Author's notes: Apologies for the delayed release date - I caught a nasty bug going around my area. It was just as well; this chapter was possibly the most difficult that I've ever written. Writing trauma is always hard, but trying to articulate trauma from one of the most notorious days in the 21st century adds several levels of complexity. As many of you have probably guessed, I'm likely older than most writers on and AO3; I was a young adult when it happened, so I remember it vividly, even if I was not in NYC. (I did, however, have family in NYC and NJ.) So like the majority of people who lived through it, I remember it at a distance, which was a very different experience from those who lived it "on the street." I hope I did it justice.

Strong warning for this chapter for disturbing themes (very low end of Mature). Because I know that I have readers from the East Coast, I have taken great care NOT to be graphic. I don't think it's necessary and, frankly, it would be disrespectful to do otherwise. I did not tell it minute by minute for several reasons. Rather, this chapter is about the people 'left behind.'

As always, feedback is welcomed. Thanks for reading.


Chapter 38: Inferno

They gathered in the living room; Luigi, Salvatore, and Lucas each drinking an espresso. The latter was never left unattended around Luigi. Despite his weakened state, Joe made sure to keep a line of sight on his nephew and the man in purple. Likewise, Father Sal sat across from Joe and in view of both younger men. As for Miles, he quickly closed his laptop so that Lucas was unable to see his setup or suspect that he may be anything other than a surfer dude. For the first time since being impaled in the hand by the Bowser's Crazy Wife or Ex-Wife – he was unable to decide which was most likely – the Manhattanite felt out of his element. While he could handle the obviously ill Joe the Plumber and weirdo Furry le Fucker, the Pretending Priest was an unknown variable.

Time to provoke a move from them.

"Like, dude, totally awesome finding you here!" interrupted Miles. At Salvatore's and Giuseppe's questioning looks at the surfer dude persona and sudden accent change, he explained, "Lucas and I really, like, bonded over Bambi back in California. He's a fan of woodland critters, too!"

Luigi's paternal uncle, who was still suffering the effects of chemo-related fatigue in the Lazy-Boy, gave Miles a distinct, I'm-too-old-and-sick-for-this-shit glance while his maternal uncle seemed both interested and amused. "Bambi? The Disney movie?" he asked, brown eyes twinkling.

Lucas opened his mouth to respond, but Tails cut him off once again. "Yeah, it gets the chakras going every time. Lucas knows; he likes the part where the human dudes burn down the village. Kill, fuck, shoot, right, my dude?"

The man in purple forced a thin smile and put his arm around Luigi's shoulders, earning him a warning snarl from Uncle Joe and a raised eyebrow from Uncle Sal. "I don't know of any … villages, but I just released a video game. Singular success – War Rampage 3: Return to Benghazi. But … it's not really the time to elaborate." Giuseppe shook his head and muttered in Italian that it sounded like a singular clusterfuck. "Anyway, Weeg and I go way back. He's my best friend. I've, uh, met his uncle Joe here," Lucas said, flashing the hostile, middle-aged man a toothy grin, "and I know his brother by … reputation. He was playing plumber and soldier when Weeg and I started hanging out. I think Weeg here mentioned something about you being involved in his education?"

"Yeah," answered Father Sal carefully. "I grew up here in Bensonhurst, then went to school for the priesthood. I came back during Luigi's childhood in the 1990s, then got called out to California shortly before he started high school. I was there for about eight years, then went to Paraguay for three years before becoming full-time pastor down the street at St. Rosalia's."

"Huh," replied Lucas mildly. "You and the Amazon Queen have something in common. She likes missions, too. Mali. Personally, I think she's nuts, but hey, Weeg's crazy about her. Who am I to judge?" Salvatore did not react to his comment, so he went on, "And California? I have a house out in Malibu; my gaming company's current headquarters is in Los Angeles. Where were you in Cali?" Giuseppe's blue eyes opened in interest at Lucas's unintentional self-incrimination.

Salvatore took a sip of espresso. "San Francisco."

"Oh. I bet that was difficult. A bunch of liberal, tiara-wearing, rainbow parade attendees as your … hmm … parishioners." Luigi tried to kick his frenemy underneath the coffee table while the fragile older plumber sat up in the Lazy-Boy, visibly alarmed and irritated at Lucas's ostensible provocation.

"What's wrong with that?" inquired Father Sal in the same manner. "We're all human, Lucas. If they choose to receive religious instruction and take communion, and it brings them closer to God, who am I to judge? We are all sinners, and our sins are ours to repent to Him, whatever they might be." He chuckled lightly, then remarked, "And I actually did have several attendees who might've fit your … colorful description. They were a lot of fun at Christmas and Easter."

Luigi and Miles stifled a snicker at the tall man's perplexed look, confused as to why he had not taken the obvious bait that had so successfully worked with Greek Orthodox priests, Haredi Jews, and Evangelical Protestants. "Okay, point taken," he eventually conceded, searching for a new route of attack to break the priest's calm exterior. "So why Paraguay? I mean, I've been to Argentina, Mexico, and Belize, but even they shit on Paraguay as being kind of a hellhole."

He shrugged blandly, taking another sip of coffee. "One miser's hell is an inquisitive man's delight."

"Judging from most Christian and, shit, Muslim theologians, it seems as if God created most men with a view to flinging them all into Hell – miser and inquisitive alike," retorted Lucas with a smirk. "And, gee, that population sign for the Inferno must be growing … exponentially." To emphasize his point, he whistled, air-tracing an upward exponential curve with his finger. "Playing odds, we'll all end up there."

Salvatore raised an eyebrow. "You really don't like religion, do you, Lucas?"

"Should I?" deadpanned the Manhattanite. "Organized religions all expect the modern thinking man to follow stone-age rules. I mean, Father Rigassi, as a Catholic priest, I'm sure you approve of rapists marrying their receptacles if Daddy consents – and yes, I'm using the pun intentionally – as well as enslaving the darkies 'cause they're not as pretty as the Spaniard or the … Italian. I could go on about the whole spiritual cannibalism thing." Luigi spun to give Lucas a harsh look to stop outright offending his maternal uncle. "What?" asked the man in purple innocently. "I never refrain from … curiosity. Especially when it involves the ass."

As Giuseppe opened his mouth to tell Lucas where he could stick his curiosity, Father Sal burst out laughing, much to the group's confusion. "Is that all you got?" The latter's eyes widened, and he sputtered in surprise. "You know, when Mario was twelve or thirteen, he was censured by the Religious Studies teacher, Father Rosso, for taking the Lord's name in vain. It's a Masciarelli family tradition – his nonno, his papà, and he were and are all two steps shy of being atheists. Well, he was already angry because his mother – my sister – had just passed. So Mario created little flip books of Jesus, the twelve apostles, and Mary Magdalene engaged in … well, I'll let you use your imagination. He sold them for a quarter each to the sixth and seventh graders at Catholic school – he even made personalized themes for a markup of ten cents. Little smartass took the money, dumped half of it in the collection basket as 'Jesus's royalty fees,' and used the remainder to buy the latest issue of X-Men. Now that's blasphemy as an art form."

Miles cocked his head in a simple, impressed nod while Joe and Luigi laughed at their shared memory of Mario Senior ranting about his unrepentant son's crass behavior at school. Lucas's face, however, became a fire engine red, and his body quivered in soundless rage at coming up short to Sergeant Major Dickerson. Nonchalantly, Salvatore took a final sip of the now cooled espresso and set the finished cup and saucer on the coffee table before the furious man in purple. Shifting his attention to the fatigued man in the Lazy-Boy, he said serenely, "Sangu mo, you're getting tired. There's no problem; you go have a pisolino, huh?" The visibly exhausted plumber attempted to argue, but the smiling Father Sal gently lifted him out of the chair and, whispering to him in Italian, led him to the downstairs bedroom. Tails quickly sent a message in hex to Yoshi requesting an ETA, as "the Douchebag is here and Mario's AWOL."

Lucas stared into the almost empty space of the living room, stunned at his checkmate by Father Sal Rigassi. Crazy Lady was right; Salvatore was decidedly not what he appeared to be. Most clergymen were lofty, arrogant fools; too proud and smug over their rather weak knowledge of a poorly-written, romance-cum-snuff epic that became a bestselling, albeit bad, translation of an even worse translation. This Catholic priest was surprisingly tolerant of what he humorously called the three no-nos: atheism, homosexuality, and blasphemy. While he did not rise to the occasion this time, the Manhattanite loved a challenge; perhaps Father Sal's 'buttons' were not religious in nature. The question was, however, how far to research and push the priest; if Crazy Lady was correct, then he was a full-membered mafioso, and crossing him could result in Lucas's inexplicable 'disappearance.' Patience was key, especially if he stood in Pete Morello's way.

Sensing Luigi's discomfort at the exchange, Lucas rubbed his shoulder and murmured into his ear that he could get his doctor to write him a prescription for a sleeping pill, which the plumber emphatically declined. During the whisper exchange, the priest returned to the living room, eyeing the taller man as he turned away in frustration from his friend.

"Did I miss something?" asked Salvatore evenly.

"I was just … expressing my concern about Luigi's health, Father Rigassi. I mean, look at him," he gestured with both hands at his annoyed, green-shirted friend who rolled his eyes. "He hasn't slept in days. My personal physician can come and, y'know, give him something."

The priest's gaze shifted to his nephew whose dark circles underneath his eyes had become more pronounced. "Niputi," he soothed in Italian, "Daisy will be here in a few hours, so why don't you try to sleep a little?" He nodded and slowly ascended the staircase to his room. As Lucas rose to follow him, the Sicilian spoke in English, "You stay here, Lucas." The younger man gave him an outraged look and turned toward the staircase in defiance. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warned in a sterner tone. Facing Salvatore, he shivered at the sight of the man's darkened brown orbs. Who is this fucking guy?

Miles marveled in bewilderment and trepidation as the douchebag, albeit reluctantly, obeyed and took his previous seat on the couch. Giving a single nod of approval, the priest addressed him again, "Luigi's an introvert, which I'm sure you know. He needs quiet, especially now." Salvatore then went into the kitchen. "I'm making another coffee – does anyone want one?" Miles and Lucas shook their heads, and he set about making himself a cup, careful not to disturb either Luigi or Giuseppe. Returning to the living room a few moments later, cup in hand, he went to the mantle and plucked the photo of Lieutenant Mario Masciarelli in his dress uniform. "I remember this," he said with a small chuckle, portrait in his other hand. "Luigi's father, Mario, grudgingly took the lieutenant's exam back in '97. He always thought the new brass was a bunch of schmucks – all the vets whom he started with, including his former captain, Paddy McCollough, had retired by the mid-90s. Had it not been for Luigi's education, he'd have been content to remain as a firefighter with Rescue 2. With the promotion came … another firehouse. Lower Manhattan." Salvatore glanced evocatively at Lucas who began to shift in his seat. "Did you know that he had started back in '77? Well, unofficially. He wasn't old enough to join until '79." He took a casual sip of his coffee. "He was transferred the year before I went to California." He allowed the tear to drift from his eye and muttered quietly, "Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart."

Without thinking, Miles uttered, "Marcus Aurelius, Meditations."

Lucas's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Gee, Twat-Tails, I didn't know you read the classics. Marcus Aurelius didn't exactly mention chakras or surfing."

"Uh, dude, I read, like, a lot of things," he replied, inwardly wincing at his inability to maintain his cover.

Salvatore turned to the blond quizzically, yet declined to comment on his sudden change in speech and mannerisms. "Yeah, Marcus Aurelius. Reading ecclesiastical texts in Greek and Latin all day, I suppose it comes with the territory to have an appreciation for classical literature. Personally, I'm partial to Lucian's A True History or Juvenal's Satires, but … Marcus Aurelius seems more appropriate at the moment."

"You know, I don't get it," began Lucas, crossing his arms. "Lieutenant Masciarelli left behind two sons – one who was barely fifteen, like me – with no fucking plan. He was a firefighter. He had to have known that the chances of being KIA were … greater than average. And it was Luigi who paid the price."

The Sicilian stared at him for a solid minute before answering, "With rare exception, kid, no one anticipates dying. Not even," he scoffed, "New York's Bravest. I've said funerary mass for more than a few, counseled even more in their final moments. No one knows when or how. And as for Luigi, for being his 'best friend,' you certainly don't have a high opinion of him. It takes courage of the highest order to know and feel total loss, then rise from its ashes."

Stunned at the priest's commentary, the Manhattanite did not dare to argue. Miles gaped at the priest who tranquilly continued to drink his coffee. Though he did not consider himself to be average in the ability to assess the motivations of others, the hacker began to form a disturbing theory in his head about one Salvatore Rigassi. An avid science-fiction fan, his mind kept wandering to a quote describing the Tenth Doctor – he never raised his voice; that was the worst thing. The fury of the Time Lord. And then we discovered why. Why this Doctor, who had fought with gods and demons, why he had run away from us and hidden. He was being kind. Although Sal Rigassi was definitely not a millennia-old Time Lord, Miles was becoming convinced that, under that carefully crafted exterior called 'Father Sal,' lay a millennia-old fury and retribution known as Salvatore. The dual nature of this man frightened him and, he suspected, Lucas as well.

The man in question said nothing more for several minutes, instead observing the blank look affixed upon Lucas's face. "I'm going to cut through the cazzate," he finally opined, drawing the tall man's attention. "I don't think you're here to support Luigi so much as get a vicarious thrill at watching him languish. Because deep down, you think you're superior to him. I also know you've met my relatives – Cousins Jackie and Pete. You probably think associating with them gives you some great power. But let me clue you into a little secret, bambino: that tendency toward arrogance and self-aggrandizement will be your downfall. Luigi draws his power and likeness from … someone truly magnificent. It's unfortunate that you never had someone like that in your life to emulate. And maybe that's why you've tried to cling to him. Now it's time for you to leave. Ciao."

Feeling a chill pass through his core, a numb Lucas felt his body pick itself up from the couch, open the door, and exit the modest A-frame. Father Sal glanced briefly at the speechless Miles, using his eyes to guide the young man toward the upstairs. His fingers brushing his rosary, he then retreated into Giuseppe's room.


Luigi stood still, like one of Michelangelo's statues, on his school rooftop eleven stories above the Fort Greene street level. He watched expressionlessly at the plumes of black smolder and orange fire marring the beautiful blue sky eighty and ninety stories above Lower Manhattan. Several fellow students, including Lucas, had joined him and gaped disbelievingly at the sight. Confused whispers alternated with fearful shouts. How could they be on fire? What could have created tens of floors' worth of smoke and flame? The teenager barely noticed the excited chatter behind him; three, four, five, six or greater alarms meant one Lieutenant Mario Masciarelli would be on scene. He tried unsuccessfully to suppress a shudder, instead firmly insisting to himself that Pops would put it out – no matter how massive or how high up the inferno.

Lucas moved next to his friend and placed his hand upon his shoulder. "They'll put it out. They say it was some sort of plane that lost control," he said, voice shaking a little.

"Both towers?" he asked skeptically. "And those are awfully big holes for a goddamned Cessna."

"Hey, Lou," called out one of the students whom he vaguely recognized from his electromagnetism class, "your dad's firehouse is in Manhattan, right?"

The plumber's blue eyes flew open and, gasping for air, sat up in his bed. The late afternoon sun streamed through the curtains and highlighted the 2012-era laptop on his desk. He heard steps rushing up the stairs to his room, and Miles's face appeared a minute later.

"Lou, are you okay? You screamed," he murmured in an anxious tone.

"Yeah." Still breathing harshly, Luigi inquired, "How long was I out?"

Miles shrugged and moved to sit next to him. "Maybe an hour."

Before he could pose another question, a second set of footfalls creaked and rebounded against the older staircase. There was a knock on the ajar door, after which Father Sal entered and approached them cautiously. The perspiring Luigi mumbled, "Mi dispiace, Zio. I hope I didn't wake Uncle Joe."

The priest shook his head, "Niputi, Joe's fine. But you're not." Sitting on the other side, he pulled him into an avuncular embrace. "Sono io che mi dispiace, niputellinu," he whispered into his distressed nephew's hair. They then heard a third person slowly climb the staircase, taking a step at a time. Miles gave the middle-aged man in black a questioning look as the latter, still consoling his youngest nephew, rolled his eyes. "Joe, if that's you, so help me God …"

"Or what, Sal?" Giuseppe challenged, walking step by step into Luigi's room.

"Have you heard back from DK?" he asked instead.

He shook his head. "No. I haven't heard anything. The Honda's still gone, so he must've walked or taken a cab. God only knows where the hell he is. Lucia left a message while I was sleeping. She's stayin' the night in Eltingville; she, Maria, and Lucy are gonna … read Mario's name at the memorial tomorrow morning. They'll come to Bensonhurst afterward."

Salvatore nodded as Luigi buried his head in his uncle's chest to avoid acknowledging any mention of Mario Masciarelli and memorial within the same sentence. "Father Ramirez will take over mass tomorrow; he insisted, knowing that tomorrow's the anniversary. I don't … I don't want to leave you or Luigi by yourselves tonight, especially if Lucia isn't going to be here, and we don't know where our other niputi is. It's not negotiable, Joe."

"Aight," relented Giuseppe, observing his piccolo with growing alarm. "And when I find Mario – the current one – I'll kill him myself."

Salvatore snorted and rolled his eyes again. "He's his father's son." Standing up from the bed, he eased a now blank Luigi onto his pillows and tucked him in slightly. "Just rest now, kid. We'll be right here."

Wordlessly, Giuseppe moved toward the space next to his quasi-son; as Miles walked toward the opposite wall, he eased himself next to the younger plumber, propping a couple pillows behind him and folding his hands in his lap. The blond engineer watched the scene, even now trying to figure out the unspoken communication between the paternal and maternal uncles. The last time that he had seen them interact was in childhood; an eleven-year-old, particularly one who was socially underdeveloped, had little hope of recognizing, let alone deciphering the complexities of an adult relationship. In spite of the history, he knew that Giuseppe and Salvatore had some sort of bond transcending the usual neighborhood friendship. Was it toxic, like Luigi and Lucas's? He did not think so; Salvatore seemed to respect Joe's marriage and Lucia's need for distance, whereas Joe was mindful of Father Sal's dedication to his parish and to the Catholic Church. Miles's observations about Giuseppe and Salvatore were interrupted by Luigi's tears and faint sniffles. His friend's blue eyes were glassy and detached; it was obvious that he was remembering something about that day. Upset at seeing his nephew in such a state, Salvatore slid from his seated position onto the floor so that their eyes and forehead met. Joe turned away and chewed his lip, placing his left hand on Luigi's shoulder. Though he was in the Upper West Side when it happened, barely twelve years old, Miles did not have the same comprehension or suffering; for that, he thanked his lucky stars.

Downstairs, the front door opened and shut. The four people in the younger plumber's bedroom heard Yoshi and Daisy call out to them. "Up here," yelled the blond. After a moment of footsteps came Yoshi, car keys in hand, and a concerned Daisy, who rushed to her boyfriend's side, or as best as she could with his two uncles on each side of him.

"Jesus," breathed Yoshi. "Where the hell's Mario?"

"We don't know. He, uh, drowned himself in Jack Daniels and took off last night," explained Miles.

"Fuck!" he swore. "Did he go to Peach's?"

"Peach, uh, well … She may have brokenupwithhim," he muttered, unable to make eye contact with his friend.

"She what?! She … ? Ah, goddamnit!" Suddenly glancing to Father Sal, he mumbled, "Uh, sorry. Excited utterance." The priest nodded once, still facing his nephew. Running a hand through his black hair and to his face, he spoke again, "Well, hopefully, the NYPD will pick him up. Anyway, Birdo will be here in tomorrow morning since she doesn't have to work until the late afternoon. We figured that it would be a full house, so …"

"You also missed the arrival of …"

"The Douchebag," finished Yoshi. "Yeah, I got your message. Fucker. Honestly, I'm somewhat glad that I missed him – a punch to the gut wouldn't have been enough."

Salvatore backed away so that Daisy could sit closer to Luigi, which immediately calmed him. "I'm sorry," he murmured tearfully to his girlfriend, who put a finger to his lips and shook her head.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, kerido," she replied, taking his hand. Behind her, Salvatore motioned for the three men to leave the two lovers alone. Giuseppe was the most disinclined, his paternal overprotectiveness in overdrive, both pertaining to his suffering figlio and the thought of Luigi being intimately involved with someone. He experienced a similar discomfort when Addy brought Paulie home to meet him and Lucia; although she could have done worse, like her Zia Antonella, whose ex-husband was somewhere in Florida with his secretary-turned-mistress, he was unprepared for his middle child having her own husband and child. He had nothing against Daisy, who seemed devoted to Luigi, but the latter was just a kid. They were both just kids! However, once Salvatore glared at him pointedly, he halfheartedly exited with Miles and Yoshi.

Once everyone had gone, Daisy slid into the bed and lay next to her boyfriend, who turned to stroke her face with his fingertips. "How was your day?" he inquired in a raspy voice.

"Okay," she answered while leaning into his touch. "They let the interns go early today. No work tomorrow. Apparently … several of the managers and senior personnel lost friends and colleagues in the attacks or know those who did. One … even came from Cantor Fitzgerald. He was on PTO, so he didn't go into the office. They'll all be … downtown." She sniffled and added, "I've lived in New York for a year now and … I can't believe I was so … disconnected."

Luigi chuckled lowly, then kissed her hand. "It's official now; we've adopted you." Tears began to stream down his cheeks once more. "Lucia and Maria usually go to the … memorial and read my father's name aloud. I never could. I know it's cowardly, but I just couldn't bear an entire crowd of people – thousands of people –witnessing me fall apart. I just can't!"

Daisy corralled his body into her arms. "No, kerido. It's not cowardly. Your memories … your grief are yours." Rocking him a little, she hoped that the embrace would provide him a sliver of consolation. She inwardly laughed at herself; even before Tatanga, the auburn-haired woman prided herself on being tough and a bit of a loner. However, Luigi corrupted her in the best sense, as she found that she liked delivering comfort to her gentle plumber, even as the circumstances devastated him and pained her.

"I helped Lucas set a few fires at school. This English teacher was targeting several of Professor Omaya's students, so we torched her desk and chair out of revenge. Pops caught us. Well, me. He didn't want me near either one of 'em," his voice scraped against the air like sandpaper on wood. "We were, uh, supposed to leave New York. Pops wanted me to finish the semester at Brooklyn City. Then we were going … somewhere. New Year, new start, I guess."

She nodded. "Your father wanted you away from the Mafia and sadistic teachers. Did you know where you were going?"

"No. He … uh … let the brass know the day before he died and promised to tell me where we were going 'when the time was right.' The next morning, since he was the lieutenant of his firehouse in … Lower Manhattan, because of its proximity, he was one of the first on scene." Closing her eyes, she continued to hold him close. "By the time I got … to the fucking rooftop of my school in Brooklyn, they were already on fire, and I …"

She kissed the top of his head, yet said nothing. They remained silent for minutes afterward, with Daisy tucking his head further into her neck.

"Cat-face, I'm … I'm so grateful that you're here. And I love you. I … haven't said that in a few days, but I really wanted you to know now."

Smiling through fresh tears, Daisy sniffled, then kissed his lips, the saltwater mixing on their cheeks. "I love you, Luigi Masciarelli. And you're not a coward!"

They entangled their bodies once more, with Luigi attempting to wrap her around himself like a safety blanket. Her unique smell – a spicy, floral mandarin orange and vanilla – comforted him, and he touched his lips to the nape of her neck. The lioness purred contentedly while threading her fingers through his thick brown hair. A few minutes later, his mind went blank and drifted to a dreamless sleep. Unwilling to wake him or to cause another nightmare, she stayed perfectly still, even as she heard heavy footsteps mount the stairs and felt eyes on them from the doorway.

Yoshi quietly entered the room and watched his friend finally nap after days of insomnia and post-traumatic stress. He took the chair at Luigi's desk and sat vigil over Daisy and his childhood friend. For years, the physicist felt immense guilt at the thought that his father escaped the South Tower just minutes before United Airlines 175 crashed into his office on the 81st floor, while Mario and Luigi's firefighter father, who had arrived on scene with his engine at roughly the same time, was never found after months of searching. Shortly after he started undergrad at MIT, his Japanese parents returned to Tokyo; out of respect, they always paid for flowers on the anniversary of Mario Masciarelli's death. To reassure them that it was done, each year, Professor Omaya picked up the arrangement and brought them to a nondenominational cemetery near Queens where the firefighter had made his final journey. Despite his mother's pleas and Giuseppe's outrage, the Diocese refused the firefighter a Catholic burial next to his father, as there were no remains found. Rather than put the traumatized Mia and Luigi through the hell of waiting for a sufficient amount of DNA and approval from a religion which the firefighter never believed in, they opted to lay him to rest in the nonsectarian plot.

Once she was certain that Luigi was in a deep slumber, Daisy gently extracted herself from him and, arranging him in a comfortable position, tiptoed out of the room, the Japanese shutting the door and following her quietly down the stairs. Miles was hard at work, grumbling under his breath about Luigi's selfish brother. There was no sign of Salvatore or Giuseppe, save an ajar door of the downstairs bedroom.

"Anything?" whispered Yoshi.

Miles shook his head. "His phone's not responding. Nothing from the NYPD, either."

"It sounds like this is an … habitual occurrence?" asked Daisy.

The two Brobot Boys exchanged an uneasy look, then Yoshi motioned her toward the backyard door. She nodded slowly, and they walked outside, leaving Miles to track the missing plumber as best as he could. She faced her boyfriend's best friend while he shut the entrance behind them. "I'm sorry, Daisy," he began, "I just … didn't want to have this conversation and risk disturbing Joe or Luigi." Inhaling deeply, he went on, "I'll assume you know what happened to Mario and Luigi's father. Or, I guess I should ask: how much do you know?"

"He, uh, told me a little bit. His father was a firefighter and died … in one of the Towers. He was sent to live with Jackie Morano after they threatened Giuseppe from contesting his father's will."

Yoshi nodded. "Yeah. Luigi's dad died in the North Tower. I … don't know how far up he got, but he was still inside when it collapsed. He was at the end of his career, so he didn't, y'know, get to the upper floors. Maybe the forties or fifties, but I'm speculating. I think Joe might know. Anyway, Giuseppe and Mario were in Manhattan when it … happened. I was twelve at the time, and my own father barely made it out." At Daisy's horrified gasp, he put up his hand, "South Tower. His company evacuated their employees after Flight 11 hit the North Tower. He, uh, never talked about it with me. Neither have Mario and Luigi. So I only know things second- and third-hand. Some of it I heard at Mr. Masciarelli's funeral from some of the guys at his current and former firehouses who survived. I didn't quite … understand until later. Joe worked at Ground Zero to recover his brother's remains, but they never found anything. He tried for about two and a half months."

"And that's why he has cancer," she concluded.

"Yeah. As for Mario, I'm not exactly sure what happened. He adamantly refuses to talk to anyone about it. I don't even think his girlfriend – Pauline or Peach – knew or knows. Luigi seems to have blocked it out. Mario went to the recruiter maybe a week or two after the attacks," he explained. "When he came back stateside in 2010, every September 11, he'd get so drunk that he couldn't remember his name. Luigi has always been … numb, but he's spent that day, for the past three years, caring for him." Yoshi sighed and sat on the concrete of the porch. "However, this year's … different. Giuseppe's illness and the Mafia approaching Luigi. And then Peach … He got drunk a day early. That's why I'm worried, Daisy."

"Dio …" she breathed, coming to sit next to him. "This family. No wonder they're so … screwed up. First, the Mafia. Then, being so … personally affected by one of the worst things in recent history."

"I'm honestly glad that none of those dates that Mario set Luigi up with ever worked out. I don't know how any woman could deal with that." Yoshi immediately twisted his neck to face a stern-looking Daisy. "I'm trying to say that you are the right one. You've stayed with him through the bad. And you're still here at the worst." He sighed again. "I just wish Mario would let Peach in, 'cause I think she'd do the same."

"And Father Sal?" she inquired. "What's his role in all of this?"

Yoshi shook his head. "I don't know. He was sent by the Church to California, I think, the year before. I'm not sure why he wasn't at the funeral. Getting to and from New York was a fucking mess for several months afterward, so I just assumed that he couldn't get there. Anthrax and shit."

They passed several moments in an awkward silence. "You know, it's interesting," resumed Daisy while staring at the semi-green backyard. "Had Father Sal been able to get to New York, he – not Jackie Morano – would have had custody of Luigi. Legitimately. In fact, he would have had the best claim. The priesthood aside."

As the Japanese opened his mouth to reply, they both heard a minor commotion from inside the house. Both curious and anxious, they went to the door and entered to find Rospo in a navy blue suit and white tee-shirt and a tired-looking Peach in a light-pink designer pants suit standing in the living room. "Peach, Rospo," greeted Yoshi neutrally. "What are you doing here?"

Her aide-de-camp put a comforting hand on his lady's shoulder. "It's the day before the anniversary. Are Mario and Luigi … here?"

The sound of Rospo and Peach walking into the house had stirred Giuseppe who slowly came out of Mario's bedroom. Rosary in hand, Salvatore was two or three steps behind him. "What the fuck is this?" he bit out at the Libyan and Italian. "He ain't here. He took off yesterday – already drunker than shit!"

"He's missing?" cried Peach. "Why the hell aren't you looking for him?!"

"Because a drunk Mario would be next to impossible to stop!" responded Joe angrily. "And neither Luigi nor I are in tip-top shape!" He scoffed and added, "Besides, you broke up with him, so what the hell do you care?"

The blonde gave him an incredulous glare. "What?! I never broke up with him! Where the hell did you get that idea?" she demanded. No one would face or answer her directly. After a few seconds, she repeated her question.

"Mario implied that you were, uh, cheating on him," mumbled Miles.

Peach's expression of anger shifted to one of horror, and she placed a hand over her mouth. "Oh, God. He must have seen … He misinterpreted … Yes, I told him that I needed a break … from the secrets, not from him! Fucking hell, why can't the bloody bloke talk to me directly?!" She screamed in sheer frustration. "I hate him, I truly and utterly detest him!" Turning to observe the shocked looks of Giuseppe, Father Sal, Yoshi, Miles, and Daisy, and Rospo's comprehending gaze, Peach growled, "It's a colleague of mine, that's all!"

An awkward stillness fell upon the house, except for Giuseppe's voice which snarled, "He lives up to his name – Mario."

Salvatore shook his head at the situation while a drowsy Luigi came down the stairs. "What's goin' on?" asked the latter.

"Your idiot fratello's being an idiot!" hissed Peach.

"Yeah, that's called Wednesday," deadpanned the green-shirted man, bouncing off the final step. "Could you be more specific? Or let me guess – his misinterpreted or invented a scenario in his head involving you and some guy?"

"More or less." Fighting back tears, she glared at Giuseppe and Father Sal. "Why? Why does he do this every year?!"

Giuseppe turned away from her while the priest chewed on his lip, upset in equal parts at his taciturn friend and at himself for having stayed away too long. Yoshi, Daisy, and Miles stared at them, interestedly awaiting their answer. "It's not my story to tell," the older plumber finally replied.

Father Sal gawked at Joe in disbelief. "Sul serio?" he hissed in Italian, fingering the ever-present cigarette pack and lighter in his black pants pocket. Facing Mario's family and friends, he went on in English, "Mario was on a plumbing job in Manhattan when it happened. That's a fact, Cristina. The rest … you'll need to ask him directly. Or perhaps … Joe here. He was there, too."

"Fuck you, Sal!" groused Joe irately, a tear escaping his right eye. "This ain't your business. And even if it were, you could never reveal it!"

"Isn't it?" he argued with a rare, grave tone. "Joe, you are my family. You, Mario, and Luigi. And it would seem that … Cristina and Daisy are, too. And Yoshi and Miles are our nipoti's chosen family. You, above all, would understand that." He moved to sit down on the couch and, facing Peach and Rospo, said, "Mario – Joe's brother and my late sister's husband – and I had our … difficulties. Fortunately, we were able to put them behind us before he died. I thank God for that every day. Most people don't get that chance." He smiled a little. "Mario – your Mario – is like his father in many respects. He's brave, kind, and wants to protect what he holds dear. Sometimes too much." Peach nodded at him, though she did not speak. "Sometimes imperfectly." Taking another breath against a sudden shakiness in his tenor, he went on, "What's between you and Mario is yours. Trust that."

No one spoke again for what seemed like hours; Luigi had stepped into Daisy's warm embrace, Yoshi and Miles communicated their apprehension through a series of eye shifts and blinks, Rospo comforted Peach as best as he could, and Joe continued to scowl at his childhood friend who ignored his piercing blue eyes from across the room. Turning weakly on his heel, the weakened plumber ambled back to Mario's room, with Salvatore moving quickly from the couch to position himself a few feet behind him. Then the door tapped against the frame, save a half-inch crack.


Later in the evening, Peach, Rospo, Luigi, Daisy, Yoshi, and Miles sat in a semi-circle within the dimly-lit living room. Luigi had dozed off for a half-hour, only to wake up gasping for air, presumably from a nightmare that he could not recall. As the sun set below the street outside, they heard a man, grunting and swearing about someone going on a goddamned diet, approach the front door. The olive-skinned Libyan-Venetian immediately went to the peephole and, surprise plastered over his face, allowed entrance for a taller, redheaded man in a black shirt and jeans and a smaller version of him propping up a noticeably intoxicated, unconscious Mario Masciarelli.

"Bowser?" exclaimed Rospo, crossing his arms suspiciously.

"Nah, it's Bill Gates, you Arab fuck! Help us get this fucking cazz' inside!" he growled, struggling against Mario's dead weight.

Immediately, Daisy, Miles, and Yoshi created space on the couch as Rospo, Luigi, Bowser, and his son, Ryan, eased the plumber upright into Luigi's previous spot. Peach swore in Italian and grabbed her medical bag to examine him. After inspecting his eyes, reactivity, respiration, and pulse, she sadly remarked, "He's worse than usual. We'll have to take him to hospital for alcohol poisoning." Without looking up at him, she yelled, "How could you give him Jack Daniels, John?!"

Bowser pointed a long and large finger at his ex-sister-in-law. "I didn't serve him! And neither did Junior! Everyone knows not to serve him that shit, especially before or on the 11th! The stupid asshole apparently came into the bar when I was out doin' inventory. Ryan had already started his shift and found him semi-collapsed in a booth." He felt a penetrating gaze from behind, and he turned to find Salvatore and Giuseppe watching vigilantly. "I swear!" he insisted, his brown eyes widening at the man in black.

"So how'd he end up drunker than before?" hissed Joe.

"I don't know. But it didn't come from my bar!"

"Um, he had an almost finished black label clutched in his hand. I took it and threw it out. No alcohol from the outside," murmured Bowser Junior.

"Jesus!" the older plumber swore. "How … How the fuck did he get another bottle?! And how did he not … get picked up by the cops?"

"Basta!" interjected Peach loudly. "We need to get him to the nearest ER. He's ingested two bottles of Jack Daniels within a day, possibly thirty-six hours." She fished out her smartphone and dialed 911 to call for an ambulance. Identifying herself as a physician and providing medically relevant information to the operator, she ordered Luigi and Yoshi to keep him upright to avoid choking or nausea-related aspiration. After two minutes, she hung up and announced, "They're on their way."

Salvatore spoke to the Bowsers, "John, you better go. Cousin Jackie probably won't be thrilled to know that you're in the vicinity of cops or EMTs. You'll be left out of this, provided that you're telling the truth."

He nodded and, grabbing Ryan by the shoulder to move toward the door, said, "Father, I would never give him J.D., and certainly not on the anniversary of Jumpman's death." He and Ryan then disappeared back to the Koopa Bar.

Familiar giggling and drunken moaning interrupted the uneasy wait for the ambulance. "Ah," voiced Mario, whose red tee-shirt and jeans were saturated with body odor, dirt, and booze. "Heh, Peachie. I muss' be drunk. Peachie's ge'in fucked. Nah by me." She rolled her eyes and attempted to ignore his obvious provocation. "Whaasss wrong, Peachie? His dick no' big 'nuff?"

"Shut up, you stronzo!" she snapped, checking her watch.

"His dick … teeny-weeny," he crooked his index finger and giggled some more. "Weenie, heh." Yoshi covered his mouth to hide the unintentional laugh at the ridiculousness as well as the misery of the situation. "'Ey, Weegie … Yosh-ee …. Gaw a micra-po-scope?"

To redirect his attention, Father Sal walked over to the inebriated man and took one of his thick hands. "Mario, just take it easy, alright?"

"'M aight. Jus' wanna know … how Peachie's date wasss. Ask now 'cause I won't member soon," he replied.

"You want to know how my date was, Mario?" she screamed in exasperation. "There wasn't one, you bloody tosser! Rather, I've been here waiting on your pissed arse!"

Mario began to giggle again. "Ssssorry kept yer byoo-ty ass waitin'. Was too busy tryn'a scape hell."

Frowning, Peach was about to demand what he had meant when the EMTs arrived. Everyone moved out of the way so that they could take his vitals and determine the severity of symptoms. Deciding to take him to Maimonides as a precaution, the men semi-forcibly strapped Mario, who maintained that he was in perfect health, onto the hospital gurney and loaded him into the ambulance. As they left, Rospo, Luigi, Yoshi, and Peach collected the basics – purse, shoes, identification, medical insurance card – then rushed to Borough Park. Despite her pleas to accompany him, Luigi firmly told Daisy to stay with Salvatore, Joe, and Miles. Kissing her fully on the lips and on the back of her hand, he promised to return as soon as possible.

Silence fell on the living room once more, except for Joe, who made two phone calls; first, he called DK to let him know that Mario had been found and was being taken to the hospital; second, he left a voicemail for Lucia notifying her of the same and begging her not to tell Mia. Still exhausted, he sunk down into the couch and propped himself against its arm. Daisy sat on the other side, though she remained quiet. The back door pushed open to reveal Father Sal who had gone outside for a badly-needed cigarette. His eyes became soft, shifting between the young woman and Giuseppe. Placing a gentle, reassuring hand on her shoulder, he went into the kitchen for another cup of coffee which, he reasoned, was better than succumbing once more to the temptation in his pocket. As he prepared another espresso, the priest fetched a fresh Gatorade from the refrigerator, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to the plumber. "Drink it, tesoro mio," he sternly ordered. The stubborn man rolled his eyes before taking the container and sipping the cold liquid. Coffee in hand, Salvatore sat between Giuseppe and Daisy, every so often glancing furtively at his friend to make sure he was staying hydrated. They tried to get him to eat, yet the plumber groaned, his stomach queasy from the treatments as well as from stress and grief.

Daisy tried not to wrinkle her nose at the smell of stale cigarettes that had permeated the priest's black and white clothing. Thankfully, it appeared as though, like Luigi, Father Sal only smoked when he was under extreme duress, and the pungent smell would eventually dissipate. Nonetheless, she was beginning to see the wisdom of her father's objection to living with Mario and Luigi. While this situation was extraordinary, she witnessed a deep lack of communication and history of secret-keeping that were destroying both the Rigassis and Masciarellis. Lauded for their toughness and strength, these Bensonhurst plumbers had never properly dealt with the loss of their firefighter father, nor had the previous generation adequately prepared them for Pete Morello and Carlo Morano. Fortunately, Luigi had begun to see it, and was breaking away from the family drama; however, she feared that Uncle Joe, Father Sal, and Pete would attempt to pull him back into the fold. Did she want to deal with this on top of everything else, as Yoshi had suggested? Luigi's sexy, yet nervous grin from the first time they had met popped into her mind; he was worth it. It was not his fault that he was born to the Rigassis or the Masciarellis; it would, however, be up to him as to how he dealt with it. It was his life – their life.

Giuseppe soon fell asleep in the crook of the couch. Father Sal set his small coffee on the table and asked Miles to help him arrange the lanky man lengthwise. Daisy rose and, lightly gripping his leg and back, assisted the men with making him more comfortable. Covering his body with a yarn blanket, Salvatore crouched on the floor next to the couch, leaning his body toward his napping friend. Daisy and Miles exchanged a questioning look, though the priest was unaware of it, too focused on the pale and drained man, whose glasses had slipped down to the bottom of his sweat-slick nose. With an olive-skinned finger, Salvatore readjusted the man's spectacles on his nose, knowing that he did not like to wake up without them nearby.

Deciding to go outside for fresh air, Daisy exited to the enclosed backyard, the night sky highlighted by street lamps and neighboring houses on 62nd Street and 17th Avenue. Miles followed her and shut it behind him. "Miles, I feel like a voyeur in some drama that I only have half the plot, but everyone else seems to know," she murmured, staring out at the shadows on the lawn.

"You and I both," he replied. "I've been friends with Luigi since I was in third grade. Not for quite as long as Yoshi, but still. Sometimes, Daisy, I don't really know him. Mario and Luigi's father did a good job keeping us blissfully unaware of the family drama. Giuseppe, too. Up until recently, Father Sal was present, but not. And … even I don't know half of what happened thirteen years ago. My older brother, who's … sort of friends with Mario, never really knew, either. But he, uh, had a theory."

Hugging herself against the falling temperature, she turned to him. "What was the theory?"

Miles sighed and rubbed his face with his right hand, debating on how much to say. "Well, we never knew precisely what Mario was doing in Manhattan. He was just about done with his apprenticeship and was, like a month or so, away from making journeyman. He'd have been a bit more independent, and Sal Maldonado probably thought of him more or less as a journeyman by that point. It'd have made the most sense to assume he was on a job. Down there. At some point, he found Joe."

"So they were both there?"

He nodded. "That's what my brother thought."

"So … was he … trapped inside one of the Towers?" she inquired, abruptly afraid of his answer. "You heard him – he said something about 'escaping hell.'"

"I don't know. My brother was pretty sure that he and Giuseppe were together, though. At least for a day, maybe two. Neither have ever discussed it, and Luigi's blanked out that week entirely."

She shook her head. "I don't get it. Why are they refusing to talk about it?" Inhaling to control her temper, she lowered her voice, "I can't imagine … losing my own father or a sibling, especially that way. But I can see why Peach is upset; she doesn't know what's going on, and hasn't known for years!"


Cones; orange and white traffic cones everywhere. Mario beheld the scene in a stupor, heavy dust stinging his blue eyes and caking the inside of his mouth. He could not hear anything of the normal honks and zooms of Manhattan traffic; his surroundings were at a hush except for a persistent, yet intense ringing, like microphone feedback. The almost white-gray dust mixed with a sea of paper, post-its, smashed furniture, glass, and … He avoided looking down at the ground any longer. Something tore from his throat; its sound indiscernible – crying, screaming, moaning, shouting – it all sounded the same to him.

"Keep it moving! C'mon, let's get the fuck outta here!" he heard a police officer yell. Glancing over to the man, he was also blanketed in the same dust.

Aimlessly, Mario continued down the street. As the dust hovered in the air, which obscured the formerly perfect blue, mid-morning sky, he was unable to orient himself properly. He thought that he might have been heading back north; disobeying the officer, the plumber paused to hack up more of the dust and sidestep more of the traffic cones.

"Mario, Christ!" shouted a familiar voice. He wiped his thin mustache and mouth, shook the powder out of his curls, and then looked up to find his uncle, Giuseppe, who was covered in a layer of the whitish hue. Putting his left hand on his nephew's shoulder and holding up the fiber optic cameras with his right, he roared, "Let's go. Paddy's here!"

Mario awoke in a hospital bed. His arm was hooked to a vital signs monitor and an IV bag containing various fluids. His head was still swimming and the limited contents of his stomach threatened to climb up his esophagus. Moaning, he slowly turned to an angry, teary-eyed Peach sitting at his bedside, a worried, but more comprehending Yoshi leaning against the wall, and a blank-looking Luigi on the other side of the bed closest to his monitor and IV.

"Peach …" he breathed weakly.

Though she glared at him, she squeezed his hand reassuringly. "You're at Maimonides, amore. They rushed you here after you tried to turn your bloodstream into Jack Daniels."

"'M sorry," rasped the plumber. "Didn't … wa' … remember." Once again, he returned to unconsciousness.

Fresh tears falling from her blue eyes, the woman in pink began to vibrate in fury. "Yoshi, Luigi, what the hell is he talking about?!"

"Peach, he … may have been there," Yoshi said quietly, staring at Luigi, who shook his head blankly.

"He was where?!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" hissed the Japanese, dragging a hand through his black hair. "You fucking know where! Do I need to spell it out for you, Peach?! There! The Towers!" Taking a deep breath to avoid censure from the nurses, especially at the early-morning hour, he spun to face the wall and away from his friend's lover.

Peach's stunned eyes shifted between the still-blank Luigi and Yoshi, and she put a hand over her lips, shaking her head. "No … No, no, no, no! Luigi, tell me that isn't true! Please!"

Luigi sadly shook his head. "I … I can't," he whimpered. "I meant what I said before. I don't remember anything except …" He paused, and his blue eyes began glassy. "Mario coming home … about thirty-six, maybe two days … afterward. He … he was covered in dust and ashes …"

Letting out a pained sob, she launched herself out of the chair and ran out of the hospital room toward the exit.

The younger plumber chewed on his lip, then followed his cognata out of Mario's room, past the security guards, and down the hall to the entrance. Walking past the automatic sliding doors, he approached the distraught blonde softly by placing a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Peach," he murmured. "I … I didn't think I remembered anything. And I've actively tried." He sighed. "Maybe it was inevitable."

She wiped her eyes with her hand. "I should have known. That's what Giuseppe meant. He said to Mario that he needed to tell me the truth. He knew if he was affected, then so might he, depending on how long he was there. Fucking wanker! But … the Army would've checked his lungs … several times over. Nothing. Right?" Her voice seemed unsure at the last few words.

"As far as I know, yeah, he's … fine. Except in the head," affirmed Luigi with a nod. "I don't think he was down there for nearly as long. Joe was part of the search and rescue for months. Mario was already gone to Basic by October."

She nodded. "I'll order a pulmonary exam once he recovers. Bastard shan't escape that!"

His younger brother chuckled. "I'll even help hold him down. Yoshi'll grab his legs."

Peach managed to laugh a little through her tears. "Fucking Staff Sergeant Mario Masciarelli! If I didn't … love him like I do."

"He loves you, y'know." The blonde turned to face Luigi, whose blue eyes were a mess of sapphire, periwinkle, ice, and fire. "I know … he does really stupid, self-destructive things. I know he's hurt you. And God knows I've wanted to kill him more than once! But this … is different. The only reason why the stupid scimmione acts like this is because … he's hiding from … God knows what. From himself. From us. I don't know. If he was in … Manhattan, at the … Towers like Yoshi suggested, then … he may have been looking for our father. Like Uncle Joe."

"And … he never found him," echoed Peach, all of sudden afraid of the ramifications. Shedding a silent tear, she mumbled, "Christ, he blames himself."

"Yeah," responded Luigi, his own voice filled with unexpressed emotion. "But I get the impression that … there's more. And that, I have no clue."

The physician nodded again. "Yeah, so do I. He won't be … forthcoming, either. But he needs to express it to someone, otherwise I fear it'll kill him in the end. But for now, cognato, you need to go home. Be there for Giuseppe and Daisy. This can't be an easy time for him."

"No," he answered carefully. "My father and he were extremely close. Almost fraternal twins, depending on who you ask. But Mario's my …"

"Luigi," interrupted Peach in a gentle tone while grasping his hands, "he's your fratello. I know. But I am his … cuore, as he is mine. Please. It's my time now. Your Daisy's waiting at home. I'll call you once he's conscious."

They exchanged a watery, understanding look before the tall plumber began to amble toward the visitor's parking to drive home to the A-frame and Daisy.


Luigi returned to Bensonhurst around four in the morning to find Miles and Daisy watching Doctor Who on his laptop in the living room. Giuseppe had gone to bed around midnight, Salvatore following him into the bedroom as he had done in the past day. Kissing and embracing his lover, the green-shirted plumber whispered that Mario had been admitted indefinitely for alcohol poisoning and post-traumatic stress disorder. Peach and Yoshi still at the hospital, he told them that the former would call him the moment his brother regained both sobriety and consciousness. Unable to sleep, he watched reruns of the Ninth Doctor with his girlfriend and Miles until dawn, the East Coast sun peaking over the somber gray clouds.

Sometime between five and six o'clock, Daisy fell asleep upon her lion's chest. Her warm weight serving as a comfort to him, he occasionally kissed her hairline, caressing it with his thumb. Afterward, he murmured a promise of the date of the century to her, and he would save up to buy her a diamond necklace and earrings. Diamonds? He surprised himself with the sudden desire to purchase expensive jewelry for his lioness; a penny pincher like his father, he nonetheless wanted her to see as well as feel his gratitude for enduring this trial of trauma and stress. Or perhaps a designer tennis racket? It felt peculiar, feeling a sliver of optimism on today of all days.

He heard faint noises coming from the bedroom at a little past six-thirty, which told him that one or both zii were awake. Prying himself from underneath the snoozing Daisy, Luigi crept up the stairs for a quick shower in case either Salvatore wanted to use some hot water. Apparently, both Daisy and Miles had taken turns using the upstairs bathroom while he was at the hospital. Fifteen minutes later, the plumber, now dressed in black slacks and a simple white dress shirt, traded places with Father Sal, who had indeed gone looking for a shower. The downstairs bathroom light and water turned on at quarter past seven, which roused the lioness from her sleep on the couch. Taking an unspoken cue from her lover as to the day's events, including attire, she groggily went upstairs as Salvatore came down, having dressed in clean vestments down to the green chasuble suitable for celebrating mass. Miles momentarily panicked, as his clothes were in his suitcase, but Luigi gestured to him that they still had another hour and a half – at least. He glanced at his phone; unsurprisingly, there was neither text nor voice message. At ten minutes to eight, Daisy descended the stairs; like Luigi, she was somberly vested in a long-sleeved, calf-length black crepe dress which she had brought just in case. The blond rushed upstairs to change as Giuseppe slowly made his way into the living room. Having borrowed one of Luigi's Italian gray pants and cream-colored shirts that, following chemotherapy, hung somewhat loosely on him, Joe was nonetheless fitted, and he took a seat on the end of the couch to wait for Father Sal and Miles. A firm knock suddenly fetched the priest's attention, and he hurriedly went to answer it; he proceeded to have a discreet conversation in Spanish with Father Ramirez, who presented him with the necessities for celebrating a mass with the bishop's blessing. Thanking his colleague and friend profusely, he took the gold chalice, wine, and bread.

Yoshi and Birdo were next to arrive; like Luigi, Daisy, and Giuseppe, they were vested in professional, though black clothes. However, much to Luigi's inward relief, the small Taiwanese clutched a box of French and Italian croissants and pastries. Miles, who reappeared in a dark gray suit, off-white dress shirt, and matching gray bowtie, joined in the impromptu breakfast. Giuseppe was able to swallow a few bites of a chocolate-covered cornetto, and Salvatore handed him – much to his renewed kvetching – yet another Gatorade bottle when he caught the frail man eyeing the coffee. Once he had finished about a third of the bottle, his nephew handed him a small cup of espresso from which he immediately drank. Then Luigi, phone to his ear, left for the outside patio. The remaining four youths – Yoshi, Birdo, Miles, and Daisy – sat around the dining room table inside the kitchen, box of pastries at its center.

"Any news about Mario?" asked Birdo quietly while sipping her coffee.

Miles shook his head. "Lou got back pretty late last night. I assume he's calling Peach now."

She nodded. "Are we going out to the cemetery, or are we remaining here?"

"The Professor's taken care of the flowers, so I'm not sure. I think Father Sal's having mass here," whispered Yoshi. Birdo made an 'oh' with her lips, yet said nothing more.

Father Sal ambled into the kitchen, his brown eyes immediately focused on the table. "Mass will start around noon. I don't yet know if Lucia will return to Staten Island; if she needs more time to travel from Manhattan, we'll wait. But eventually, I'll need to move the table into the living room."

"Will you have enough space?" inquired Daisy. She had never attended a mass; even though many of her high-school friends were Roman Catholic, her father steadfastly refused his permission for her to step foot inside any church, let alone for a Catholic mass. Once or twice out of curiosity, she attended Anglican services with a few of her Nigerian and Anglo-Saxon flatmates in Oxford. Personal prayer or a 'personal relationship with Jesus Christ,' as such, was a foreign concept; her Christian friends attempted to explain it to her, yet her Sephardic soul shook its head uncomprehendingly at the absence of an ever-present, soothing, communal voice.

The priest seemed to sense her apprehension and smiled. "It won't be a problem. It'll be similar to your nahala or meldado in spirit."

"Yeah, we'll help move the table when the time comes," affirmed Yoshi.

"Perfetto. We'll, uh, gather in the living room in," he checked his wristwatch, "about thirty minutes. So we should probably move everything into position in twenty."

Luigi entered the kitchen, phone in hand. "So, um … Mario's still unconscious, and they're gonna keep him for at least another day. He's physically expected to make a full recovery, but mentally, they … they don't know yet." At the shakiness of his last words, Daisy rose from her chair and embraced him, which he appreciatively returned with a quick kiss on her lips.

Salvatore gave a perfunctory nod as Birdo buried her head into a dismayed Yoshi's chest.

"God," she gasped. "I can't even …"

Smiling again, the priest answered, "Mario's tough; he'll pull through. He's made it this long without hitting bottom. And sometimes … hitting bottom obliges a badly-needed change." He walked over to the green table. "C'mon, gents; help me lift this heavy thing."

Miles, Yoshi, Luigi, and – to Birdo's laughter and Salvatore's puzzled gaze – Daisy moved to take a section of the heavy, seventies-era oval-shaped furniture and carried it from the kitchen to the front of the living room. Father Sal gently helped the semi-slumbering Giuseppe from the couch so that Miles and Yoshi could push it back a few feet. Luigi and Daisy rearranged the Lazy-Boy similarly. Joe resituated himself on the couch; as he was about to close his eyes, he felt a buzz in his pants pocket. Grumbling, he fished out the small iPhone and replied, "Hey, Lu. Yeah … Yeah, I'm," he sighed and looked at the clock, "I'm hangin' in there. Yeah, okay. Yeah. Love you and the girls, too. Bye." Once the call ended, he faced the questioning Luigi, Daisy, Miles, Yoshi, Birdo, and an unreadable Salvatore, who was alternating between his friend and preparations for the afternoon mass. "They're in line at the site. My daughter Maria's coming at noon. Lu and Lucy are going with Paulie and Addy to my sister's and mother's in Jersey."

Once he was finished, Father Sal checked his watch again. 8:41 a.m. "Miles, you think that you can help me with something?" The blond looked quizzically at him. In the same box, he fetched a small VCR tape, player, and a couple cords, including a coaxial cable. "You think you can hook it up to the flat screen? It's old tech, but it's, uh, important."

"Uh, yeah, I think I can. Yosh?" The Japanese looked up and, studying the pieces of audiovisual equipment, nodded in agreement.

As the two techies set about hooking up the flat screen to the VCR, Giuseppe stared at the clock which was rapidly approaching a certain time that he would never forget.

Regular in hand from the bodega down the street, a dark-haired Joe Masciarelli approached a small group of two plumbers leaning against the company truck – Brooklyn Plumbing and Mechanical Works, Inc – parked on the side of the street next to a large brown brick, multi-story residential building. Both of them each had a paper cup of coffee and were commenting on the radio program – Howard Stern.

"What the shit?" demanded Joe with a pretend scowl. "Youse are on company time!"

A chuckling Mario shrugged and took a sip of coffee. "Yeah, Zio, we just got done de-clogging a bathtub filled with tangled black hair. The gift that keeps on giving! We're waiting for Sal to send us to our next shithole. In the meantime," he glanced up at the blue sky, "it's a beautiful day."

"And youse still listenin' to that jerk?" the older man asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Hail the King of Radio!" responded the journeyman, Phil, who was only a few years older than Mario. "Anyway, what are you doin' in SoHo? I thought you were the King of Staten Island?"

Joe rolled his eyes, shook his head, and drank from his own cup. "Getting my balls busted by two kids!" he growled. "I'm supposed to grab an early lunch with Mario's father. Since my journeyman's handling the jobs down south, I thought I'd take the ferry and come up here for a few hours. Then I ran into youse." He smirked at the two young men, "Free entertainment."

Mario opened his mouth to deliver a characteristically smartass comment when a strange and loud roar flew overhead at an immense speed toward the Financial District. All three heads and pairs of eyes looked up and, following the noise, twisted their necks down the street. "What the fuck was that?" hissed the red-shirted plumber.

"Sounded like a plane," murmured Phil, still staring down the street.

"If it was a plane, it was flyin' low – way too low above Manhattan," replied Joe, who shivered against an ethereal chill in his bones.

Across the flat screen television flickered a previously recorded Super 8 film from the early 1970s featuring Mario Senior, Gabriella, Giuseppe, Pete and Laura Morello, Audenzia, and Salvatore when he was not filming. Luigi, who took Daisy's hand in shock, mumbled that he had never seen this before. As the group watched the soundless technicolor of a long-forgotten summer day at Coney Island, a tear escaped the left eye and thick glasses of the now middle-aged man. The second film was taken six months after Mario Senior and Gabriella's high-school graduation; both Yoshi and Luigi exchanged a wide-eyed look at the almost petit, wavy-haired Abruzzese in a flat cap without his characteristic mustache. He was tossing a snowball at a tall, curly-haired lanky kid with glasses. Behind them came the black-vested, mischievous Salvatore who dropped a handful of fluffy snow down the spectacled Giuseppe's drawers. Following his visible shock, the latter began to chase the shorter boy while a sniggering Mario fell to his knees in the snow. Luigi audibly gasped at the brief film of his parents' wedding in 1977, and he turned to face the teary-eyed Father Sal whose regard never left the screen. Daisy rubbed his back as they saw his young parents and a baby, then toddler, Mario; by the early 1980s, Mario Senior had begun to round out and take the appearance that Luigi, Yoshi, and Miles remembered – a portly, yet extremely muscular, mustachioed firefighter.

About thirty minutes into the tape, time seemed to skip a full decade into the mid-1990s, corresponding with Father Sal's absence from New York. The first of these short films was one of Mario's high-school baseball games, in which he scored a Grand Slam and nearly shattered the bat in the process. This time, however, there was sound, and they all heard Mario Senior's voice jubilantly yelling, "Holy shit! That's my figlio!" The second featured the firefighter in full dress uniform receiving his certificate of promotion to lieutenant from the commissioner and deputy mayor. Though he was smiling, his body language screamed, Get me the fuck off this goddamned stage! Both Luigi and Joe snickered at the memory; he loved being the hero, but loathed the schmoozing with the brass and politicians. Regardless of the political party, he always called them "Slimy Assholes, Psychopaths, and Inglorious Fucktards." The third was of Luigi being confirmed at Saint Rosalia's Church, with Father Sal as the celebrant. Though proud of his youngest son, Mario Senior seemed bored and uncomfortable with the ceremony, and Giuseppe was angry-whispering something to Lucia, who rolled her eyes at her husband, no doubt at the thousandth 'critique' of young Luigi's chosen name of Isidoro. As the adult Luigi wiped a tear from his cheek, he managed a mutual laugh with the knowing Daisy. The final film, taken in 2000, was of a nearly fourteen-year-old Luigi performing a segment of Le Corsaire for his school talent show. Although there was audio, the audience, including Mario Senior, Mario, Pauline, Giuseppe, Lucia, and Yoshi, was completely silent except for the delighted gasps at his 540 rivoltades and floating jumps. At the end, a glassy-eyed Mario Senior, who shook his head in wonder, spoke to Father Sal and the camera, "Goddamn can that kid jump! He's a diamond."

Luigi's tears, which had been sporadic, now fell freely down his cheeks. Mid-sob, he put his head against Daisy's shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him to give the comfort that she was able. Giuseppe bit his lip and, wiping a tear from his own cheek at the sight, closed his eyes in a mixture of jealousy, anguish, and sorrow. Their son was indeed a diamond; though his older brother had only been in Luigi's life for roughly one third of it, he managed to summarize Luigi's special nature more eloquently than he could have. And he hated him for it. From across the room, the older plumber felt Salvatore's brown eyes on him, reading his innermost thoughts of envy and regret. I'm sorry, kid, that I couldn't find him for ya. I'm sorry that it wasn't me in his place, figlio mio. He felt the masculine arms and fabric of the green chasuble around him. Opening his eyes to soft brown orbs peering into his soul, he watched as Father Sal reached for his left hand; tracing a long-forgotten scar on its palm, he tapped Luigi on his shoulder, took the young man's right hand, and placed it in his uncle's. He then covered his right hand over their clasped hands.

10:28 a.m.

A knock rapped against the front door. Unwilling to disturb the moment between the three men, Yoshi rose to open it, stepping aside for five men in dress blues similar to those worn by Lieutenant Mario Masciarelli in the portrait sitting atop the mantle. The leader, a man in his early fifties, removed his cap and rasped, "We're here to pay our respects."

Giuseppe directed his gaze to the man. "Robbie, glad to see ya."

Captain Robbie McCollough, the second son of the late Fire Chief Paddy McCollough, placed his cap underneath his arm. His men, who had been mere probies on 9/11, followed their commanding officer's gesture and formed a protective semi-circle around the group of mourners in the living room.