed to get back to Manhattan and decide on a plan. How long could he keep Wendy and Louie before it became untenable for his family? He could not move to Massachusetts in two weeks' time; his temporary custody of the Bowser children, public schools soon beginning a new year, and Peach's position at New York Presbyterian made it an impossibility. Plus, there was the Sfacciata; he doubted that Luigi would willingly leave her.

As he fumbled with the keys to the truck, he heard a middle-aged male voice bark his name. Mario looked up in annoyance at an irate and fearful Uncle Joe. "He's not just my blood, ma anche il mio cuore!" the man yelled, hitting his fist against his heart. "I will do anything to protect him! If I thought that … running would keep us all safe, I'd do it in a heartbeat!" He shook his head. "But we can't, kid. Years ago, at the reading of your father's will … It had already been filed in probate, but he requested that we be assembled for its contents. It said that in your absence, Luigi would live with the 'nearest member of the Rigassi family.' I planned on taking Jackie's ass to court, and I'd have won. Jackie knew it, too, 'cause outside of the law office where we read Mario's will, he pulled a gun on me, kid. And they will do the same to you!"

Mario scoffed and, closing the truck door, strolled back to the sidewalk to confront the man. "And what do you want me to do? Do nothing while they use him?!"

"Yes!" he hissed. "Let Sal and me handle it. Confronting them directly will get Luigi … killed. And if that happened, it would … end me."

"And you'd give up your entire family for Luigi? Why? You got your daughters and grandson!"

Giuseppe's eyes became irate at Mario's implicit accusation. "Luigi is every bit my son as Maria, Addy, and Lucy are mine! I'm not giving up my family for Luigi because he is my family! You are also a part of my family, Mario, but the truth is, I didn't raise you. Your Mama did; after her passing, the streets took over. Your … nonno had an influence, too. And for all of the houses he saved, your fuckin' father never took responsibility for his own! Your zia and I did our best, but you were already a teenager. And I will go to the grave regretting that! But I did raise Luigi. And as I've told him recently, when you become a parent, when you and Cristina hold your first bambino, you will understand that pull of nature. Past a certain point, though, it won't matter whether you're the biological father."

The younger man's stony blue eyes softened slightly, and he studied his uncle's look of desperation and regret. In the past six months, he had noticed the man's increased pallor and weight loss. Like Luigi, Giuseppe was always frail and thin compared to the other Masciarelli men who tended toward a portly physique; however, it had become obvious to him, Luigi, and the Family that he was unwell and likely running out of time. If he was dying, then he would fight even harder to keep Luigi in New York. "Why should I trust you, Joe?" he growled. "You've always been a possessive asshole when it came to Weegie. Now, I'll be the first to admit that Pops and I didn't always see eye to eye. However, MIT would've been a better place for him! He'd never have been on their fuckin' radar if you hadn't forced him into plumbing! He never wanted to be a plumber, and that's why he's at Stanford! On that point, Lucas didn't need to try that hard!"

"Yeah, and where the fuck were you, Mario?" retorted Giuseppe. "Oh, let me answer that – you were in Iraq and Afghanistan being the fuckin' hero! You never gave a shit about what would've happened if those bastards had killed you! And just like your father, I was left holdin' the bag! Luigi was in no condition to be anywhere but his home! Yeah, I pushed him into plumbing! Aside from it bein' a solid, noble profession, I could keep an eye on him, so that little prick couldn't get to him! So that …" his voice torn on the next words, "so that he'd stay alive!"

"Woah, wait a fuckin' minute," demanded Mario. "Did … did they try to kill him?!" The older man raised an angry eyebrow and crossed his arms, refusing to answer. "Giuseppe, cut the self-righteous bullshit! Did they try to kill him?"

He shrugged. "I don't have any proof."

"Forget the fucking proof!" exploded Mario, his entire body shaking with rage. "Tell me!"

All of a sudden, Giuseppe felt more frail and sank next to a medium-sized tree planted in the median of the sidewalk, reaching into his pocket for his green rag. Although he was still infuriated, the red-hoodied plumber hurriedly drew his wheezing paternal uncle to his feet and helped him into the passenger side of his truck, buckling his seatbelt for him. Before the man could protest, Mario jumped into the driver's side of the truck, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb. "We'll come back for your truck; I trust Sal will keep an eye on it." He drove north through Mapleton and merged into Ocean Parkway.

"Where … where are we going?" rasped the weak older plumber. "S … Staten Island is the other way?"

Mario shook his head. "We're not going to Staten Island, Zio. I'm takin' you to a doctor."

"No!" he cried. "Non portarmi in ospedale!"

"Relax, Joe. I ain't takin' ya to a hospital. But I'm not lettin' you drive back to Eltingville. No fuckin' chance. Just … relax a bit."

As he continued to wheeze and cough, Giuseppe leaned back in the passenger seat and scanned the truck to see empty coffee cups littered at the floor of the truck, papers strewn across the dashboard. "Does … Sal allow you to … keep … truck like that?"

His nephew laughed a little and flipped on the radio to NPR. "Sal's used to my filing system. And Weegie ain't here to bitch, though he'll probably dock me for not bein' a fuckin' clean freak once he's the boss." Sneaking a glance at his weakened uncle, he softly added, "Just relax; don't try to talk, okay? We'll get there soon enough."

"Lucia … le mie ragazze …"

"Don't worry; I'll call 'em once we get there, aight?"

Giuseppe acquiesced and made himself as comfortable as he could in the truck seat, occasionally coughing and hacking into the green rag. He gazed out of the window while Mario negotiated the Parkway, which turned into the nefarious and useless BQE at Park Slope. After he honked his horn at several "fucksticks" who somehow managed to speed in bumper to bumper traffic, he entered the tunnel underneath the East River, still heading north toward Lower Manhattan. Exiting from the underpass, he looped around the Battery to follow the FDR along the edge of the City. Like Luigi, Giuseppe hated Lower Manhattan and flat out refused HVAC and plumbing jobs in the area, preferring to stay in Staten Island, Brooklyn, or the Shore, having also been licensed for New Jersey. Out of the corner of his eye, Mario watched Joe shift uncomfortably in his seat upon recognizing where he was. "Relax, Zio; we're just takin' the FDR. We ain't stayin' here." The man did not reply, knowing that he was powerless to complain.

About thirty minutes later, Mario wedged his truck in front of a nice apartment building a couple blocks from Fifth Avenue. Realizing where his eldest nephew had taken him, a grumbling Joe tried to object, but the driver had already exited the truck, marched around the front, and opened the passenger door. He called out, "Yo, Anthony!" Lowering the weakened man out of the truck and shutting the door behind them, he walked them both to the entrance where the doorman was waiting.

"Jesus, Mario! Should we call an ambulance?" he gasped.

"Nah, not until the doctor sees him. Also, meet my uncle, Giuseppe Masciarelli, the worst patient in all of New York," replied Mario with a twinkle in his eye, despite the seriousness of the situation. Joe wheezed and rolled his eyes.

"Pleasure. Lemme know if you need anything," said Anthony as he rushed ahead of them to call for the elevator. Thankfully, the lift was already at the ground floor, so without delay, Mario guided his uncle inside, pressed the "6" button, and silently rode up to the sixth floor. They slowly made their way down the hallway to the sturdy brown door of an upscale apartment characteristic of the Upper East Side. The red-hoodied plumber took out his key and unlocked the door to reveal an elegant entrance way with marble flooring and early nineteenth-century Italian and French furnishings. Giuseppe's lungs began to seize and another coughing fit began, which signaled to the apartment's occupants that someone had arrived. With Wendy and Louie trailing her, Peach came rushing out, believing that it had been Mario, and skidded to a stop upon seeing her partner holding up the frame of his paternal uncle.

"Hey, Peaches, I brought you a patient," spoke Mario as he steered him to living room adjacent to the kitchen. A shocked Peach swore in French and raced to get her medical bag as the children followed Mario and the older guest. The plumber carefully arranged the wheezing man on the sea green sofa, moving the pink and green cushions to accommodate the six-foot man's frame. Black bag in tow, Peach rushed into the room and, her boyfriend moving out of the way, took the reluctant man's vitals. The plumber asked the children, who were standing in the doorframe, to give the man privacy. Sensing that this was not the time to argue, Louie led Wendy into the den.

"Can you unzip your hoodie, please? I need to listen to your lungs," she requested in her best physician's voice.

Joe hesitated and opened his mouth to argue, but Mario cut him off. "It's either Peach or Presbyterian. È la tua scelta." Muttering several obscenities in Italian, he grudgingly unzipped the hoodie to reveal a plain white tee-shirt and a small gold cross. Peach adjusted him on the couch and asked him to breathe in and out, causing another fit. She then did neurological tests, asked diagnostic questions, and inspected his green rag which was spotted with blood.

Having finished her examination, she went to wash her hands and returned to the living room, now heavy with silence and foreboding. "Well, I'd like to take you to Presbyterian first thing in the morning. I can't tell if it's lung damage or something malignant. I want to have a few CT scans done. I'd expect something like this for a chain smoker. You've never smoked?" asked Peach.

An incredulous Giuseppe looked at an indecipherable Mario. "No," he answered. "Look, I don't want you wastin' your time. My doctor says it's cancer."

"Did you see an oncologist or a pulmonologist?"

"Oncologist and biopsy in Staten Island. It's, uh, lung cancer. Adenocarcinoma."

She nodded, processing the information. "And were you exposed to environmental toxins? Asbestos or silica dust?"

Again, Giuseppe glared at Mario. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Right. Mr. Masciarelli, I still want to have you examined tomorrow morning. Call it a second opinion. I have a colleague who's one of the world's best oncologists and specializes in lung cancers."

"Just Giuseppe's fine. And I don't want to inconvenience youse."

"Giuseppe, I can assure you that it is no bother. I've covered for him several times over the past few months, so he owes me a favor. Truly. And the bloke specifically treats unusual cases," insisted Peach. He shrugged and gave a single, conciliatory nod. "Brilliant. Right, now, you'll stay in one of the guest rooms. Have you eaten?"

"Not since this morning," confessed Joe.

Peach checked her wristwatch and turned to Mario. "It's close to eight-thirty; the piccoli have already eaten. I can get delivery, something that wouldn't be a choking hazard?"

"Bene," replied Mario. "I've got to call Sal and Lucia." He sighed and gazed at his equally worried near-spouse. "Grazie, Peaches."

As Mario left to make his phone calls, Peach stayed in the room and called her colleague, then to a Vietnamese restaurant that served beef and vegetable pho as well as a few crab Rangoon, in case the children (and the plumber) were still hungry. Hanging up, she voiced to the visibly uncomfortable man slumped on the couch, "My colleague will see you at 11 am following a series of scans, so we'll need to be at the hospital by 9:30. I've ordered us some soup. You need to eat."

"Thanks," he said quietly. "I'm sorry to be puttin' you out, Cristina. You, uh, probably got enough on your plate with the Bowser kids, your, uh, practice, and Mario livin' here."

The blonde woman fiddled with the cuffs of her light pink blouse. "I, uh, prefer Peach, and like I said before, it's no bother. You're Mario's family."

He directed his tired blue eyes at his surroundings. "It's a nice place you got. How long you lived in the Upper East?"

"Four years. After Mario was put on reserve duty, I moved to New York to be closer to him and Luigi. I was with Doctors Without Borders and the Italian government before that."

Giuseppe nodded slowly, stifling a wheezing cough. "And the kids are a handful, I'd imagine? Bein' that they're … Bowser's."

Peach smirked a little. "Well, surprisingly enough, they're not that bad. Louie's well-behaved, but Wendy's a terror, especially with Mario. She loves to push his buttons."

The elder Masciarelli laughed, which caused him to rasp. As she rose to get him a clean tissue, he rapidly shook his head. "No, I'm fine. Really," he puffed. Grinning brightly, he spoke, "My eldest, Maria, got a mouth, too. She was, uh, nine; we'd just moved out to Staten Island. New place, new friends, new everything. Well, my wife gets a call from the school. A couple of morons decided to shove her face-first in the mud 'cause she wanted to play football with the other boys. As a group, they chose her to play quarterback; the two boys got pissed off. Long story short, she ends up in the principal's office; the pair a' morons ended up in the nurse's office with bloody noses. When I went to get her, she was completely unrepentant. I couldn't ground her for it."

She chuckled and, handing a clean tissue to him, replied, "At Luigi's birthday party, she struck me as very … opinionated. But I understand why; it's hard being a woman in a man's profession."

Staring out into the nearly empty living room, Giuseppe's joviality disappeared as soon as it had come. "Yeah," he mumbled. "I, uh, was against her becoming a plumber. Not because I didn't think she could do it, but guys can be set in their ways, particularly when someone new and better comes along. It was one thing workin' in my shop, where I could keep an eye out for any bullshit, but I knew once she went to the union, she'd be on her own. I couldn't … I couldn't protect her. Same with Luigi. Tried to protect 'em both, but I … I couldn't. Some fuckin' father I am."

Heavy footsteps and a ragged outbreath interrupted them. "Uncle Sal's gonna watch your truck, and Lucia's on her way. She wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. So she'll spend the night here; I hope that's aight with you, Peaches. I, uh, paid for a taxi, so she doesn't have to worry about parking."

Peach gave him a sliver of a smile. "It's none at all, Mario." Then her blue eyes widened. "Luigi! Perhaps we should call …"

"No!" exclaimed both Mario and Giuseppe. At Peach's puzzled and disbelieving gawk, Mario put up both of his hands and clarified, "Right now, he's gotta focus on Stanford. They're in the final week and some right now. We'll tell him once he gets back to New York. Let's just relax and wait for dinner. Lucia's on her way."

"Fine. I'll make some coffee for us and chocolate for the piccoli," Peach uttered, casting one last piercing scowl of disapproval at Mario before retreating to the kitchen. The man's lips parted to defend himself further; he, however, thought better of it upon catching her mutters in Italian about "stupid Masciarelli men and their fucking secrets."

A cowed Mario moved to sit across from Uncle Joe, who was snickering underneath his shortened breath. "She's pissed."

His nephew's familiar blue eyes twinkled in response. "In the eight years I've been with her, Peach's been pissed at me, eh, fifty percent of the time."

"Stay with her long enough, and it'll be eighty," cackled Uncle Joe. Mario nodded, and they both descended into a fit of giggles and snorts.

"Yeah, though brace yourself, Zio, 'cause Lucia's really pissed." Joe burst out laughing again, which forced him to cough into the tissue that Peach had brought.

"Hey, hey!" murmured Mario, who rushed to his side. He quickly helped prop Giuseppe up and, removing the man's sneakers, arranged him on the sofa. With one of his arms, he reached to one of the wall shelves and grabbed a matching quilt to cover his jeans-clad legs. "Soup will be here any minute now and the coffee will help you breathe."

Uncomfortable with Mario's attentiveness, Giuseppe cast his sapphire blue eyes to a point on the coffee table. They passed several minutes in stillness, save for Giuseppe's more pronounced coughing. Eventually, the older man spoke in a more serious voice, "Mario, you gotta tell her. Don't make the same mistakes your father and I did."

Mario, who had sat back down in the opposite armchair, frowned. "Tell who what?"

The ailing man gave his nephew a knowing look. "Don't give me that shit, nipoti. You have to tell her."

As he was about to feign ignorance, Peach re-entered the living room, carrying two large Buccellati silver pots, porcelain cups, and spoons on a matching silver tray. Launching from his seat, Mario quickly took the heavy tray from her and set it on the coffee table in front of Uncle Joe. Wendy and Louie came in shily and approached the spectacled man with trepidation. With a wave of his thick hand, he encouraged the children to have some hot chocolate and assured them that his "Uncle Joe" was harmless. Though Giuseppe gave a reassuring grin at the two preteens, his blue eyes connected meaningfully to his nephew's.


A black Lincoln town car, complete with illegally tinted windows, was parked alongside a red brick Italian ristorante and social club on Mulberry Street in SoHo. In the rear seat sat a blond-haired woman vested in a double-breasted black suit with gold accents and matching wool pants. As the car joined the long line of others on the left side of the street, she had an excellent view of the social club, its occupants, and the wiseguys who were arriving in discreet groups for dinner and drinks. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the obese, thousand-dollar Armani-covered figure of Fat Tony Morano who was moseying toward the glass door with two equally corpulent wiseguys in suits. She checked her Rolex for the seventh time in twenty minutes – 9 pm. "The fat fucker's twenty minutes late," she griped to herself. He had likely already gorged himself on sandwiches at his poker game; the meal at the social club was merely a prelude to bedding his secret girlfriend, some barely-legal waitress named Mona. Sticking out her tongue and gagging in silent disgust, the woman in black wondered just how anyone could get off to the smell of body odor, garlic, and three hundred fifty pounds of adipose tissue. No matter – the blonde figured that she would soon do the poor girl a favor. She reached for her pocketbook to remove a single photograph from a little over a decade ago; a redheaded man in military fatigues and a blonde-haired woman in a cream-colored sweater and stonewashed jeans stood together in an embrace against a nondescript blue sky. She brushed her long fingers and manicured nails over the man's face. Both the Moranos and the Masciarellis would pay for what they had done to her family.