Author's notes: Thanks to everyone who have given reviews and kudos. Apparently, two characters have made quite a splash, lol. How's about another round? As always, please read, review, or favorite the story if you're so inclined; while it's certainly not required, it is very appreciated. For Fanfiction dot net, I will make my decision whether to move the remaining chapters of the story by the end of the month, so please stay tuned.

Finally, don't forget to submit your game entries by March 10th!


Chapter 41: Homeward Bound

Following the disastrous dinner at Daisy's parents' loft, he had gone home to their place in Park Slope and had spent the night curled around the pillows that still carried the scent of her mandarin orange shampoo. Then he spent the day in blank numbness; he recalled robotically finalizing the paperwork for Johnny Scapelli, who had apparently spent a good portion of the evening with his brother and had so enjoyed himself that he requested to be paired with him in the future. Thereafter, he stared vacantly at his prototype until the end of his workday. He received no texts or calls from Daisy, which only made his despondency worse. Instead of returning to Bensonhurst, he let himself into the studio and thanked the stars that he had his weekly therapy appointment.

Luigi sat mindlessly in front of his laptop for the next half-hour, waiting for Dr. Czernin to log on to Skype. Suddenly feeling the desk vibrate from the Skype ringtone emanating from his computer, the plumber snapped out of his distress and answered the incoming call. A smiling Rosalina, teacup in hand, appeared on the screen. Upon viewing the emotionless Luigi, who was also carrying a day and a half's worth of facial hair, the blonde's grin immediately disappeared. "Luigi, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

The plumber shrugged lightly. "I had Rosh Hashanah dinner with Daisy's parents; it did not go well."

She nodded gravely. "I'm so sorry. May I ask what happened? Did they … say something to you?"

He laughed mirthlessly and replied, "In a manner of speaking. They definitely don't approve of Daisy dating an Italian Catholic and …" Rosalina's eyes widened a little to encourage him, but he hid his face in his hands. "Dr. Czernin, I … I haven't been completely honest with you."

"Oh?" she said in a light tone, taking a sip of her tea to hide her growing alarm at both his admission and his short breaths that sounded like a brewing panic attack.

"Yeah," gasped Luigi. "I … Remember what I told you about my cousin and great-uncle? The Mafia? Well … I just fuckin' found out my uncle – the priest of all people – was in it, too. And they're lookin' at me to carry on the family tradition. Daisy's father did a background check on me and found out about the Moranos and Rigassis. You can imagine how little they like me now."

She took another sip of her drink, at that moment preferring whiskey or vodka to chamomile. Inasmuch as she wanted to comfort him, as a parent, she could hardly blame his girlfriend's father. While she had never encountered, let alone counseled members of organized crime, she knew that the most successful mafiosi tended toward extreme sociopathy and malignant narcissism. Whereas Luigi had difficulties with abandonment and avoidance, they stemmed from complex post-traumatic stress disorder, his father's violent death, and victimization by the Mafia. As a clinician, she was comfortable in asserting that the chances of him joining the Mafia were less probable than her becoming Jeff Bezos. However, a highly-respected lawyer would undoubtedly hesitate over his daughter, who aspired to a legal career, embarking on a relationship with a man whose family was connected to career-criminals and murderers. "What was Daisy's response?" she finally inquired.

"She defended me," he whispered so faintly that the psychiatrist had to lean into her laptop's speakers to hear. "I got what I wanted. But at what cost? I've created a schism between her and her parents. And she's so smart! Her prospective career shouldn't be cut short or derailed because of me! She deserves a good life, a family!"

"All the things that you were denied?" Luigi's mouth fell open at Dr. Czernin's rejoinder. After a few moments of silence, she added, "Luigi, if she defended you, and she's smart, then trust that she knows what she wants." Taking a sip of her chamomile, Rosalina continued, "I won't … pretend that I don't understand her father's position; as a mother, I would be … concerned about my child's partner belonging to a Mafia family. But you're not responsible for your family's actions. You are your own person – a good one, at that – and we all have free will. You are not them. She seems to know that, too. So why is her father's opinion so important to you?"

The plumber slouched in the wooden dining room chair and looked at a corner off-screen, considering his therapist's question. "I guess … It's like you said. I want Daisy to have the things I didn't. I … I've been having thoughts. What-ifs. Of her – of us. I've been in a relationship with her for eight months, and I … I love her, Dr. Czernin. I'm in love with her. I've never felt like this before, and I want … I want to live with her long-term and …" He forced his eyes to the screen and mumbled, "I want to create a family with her. And … her father's such a vital part of her life."

She nodded. "Does Daisy know how you feel?"

"She knows that I'm in love with her, yeah. I've told her. As for the rest … not yet. I wonder if eight months isn't a little soon, and I don't want to scare or pressure her. I'm living part-time in her studio. That's where I am now. The studio … was a truce with her father, so I didn't want to push the issue further. I'm … I'm trying to be patient and trust that she will come to me when she's ready."

Humming to herself, Rosalina set the teacup down and inquired, "What happens if you can't get Daisy's father to accept you?"

He froze. "I … I … I don't know," he eventually finished with a stutter.

"That's okay, Luigi. I put the question to you because it sounds like Daisy's parents are observant Jews. While some are welcoming of non-Jews in the family, many are not. My paternal cousin married a Jewish man; his parents demanded that they break up. Only after she converted to Judaism and agreed to raise the children Jewish did they tolerate her. But she never got their love or acceptance. She and her husband eventually divorced due to the strain. The moral of this story is that … my cousin had never considered the ramifications of merely being tolerated. She spent all her energy trying to be the Jew that they wanted instead of prioritizing her marriage and relationship."

Luigi absently nodded once more, listening to the echo of Daisy's words in his mind: If you want to end our relationship, do it because you're no longer in love with me or are otherwise unhappy. I can take it; I'm a big girl. But don't do it because of Harry Abravanel or Pete Morello. "How do I do that if there's strain because of her parents?" he asked softly.

"That's something you need to discuss with Daisy. Truth be told, you probably scare her father because you represent his daughter's sexuality. Again, I haven't met him, so I can't say for certain. But it isn't uncommon for fathers, especially those have been the primary caregiver, to be … uncomfortable meeting their child's partner."

Chuckling, he gave a slight nod. Giuseppe. "Yeah, my uncle Joe acted similarly when she stayed with us during the, uh, anniversary. It wasn't that he disliked her, but …," he took advantage of his pause to wipe his nose with a tissue, "I don't think he was quite ready to see me as a man."

Rosalina smiled and sipped her tea. "Remember, Luigi, that Daisy's father has just met you. Relationships develop over time. And what were your impressions of him? You're welcome to have your opinion, too."

"Well," he began, "to be honest, I thought he was an arrogant prick. When they did speak, Harry kept calling me 'ijit,' and his wife, Yael, made snide comments about Italy and Italians. It pissed me off because I've never made anti-Semitic comments or even thought them! Where the fuck do they get off on insulting me?"

"And that was not okay," the psychiatrist agreed. "They shouldn't have insulted you."

"Daisy wasn't a fan of it, either, and called them out," he said with a smirk. "She eviscerated their behavior in … one of the best closing arguments I've ever heard."

"It sounds like she supported you."

"She did," he acknowledged. "Like I said, I got what I wanted. I just wonder … whether it was worth it for her."

On screen, Luigi saw her shift in her chair and, setting the cup down, stared at a corner to reflect upon his words. "Well, let's shift this a bit and table what Daisy thinks for the moment. How did you feel about Daisy's comments to her parents?"

"I felt … proud, love, and … embarrassment. It was one of the best commentaries on conduct that I've ever heard. Basically, she said that I shouldn't be held liable for my maternal side's actions. No one has ever defended me like that. Not even my older brother. But I felt embarrassed because … Actually, I don't know. I just felt … less than in their eyes."

Dr. Czernin nodded in comprehension. "Did you feel like you deserved that defense, Luigi?"

He scoffed and shrugged leisurely. "Honestly? No." At her silent request for an explanation, he conceded, "I … They're right in a way. I told Daisy that she'd, like me, feel the same way if our child brought home the Scion of the Mafia."

"Well, you're not the Scion of the Mafia," she interjected in a casual tone. "But perhaps … you're being a little hard on yourself? And you're being a bit hard on Daisy. Be careful that you're not moving the goal posts on her." She put her hands up to anticipate his defensive reaction. "You said that you wanted her to … step up to the plate with her family and move toward independence. It sounds to me that she's genuinely trying to do just that. She has her own place, a job, and has stood up to her parents. No, they did not treat you kindly. But that isn't her fault … Just as you're not responsible for the Moranos or Rigassis. Remember that we can't control the actions of others; we control only ourselves." Luigi cast his eyes downward in recognition and shame. Rosalina dropped her voice to a soothing lilt, "In our previous sessions, we've talked about how people have moved in and out of your life, either due to their … we'll call them choices or untimely death; perhaps you want Daisy's parents to like you because you're afraid that they, and by default she, will leave you." He lifted his teary blue eyes and started to sob. Unable to comfort him from thousands of miles away, she waited until he grabbed a tissue and calmed down a little before speaking again. "It's common among people with longstanding PTSD to try to project a perfect, flawless image of themselves to keep loved ones from the … fear and shame that they often feel. But … no one's perfect." She smiled at him. "Not you, not Daisy, and not even … Harry Abravanel. Trying to be perfect only … ends up pushing people away."

Luigi sighed tiredly, his throat rough from crying. "So, what do I do instead? I mean, I want to be with her. She's smart, funny, beautiful, and I feel safe with her. She's so … brave. Nothing seems to unnerve her. When she sets her mind to something, she does it. I love the fact that she falls asleep so easily and hates ketchup almost as much as I do. She hums as she brushes her teeth. She's the only person I know who gets so excited over shit in a pan." Upon seeing his therapist's amused expression, he clarified, "It's a dish from Sicily and Naples – pasta with olives, capers, herbs, tomato paste. It's honestly the lowest form of pasta, yet she loves it."

She picked up her tea and drank a little. "My advice? Tell her exactly what you told me. Then follow her lead. It's important that you work as a team. I won't lie to you; it's challenging for anyone, but you have … the added psychological fleas of surviving alone as an adolescent. You're comfortable with being lonely. A successful relationship requires joint decision-making." He nodded again. "But I'd like to change the subject a little. You mentioned that your uncle was in the Mafia. Was it Giuseppe? No, that's not right – he's a plumber. The priest."

"Yeah," he sniffed. "Father Sal. Salvatore Rigassi. He, uh, is made – a full member. I don't know much about him; I didn't even know that he was made until a few weeks ago. At some point, he left Brooklyn and became a priest. I didn't even meet him until '95. I went to Catholic school until high school; for some reason, my father didn't transfer me to a public school. Anyway, when I realized that I was … different, and the other kids saw me being pulled aside for private lessons, they, uh, picked on me a lot. Father Sal, I guess, was brought in as the new school psychologist about the same time."

Dr. Czernin incredulously lifted her eyebrows to her parted hairline. "He's a psychologist?"

He gave a single nod. "Surprisingly, he is. He got his PhD in Clinical Psychology from St. John's University. I think he finished it a year or two before I went to Brooklyn City. I remember how proud Pops was of him, that he was 'the first doctor of the family.' Uncle Joe didn't say anything. I don't know … his educational background. He attended seminary in Yonkers, I think. He went to San Francisco in 2000 and spent a few years in Paraguay. He became the parish priest at St. Rosalia's about three years ago."

She wrote down his answer on her notepad off screen. "Did he help you?"

"Yeah, he did," he answered immediately. "I'd spent half of the day with Professor Omaya, who taught my friend, Yoshi, and I until we were older and could commute to MetroTech. That helped, as I didn't have to hold my tongue around the teacher – a former nun who couldn't deal with my abilities. Then another hour of English and Italian with other teachers. Finally, Father Sal would spend an hour or two every day … just talking to me or teaching me Latin or Philosophy. Sometimes, I'd hide during lunch or English; he'd," he chuckled at the memory, "find me every time. Sometimes, he'd ride the subway with me to the Professor's or to visit Pops's firehouse."

"So he was safe at a time in your life when you felt … unsafe?"

"Yeah. The funny thing was that, despite being the school psychologist, he spent more time with me than the other kids. I just assumed it was because I was 'gifted' and was more needy."

After writing down more about Father Sal, Luigi's current psychologist voiced her trademark hum when she had a thought to share. "How do you know that Father Sal belongs or belonged to the Mafia?"

"Sal told me, more or less, in the church. He wasn't proud of it, not at all. He, uh, said that he fell in love with someone, which apparently the Mafia wouldn't allow. As a result, he got out and became a priest. It wasn't as simple as that, but he didn't want to elaborate."

Rosalina picked up the teacup and watched the now lukewarm liquid swish around in the cup. "Interesting. So is he really Mafia in the sense of embracing that life? It doesn't sound like it. But what's puzzling is all this secret-keeping in the family. Your paternal side doesn't talk about its side, and now we have Father Sal and the Mafia. It must have been a … confusing childhood."

Luigi nodded emphatically. "Yeah, definitely! I never understood why Pops and Uncle Joe argued over my education and, well, me. And I never fully understood Father Sal's role, either. Then my older brother's attempts to … mother hen me at times." Slumping in his chair, he then said, "Maybe that's why I was pushing for Daisy to tell her parents. I wanted our relationship set in stone – defined. So I wouldn't have to wonder."

Her lips turned up slightly. "Good awareness."


Giuseppe moaned a little at the nurse's insertion of the IV into his right arm and curled his lips at the sudden taste of salt on his tongue.

"Sorry," apologized the woman. "You okay?"

He mumbled an affirmation of sorts. Because of his limited diet of pureed carrots, peas, some Chinese food, and chocolate cake, his ferritin levels and red blood cell count had dwindled, and Dr. Gauthier referred him to the Brooklyn Medical Group for an infusion of liquid iron sucrose. Although he had reassured his wife and daughters that he was well enough to make the forty-five-minute trip via taxi, Lucia insisted that he text her upon his arrival at the hospital and return to their home in Eltingville. Inasmuch as he enjoyed being pampered by his family, he was happy to do something for himself after weeks of severe illness and their constant worry. The nurse arranged a heating pad on the inside of his forearm, set a large cup of ice water atop the small medical table in front of him, and allowed him to relax in the gray sofa-like chair. Promising to check on him every twenty to thirty minutes for the two-and-a-half to three-hour procedure, she exited the make-shift room, closing the curtain for privacy.

The plumber closed his eyes and tried to ignore the sounds of the chatty-Kathy nursing staff. Though he tried to hide it from Lucia, he still worried about Luigi and, to a lesser extent, Mario. Like vultures in the desert, the Mafia was circling around the 17th Avenue home in Bensonhurst, and he knew that Pete and Lucas would increase their physical and emotional presence in the young plumber's life, especially when he was busy fighting goddamned lung cancer. While he hated feeling so feeble, he abhorred feeling helpless. Glancing at his phone on the small desk, he saw that Lucia had texted him a "Good luck; love you forever," to which he grinned brightly, and his daughter Maria had sent him some silly plumbing video to alleviate his boredom. Once more, he closed his eyes and began to sink into the back of the chair when the curtain opened, and the nurse appeared.

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Masciarelli, but I have a visitor outside. A Salvatore Rigassi?"

Without opening his eyes, Joe responded, "Yeah, he's aight."

A moment later, the Catholic priest entered the hospital room and pulled the curtain closed behind him. "Hey, how you doing?" he whispered, his brown orbs softening with apprehension.

"Oh, I'm aight," rasped Joe, eyes still closed. "I'll take a fucking iron infusion over radiation or chemo."

Salvatore looked to the far corner of the room, where a metal and plastic chair rested against the adjacent white wall. Moving the piece of furniture next to his childhood friend, he quietly sat down, swallowed against the budding lump in his throat, and removed the rosary from his black sweater pocket. "I … I'm a priest, yet I don't know what to say. What can I do to … help you, Joe?"

He fixed his blue eyes upon the Sicilian. "I don't know how much time I have left. I don't know much longer I can protect Luigi or Mario."

"Don't say that!" he cried, attempting to hide his discomfort with a laugh. "You – we – haven't done the repeat biopsy or scans yet! Don't give up hope. I won't. I refuse to give up until it's time. It's in God's hands – not ours! Besides, you haven't heard all my bad jokes yet."

"Listen to me," insisted the more serious Giuseppe as Father Sal began to pray, ignoring his pleas. "Goddamnit, Sal!" he finally hissed.

Once he concluded his first prayer and meditation – five minutes afterward – with the sign of the cross, he stated flatly, "Taking the Lord's name in vain won't help, Tesoro."

"Don't try to hide behind God, Jesus, or the fucking twelve apostles this time!" he growled. Salvatore physically recoiled, but remained silent. "I know … I know I wasn't always a good friend to you. I should've answered more of your letters while you were away. I should've … But Luigi's our niputi. Per favore, Sal!"

The priest looked away, tears filling his expressive dark brown eyes. "No, you were never at fault! Never! You … You kept me going. But on the subject, I spoke with Luigi. I told him about my past. Well, what I could." He connected with Joe's questioning look and whimpered, "Omertà and the confessional do not allow me to say … all of it. Just like you don't know all of it. I … care about Luigi, Mario, and you. They would kill you if I talked. And I don't think I could handle that."

"I know," the plumber breathed. "I know … you'd rather not remember."

"It's my penance, Tesoro," Father Sal responded, wiping a tear down his left cheek. "I have to face what I've done, the people … I extorted and butchered. Every day, I have to look at this face in the mirror and know that … I have to do better, to make the world better, even if I suffer for it. But Luigi is innocent; he was chosen in my place. A child! I didn't allow it before, and I certainly won't now."

The weakened man in the chair closed his eyes as Salvatore moved nearer to his slackened left hand. Pivoting it to expose the palm, the priest traced the faint, diagonal scar with his right index finger, then placed the rosary and his own marginally smaller left hand protectively upon it. With his right hand, he held the ice water to the man. "Drink," he ordered. "Iron sucrose makes you dehydrated, and you're already sick as it is."

"Nah, I don't wanna," Joe protested, eyes still shut.

"Obstinate asshole," grumbled Salvatore, shaking his head. "You must drive Lucia and your daughters crazy with your Abruzzese pigheadedness. Although having briefly met your eldest, I can see where she gets it from. Both sides."

The man smirked. "I thought priests weren't supposed to use that kind of … earthy language."

"We shouldn't; that's true. But for your stubborn ass, Joe, I'll gladly make an exception. Besides, Father Ramirez is always free to hear my confession. 'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; it's only been two days since I last called Joe Masciarelli an Abruzzese asshole.'"

Giuseppe burst out laughing, which caused the IV line to shift from under the heating pad toward the floor. Father Sal momentarily let go of the rosary and plumber's scarred left palm to re-adjust the plastic tube for his comfort, then re-joined their hands. They fell into a comfortable silence, with the nurse coming in to check on the IV and infusion machine fifteen minutes later. After she left once more, Joe abruptly spoke, "Lucia … doesn't know you're here."

"I figured," he replied flatly. "I, uh, can't blame her, to be honest. Back in the day, I wasn't very kind to her. I regret that, you know."

"Io lo so, amico. We all did … regrettable things when we were young."

Father Sal raised an eyebrow at the ailing man. "Oh? Holding out? You didn't share them in your last confession to me."

"I plan on taking 'em with me to hell. It'll give the Devil something to laugh at."

Rolling his now watery eyes, Salvatore answered, "Tesoro, you're not going anywhere but the five boroughs – not for a very long time. And when that time comes, when you're old, white-haired, and in hospice care, it won't be to hell. Jersey, maybe, but not hell."

"I still don't get your hang ups about Jersey, Sal. It ain't that bad."

He snickered a little. "Let's just say that 'The Garden State' isn't a bad name for it." Wiping his eyes with his free right hand, he whispered, "Hey, remember our trip to Princeton back in '77? You, me, and Mario?"

Joe nodded. "I remember you couldn't stop laughing at those fuckin' horses!"

They giggled like teenagers at the shared memory; intermittently, Father Sal made an imitation horse neigh, which made Joe lose breath from heaving laughter. Once they calmed down, the latter asked, "Do you regret not going? To Princeton, I mean?"

Shaking his head, Giuseppe responded, "Nah. I wish I had left Papa's shop earlier than I did, but … if I had gone to Princeton like Mario wanted, then I'd never have met Lucia, never had my girls, my grandson." His open blue eyes focused on Salvatore's moist brown orbs. "And I'd have been alone. Without my family – Lucia, the girls, baby Giulio, Mario, Gabby, our nephews, and ... You … were always there."

"And I'll always continue to be there, Tesoro mio," he murmured while squeezing their joined hands. "Per sempre." Joe's body went slack, and his eyes closed again; for a moment, the priest panicked, ready to scream for the nurse, until he heard a faint snore originate from the man's nose and ajar mouth. He blinked against the feel of cold sweat upon his brow and brought their linked hands to his chest, the rosary falling into his black-clothed lap. Leaning into the plumber's unconscious form as much as he was able, Salvatore's tenor tremored as he sang:

"If I traveled all my life,

And I never get to stop and settle down,

Long as I have you by my side,

There's a roof above and good walls all around.

You're my castle, you're my cabin and my instant pleasure dome,

I need you in my house 'cause you're my home."

Setting Joe's hand down on the arm of the chair, Father Sal tucked the rosary into his friend's partly curled fingers. He traced the decades-old wound with his finger one last time, then stealthily exited the hospital room to the warm and humid Brooklyn air. Taking a deep breath to control the raw pain spreading throughout his chest and belly, Salvatore gazed up to the blue sky and implored God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit to allow Giuseppe Masciarelli to live for a while longer, that he would willingly die in his place right that moment if it meant that his tesoro would reach his sixtieth, seventieth, or even eightieth birthday and watch Mario's, Luigi's, and his daughters' children grow up. Salvatore squeezed his eyes shut, in a vain attempt to halt the watercourse down his face, and he slapped a hand on his mouth to keep from shrieking.

Everyone dies, yet I live.

As he struggled to maintain his composure, Father Sal failed to notice the Latino eavesdropper who was partly obscured by the hospital exterior walls. While the Sicilian sobbed faintly into his hands, the man – José Hernández – dressed in his hoodie, jeans, and plumbers' boots fished a flip phone from his front pocket, dialed a number, and pressed the call key. Walking away from the priest as it rang, he brought the phone to his ear and spoke, "The priest was here. Yeah, he was visiting Joe Masciarelli at the hospital – New York-Presbyterian. Park Slope. Okay. Okay, bueno." He hung up and approached the van with the logo Brooklyn Plumbing and Mechanical Works, Inc. Climbing into the cab and shutting the driver's side door, José glanced at the smartphone on the passenger's seat and saw that he had missed a call. Pressing the red-listed number and the speaker button, he waited a moment before speaking in a normal tone, "Hey Lou, sorry I missed your call. I was on lunch break …"


Luigi curled his pillow underneath his head and attempted to nap a little before dinner. Mario had texted earlier that he and Peach would spend the weekend in Bensonhurst and asked him to join them if he wasn't too busy with the Sfacciata. Having received no texts from his lioness since Wednesday and fearing that her parents had persuaded her to end the relationship, he halfheartedly accepted, despite not wanting company. The familiar embarrassment and depression comforted him like a baby blanket, and he spent the afternoon trying to convince himself that she would be better off without him, that he would be better off without her, that he would remain strong and not retreat into the safety of video games, mindless television, and household chores. Yet his siesta was filled of dreams starring them: dancing, eating together, talking trash at Mets vs. Giants games, traveling to Italy, Brazil, and Bali, and spending rainy, candle-lit Brooklyn evenings making love. Unable to sleep for longer than fifteen minutes at a time, he twisted to lay flat on his bed. Dr. Czernin had a point; he was quick to imagine the worst outcome, even as the people around him defended and came to his aid when he asked for it. Daisy would text him, he reminded himself.

His mental anguish was lulling him to a sixth round of self-inflicted sedation when he heard a tentative knock at the front door. One blue eye opened in confusion; Mario had his keys and would certainly have let Peach in through the garage. Now more awake, Luigi swung his long legs to the wooden floor and padded down the stairs to answer it. Peering into the peephole, his somnolent eyes rounded in shock, and he turned the doorknob to reveal a weary Daisy in a black suit, roller bag at her side. Before he could voice her name, she flew into his arms and slammed her lips upon his, which he returned just as fervidly. Murmuring Daisy, cat-face, and what happened, the plumber tried several times to break their embrace, yet she refused, shaking her head that she was not ready to discuss it. After he dragged her by the hand into the house, they spent the next few hours silently holding each other in his – now their – bed. Although he desired her body upon his, Luigi knew that they needed to talk, and treating every emotional problem with sex would prove disastrous in the end. Instead, he whispered I love you and I'm here, my cat-face over and over until Daisy faced him, beamed, and rubbed his nose with hers.

At around six o'clock, the entrance to the garage squeaked against the latch, and they heard Mario's and Peach's voices call out to Luigi. As the latter kissed his girlfriend and told her to rest, heavy footsteps approached the upstairs bedroom door and a man's thick hand gently pushed it open. Mario's eyebrows lifted toward his hairline at seeing Daisy's clothed form next to Luigi. The latter gestured to him that he would be downstairs shortly; the older brother nodded and descended the stairs. A moment later, Luigi followed him to the kitchen where an exhausted Peach was putting away the groceries.

"Yo, Peaches, we got an extra for dinner tonight. Sfacciata's here," said Mario, keeping his voice down to avoid disturbing the resting woman upstairs.

Peach narrowed her eyes in confusion. "I thought she was visiting her parents. Did something happen?"

Mario shrugged while looking at Luigi expectantly. "I don't know what happened after Wednesday night," replied the latter. "But, uh, the Rosh Hashanah dinner didn't go particularly well."

The stunned blonde rotated on her right foot to face Luigi properly. "You're joshing me? But … why?"

As he began to explain, the red-hoodied plumber interjected, "Peaches, they're conservative Jews. To them, Weegie's worse than a terrone – he's an Italian Catholicplumber. They don't like their kids mixin' with us – even in New York. I saw plenty of that when I was a Shabbos goy." He exhaled angrily and put a hand on his fratellino's shoulder. "I was fuckin' afraid of that. But the Sfacciata's here, so … I just don't want any trouble. You can bet that her father will come lookin' for her."

"Bloody hell, this is 2014, not 1914!" she muttered, shaking her head in dismay. "What shall we make for dinner? She's a vegetarian, right?"

"Says the nobile! And yeah, we'll need to butcher an extra helping of salad greens," deadpanned her almost-spouse. Peach rolled her eyes in response.

"Well, does she consume dairy and egg products?" Luigi nodded, and she proffered, "I think a mushroom risotto would do smashingly. It's also relatively easy to make. Luigi, would you …?"

Her request was interrupted by a sharp knock at the front door. Mario and Luigi exchanged an agitated look, suddenly envisaging an irate Harry Abravanel standing on their porch, accompanied by a few nice Jewish boys armed with baseball bats and Uzis. The older Masciarelli pointed at both Luigi and Peach to stay in the kitchen while he cautiously moved toward the peephole. After glancing through it, he quizzically revealed the mystery guest. "Zio?" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"

Father Sal smiled and responded. "It's my day off, if a priest ever has one. I saw that the light was on inside, so …" An equally stunned Luigi and Peach slowly came out of the kitchen. He fixed his brown eyes upon Mario and inquired, "Is this a bad time?"

"No," called out Peach. "I've got a mushroom risotto going if you'd like to stay for dinner. Per favore, padre." Mario gave a quick, don't-argue-with-the-wife smile and stepped aside to allow him passage. Salvatore gratefully entered his former childhood home and followed Peach into the kitchen while his eldest nephew locked up behind him.

Luigi returned upstairs to find that Daisy was sitting up in bed, having been roused from the commotion. He sat down next to the emotionally drained woman and kissed her hand. "Cat-face, we have … an impromptu dinner party going. I knew Mario and Peach were coming, but not … If you don't feel up to it, then I'll say that you're feeling unwell and bring you some risotto." He grinned and put her hand to his heart, "You'll have your own personal Italian waiter."

Snickering a little, she leaned into him. "Who's the mystery guest?"

He sighed. "Uncle Sal."

Swearing quietly, which shocked her boyfriend, the auburn-haired woman tucked a few strands of hair and explained, "Kerido, my father … He suspects that Salvatore's made. I didn't tell him anything, I swear. But in the, albeit brief, self-congratulations over my little fucking closing argument, I unintentionally omitted Father Salvatore from the 'good guys.' I didn't realize it until he pointed out what I hadn't said. He … Luigi, he demanded that I end my relationship with you." She watched as he turned his head away from her in defeat. "I refused."

His darkened blue eyes snapped to her amber orbs. "What … What did he say? What did he do?"

"We got into the worst argument that we've ever had. We both said things that I'm not sure can be unsaid. I, uh, left. That night. I spent a couple days at Amy's – at my old apartment. I just needed time to think and have … girl talk. We had a nice sunset run across the Brooklyn Bridge." She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "Luigi, don't go being you and assume responsibility for everything that's happened to me. You were right; I do need to start living my own life. I love my work, and I fully intend on going to law school, with or without his help. This morning, I spoke to Financial Aid at Columbia; if I need to, I can get emergency assistance now and into my final semester. And if I can achieve better than a 175 on the LSATs, then I might receive scholarships that will pay for half or more. Stanford, Columbia, Boston College, and NYU have merit-based aid. My preferred location is … New York."

"Cat-face, I'm … I'm so sorry! I know you'll be fine, but … I didn't want you to lose your family over me. I don't … I feel … so guilty."

She shook her head. "Don't, kerido. I know who you are. Even if Salvatore's a former mafioso, his fate won't be yours." She kissed his quaking hand. "This is about more than you. My father's … always said that I have a good head on my shoulders, that I'm rational, made for the law. If that's true, then why isn't my word, my assessment of you enough? I hate being treated like I'm still eighteen and naive."

He sniggered, then gave her a playful glance. "Because he's a lawyer. He requires proof. And he's your father."

Daisy raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to say something, plumber?"

Leaning over to kiss her lips, Luigi mumbled, "Maybe. Two stubborn Brazilians. If it were my daughter …"

"That's the third time you've said that in, what, seventy-two hours. Have plans, do you?" she teased while brushing her fingertips over his mustache.

He touched her fingers with his lips, then repeated the gesture on the back of her hand. "Maybe … in the future. I mean, you still have law school and then the start of your career. That said, I'm very, very open to a long-term relationship with you. If you want."

She grinned brightly. "I want."

Gazing into her eyes meaningfully, he added, "And I'll gladly go wherever you go. No arguments, cat-face. I just … I just want to be worthy of you, y'know? I … I grew up without a family. First, my mother, then my father and Mario … Yeah, I had Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucia, but the hole that my parents' deaths left hasn't completely healed. I'm not sure it ever can. The last thing I want for you, kerido, is to go through life like that. I never want to be the cause of your pain."

Be sure of what you want, echoed Pete's words.

"Luigi, I'm sure. And I know that you are committed to me … as I am to you. I meant what I said – all of it," replied Daisy solemnly. "I've come to know the man you are and hope to be. I realize that we can't know a person fully in eight months, but … in that time, I've loved what I've observed. No one is perfect. Furthermore, I was never looking for perfection; I was looking for someone who would allow me to grow and with whom … I could grow."

"Forever," he vowed, sealing it with a soft, venerating kiss upon her lips.

They rose together off the bed and, hands joined, descended the staircase to the kitchen where Father Sal was sitting at the table and Mario and Peach were communicating in short bursts about the white wine, passing the saffron, and setting the table. The priest volunteered, but both insisted that he remained seated. Luigi led his lioness to a chair across from him and, once she was settled, moved to accept the forks, knives, and navy-blue cloth napkins from Mario. As the young man was arranging the place settings, Peach glared at her boyfriend and yelled, "Non pensarci nemmeno!"

Mario peered over the refrigerator door with a guilty expression. Father Sal frowned in confusion at the unfolding scene until his eldest nephew rose to his full height and exposed the Heinz bottle in his right hand. Throwing him a horrified glance, the Sicilian voiced, "You … You're not going to put ketchup on risotto?!"

The plumber's eyes shifted. "Nah, Zio. I have limits. I was just making sure it was there, y'know?"

"I'll pray for you, Mario Giuseppe," retorted Salvatore disgustedly.

"Mario, why do you have such a fascination with ketchup?" asked Daisy from the table, moving her elbow to permit her boyfriend to place the utensils in front of her.

"Four words, Sfacciata: Army Fucking Mess Hall. Not even shopping at the PX helped. Except for barbeque, the choices in North Carolina and Georgia were beyond awful. No wonder the South has a high rate of high blood pressure and heart disease – their food is inedible unless fuckin' fried! Okra was fuckin' bad; livermush was fuckin' worse!"

"Well, as I recall, fratello, you hadn't wasted away in North Carolina," countered Luigi with a grin.

"'Ey!" snapped his older brother, pointing at him with a meaty index finger, "Zio can thank the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit on my behalf for barbeque and Texas Roadhouse!"

Daisy stuck out her tongue in revulsion while Father Sal deadpanned, "I don't think Jesus Christ had anything to do with either of those poor excuses for cuisine."

Peach snorted, covering her mouth with her left hand to keep her almost-spouse from hearing her chuckle at the priest's riposte. However, he narrowed his blue eyes at her and gestured a warning at her to stop mocking him.

"Ah, the two Rigassi smartasses go head-to-head in mortal combat," observed the youngest plumber who, having finished his task, was now standing behind his girlfriend's chair.

"Basta," interrupted Peach, as she set the sliced bread at the center of the table. "Dinner's ready." Yanking the ketchup bottle from his hands, she then opened the refrigerator, stuffed the offensive condiment behind an old box of baking soda, closed it again, and began to ladle the saffron mushroom risotto onto each plate. A grumbling Mario laid the plates at each of the five settings, followed by an equal number of wine glasses for the Chardonnay. Once seated, Father Sal prayed silently to give the Almighty thanks for the meal with his family, then crossed himself to signal that he was finished. Daisy noted that the priest did not require his lapsed Catholic nephews and near niece-in-law to join him, which somewhat surprised her, as many families – Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim alike – often became temporarily more religious in the presence of familial clergy.

For the next fifteen minutes, Mario and Luigi entertained the table with their argument over who would win the upcoming World Series, with the former warning a smug Daisy to keep her San Fran mouth shut. Peach shook her head at the bickering brothers, muttering that she never understood men's obsession with sports, to which Salvatore commented that, for hours at a time, he was subjected to Mario Senior and Giuseppe's quarrels over whom to support after the Brooklyn Dodgers' departure. Soon afterward, they fell into silence; unsure of why Father Sal had decided to join them for dinner and not wanting to distress Daisy by mentioning the Jewish holidays, Mario and Luigi became uncharacteristically awkward, afraid of upsetting the unspoken détente. Even as Peach feigned ignorance, Salvatore's brown eyes shifted questioningly at the two soundless New York Italians.

"So, Daisy," he began, "how's school? You're at Columbia, right?" The priest noticed Luigi shift uncomfortably in his chair and Mario gaze at his brother's girlfriend with concern.

The woman nodded nonchalantly. "Yes. International Affairs. I'm finishing my thesis for spring graduation. It's … slow, but I'm making progress."

"Yeah, I remember those days," said the priest with a sheepish smile. "I, uh, had to do a thesis for my Master of Divinity, then again for my graduate degrees in psychology. My sympathies."

She snickered politely, shrugging in agreement, while Luigi interjected, "Yeah, I remember when you got your PhD from St. John's – back in the '90s."

"It was back in '98, yeah. Your father wanted to throw me a party post-defense. But all I wanted to do was burn the darned thing."

"What was the subject of your dissertation?" inquired Peach.

Salvatore swallowed a dainty spoonful of the risotto, then wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. "Mmm. Gifted education and the Jesuit model. I was the school psychologist at Luigi's school when I was writing it. After Gabby died, I'd come back to Brooklyn to be an assistant to Father Rosetti, who had become the new principal of St. Rosalia's."

Sipping some of the white wine from her glass, the blonde probed further, "Did you complete all of your education at St. John's University?"

Mario and Luigi's blue eyes connected nervously as Father Sal's body language changed from loose to cautious. "Uh, no. While I did most of my advanced coursework in psychology and theology in New York, with six months in Rome, I received my bachelor's degree out west. Carroll College."

"I've never heard of it," verbalized Daisy, whose eyes shifted as she searched a mental list of colleges and universities on the West Coast. "It's not in California, Nevada, or Oregon."

"No," he replied carefully. "It's a small Catholic college up in Montana. I, uh, wanted to get away from the East Coast for a while. The parish priest at the time helped get me a scholarship to attend my choice of three colleges. It sounded more interesting than Nebraska or Indiana, especially to a Brooklyn boy who'd seen one too many spaghetti westerns."

The brothers looked at each other. Montana – what the fuck was he doing there?!

"That's … pretty rural, Zio. Did you like it there?" queried Mario somewhat skeptically.

"I did," affirmed Father Sal with a sliver of a grin. "It was … different, which is what I needed. Surprisingly, there were a lot of fellow East Coast immigrants to Montana, Wyoming, and Washington State in the '80s. Like in North Carolina and Georgia, the food was meh," he made a turning gesture with his hand, "but what we couldn't do in town – Helena – we could easily accomplish in Butte, Missoula, or even Seattle."

"Like what? I can't quite, uh, picture Salvatore Rigassi running around with his buddies shouting, 'Toga, toga, toga!'" joked his eldest nephew. Luigi choked on his risotto, trying to stifle a snigger at Mario's description of his maternal uncle's college days.

Father Sal laughed heartily. "No, I didn't do that. Carroll was a pretty … rigorous institution. Yeah, we partied and screwed around occasionally – what college student doesn't – but our studies didn't allow a lot of free time. In the summers and breaks, we'd be serving Indian schools in the eastern part of the state or going down to Mexico to teach in the schools there."

Daisy dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the napkin. "What was your major?"

"Well," the priest started, giggling a little, "I changed my major … twice, I think? Initially, I chose Business because I didn't think a Philosophy degree would amount to much. The, uh, Philosophy chair persuaded me to switch. Minored in Classics. I didn't start feeling the call," he immediately added to clarify for Daisy, "my call from God to the priesthood until my senior year. Well, my third year at Carroll. I transferred a year from Brooklyn College."

As Salvatore continued the overview of his curriculum vitae during the last course of dinner – a fruit plate consisting of blackberries and sliced strawberries, kiwis, and mangoes – Luigi pondered whether his uncle's lost love was some cowgirl in Montana or even a young muchacha from Sonoma. The acoustic lilt of Bruce Springsteen's "Across the Border" lightly played in the music hall of his mind. Where pain and memory, pain and memory have been stilled; there, across the border. Why did this bother him so much? Like Daisy said, most people have fallen in love at some point in their lives; the adults in his life – Pops, Giuseppe, Lucia, Mama, Mario – fell in love and stayed with their partners from an early age. Yet the fact that Uncle Sal – a celibate Catholic priest – never did peaked both his curiosity and pity. Everyone had secrets, particularly the Masciarelli men; he had grown up with constant questions and few answers, thus he was accustomed to family mysteries. Strangely, the bird of prey on his arm tingled whenever he thought about it, as if it were attracted to the very question.

At the end of the meal and obligatory espresso, Peach and the brothers insisted that the remaining two people relax in the living room while they put away the leftover fruit and cleaned the kitchen. Despite the warm welcome by Luigi, Peach, and, in his own bossy way, Mario, Daisy shivered from the cold alienation from her family; it was the first time since the Peace Corps that she had spent Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur alone, albeit with phone calls from her father. Throughout dinner, she flashed a tight smile and employed platitudes regarding the holidays. Once the others were in the kitchen, she quietly made her escape to the outside porch and cool, early-autumn air. The chill and humidity comforted her against the anger, confusion, and pain that burned her cheeks and forehead. Was this how it would always be – would they love me so long as I follow their rules? She gazed up at the few stars that were discernible from the city's immense light pollution and touched the gold-bordered purple heart that twinkled in the twilight.

"It's pretty quiet here in Bensonhurst," spoke a man's voice behind her. "I often walk the streets to clear my head."

Turning to face a smiling, nevertheless worried Father Sal, who had dawned his black sweater to protect his middle-aged frame from the falling temperature, she responded, "Yeah, I just needed some air."

He nodded. "It's rare for a Sephardic woman to be by herself during the High Holy Days, especially if her family is presumably in town. And given how … protective both Luigi and Mario were of you tonight, I can draw certain conclusions. The real question is, how are you doing?"

Daisy spun away from him to avoid showing her warring emotions. "I'm okay."

"It's never easy to go against one's family," he rasped, his tenor pouring over with sadness. "They're family for a reason. They laugh at our jokes, give us shelter, an … identity. But sometimes, we have to step away from them so that we can live our best lives. It doesn't mean that we love them less."

The woman swiped away a tear from her face. "Yeah. It's just hard. Luigi's … He's so … gentle, strong, and loyal. Why can't they see that?!"

"Daisy, I don't know your parents. However, I've spent a lot of time with Syrian Jews in Flatbush. If they're similar, then my guess is that they want you to share their traditions, religion, paths in life so you'll continue to be part of their lives. Being so … insular, it's them against the world. I don't know if they'll come around; some don't, and that's their loss. I'm always hopeful," he grinned. "It's part of the territory of being a Catholic priest."

She sniffed. Father Sal was apparently using his psychology degree to earn her trust. Although she was angry at her father's attempts to dictate her life so completely, they agreed that the Rigassi uncle's sudden re-appearances at the 17th Avenue home were suspicious. Was he merely concerned or was there an ulterior motive? "Do you think I'm making a mistake? Giuseppe didn't think our relationship … was a good idea. Pete Morello warned me, as well," she said innocently.

Salvatore immediately flanked the woman and touched her shoulder with his index and middle fingers to get her attention. "Did you say Pete Morello? He spoke to you?!"

"Yeah. He gave me a ride home from the UN the other day – impromptu. He told me to be sure of what I want … when it comes to Luigi."

She observed the priest carefully; his eyes became glassy, almost terrified at the revelation, and she knew he was analyzing its potential ramifications without the characteristic shield of his initial reaction. "Daisy," he finally uttered in a hardened tone so different from his breezy, almost jokey, everyday speech, "listen to me very carefully. Pete Morello – my Cousin Pete – is a very dangerous man to cross. I'm not sure whether he intended to warn you or threaten you, but be very, very careful around him. Don't refuse to do something he asks you to do. Just play dumb, no matter what he says or does."

"I know what he is, Salvatore. He's Mafia."

The mafioso's eyes became a stunned black. "Who told you that?"

She looked at him evenly. "You did – just now. Look, I'm involved … because of Luigi. I also know that the secrets you, Giuseppe, Luigi's father, and possibly others have been keeping from him have made things worse for all of us – Mario, Luigi, Peach, and me. That's on you. But you still haven't answered my question."

He moved marginally closer, just enough to be imposing. "In my world, women don't make demands. That's something you gotta learn if you're going to be safe! Don't cross the line between bystander and player. I'm warning you." Angrily, Daisy began to move away from him, but he caught her wrist, keeping her in place. She bit her lip to avoid showing fear at his darkened pupils. "Luigi is my nephew, my family, therefore anyone in his immediate vicinity is my business. That includes you." Realizing that he was terrifying the young woman, he took a deep breath and whispered, "The only way you and Luigi will make it through this is if you understand prudence and diplomacy."

"Omertà," voiced Daisy.

He gave her a curt nod. "Uncle Carlo will eventually die, after which they'll have little to say about you and Luigi. The death of the … Mafia, sobrinha, comes from no one being left to keep it alive. That's what they fear the most."

"What about Pete Morello? He's not even close to dying." Daisy noticed his hesitation at the mention of his first cousin. "How will waiting out Carlo Morano help Luigi with him?" Slipping her arm free, she added testily, "Even if our relationship doesn't last, I know him well enough that he would never be happy with an empty-headed Italian hausfrau who spends his money and doesn't ask how he made it. You and Giuseppe can go on about omertà and prudence, but it never works. Does it?" At his unrelenting silence, she hissed, "Go to hell!"

As she tried to jog back to the patio door, Salvatore barked, "Sobrinha, I'm not done!" Without looking at him, she halted, waiting for him to continue. "Learn to control your mouth – telling someone like me, like Pete, that …will get you killed! Fighting will get you killed! As for me, many years ago, because of the Mafia – my so-called family – I lost everything. These people don't care about loyalty or love! You're confusing disapproval with apprehension."

"So, what am I supposed to do? Just walk away from the man I love?" demanded the young woman.

The priest walked gently to her side and put his hand on her shoulder, willing her with his eyes to understand what he could not say. She dragged her eyes from the door to the dark brown orbs that were nearly invisible in the nightfall. Nonetheless, she could perceive their edge and a lighter, decades-old chocolate. "Who was she? Did she die?" Daisy inquired. Father Sal merely stared at her, refusing to disclose that part of his unspoken past. She sighed. "I'm not … trying to make you relive what's so obviously traumatic. I too understand trauma, albeit in a different way. I was once … with a man who was abusive. And had it not been for a certain brave Brooklyn plumber passing through Oxford one rainy night, my father probably would have had to bury his only daughter. I'm not some … privileged princess, Salvatore; I lost my innocence years ago. But I do believe the world is a small place, that sometimes, people enter our lives for a reason. I had no idea that the Brooklyn plumber was the brother of … the man with whom I'd experience … equality, love, and acceptance. But here we are. And I wouldn't give it up for anything." Salvatore's eyes widened in disbelief and his heart began to punch his ribcage as Daisy went back inside the house.


Over the next day and a half, Mario, Peach, Daisy, and Luigi did a deep clean of the long-neglected 17th Avenue home. To Luigi's curiosity and chagrin, Mario answered a call from Johnny Scapelli inviting him to play a few rounds of basketball with him and a "few of his buddies" in Queens, to which he graciously accepted and gleefully bragged to the household that his Green Beret pride refused to let a bunch of fuckin' kids beat him. As his girlfriend rolled her eyes and muttered an invective about men and dick-measuring contests, Luigi raised his eyebrow, though without further comment. Since it was one of the final summer-like days of 2014, they spent the afternoon and part of the evening on the greens of Brooklyn Bridge Park. Throughout the picnic lunch of cheese, bread, crudities, grilled polenta, and asparagus, Mario and Luigi created a mock conversation in which every sentence contained the word Bum-gardener, Bumguarder, Buttplug, and – the older plumber's personal favorite – Ashley Madison to annoy Daisy, whose San Francisco Giants had clinched a playoff berth. The brothers were successful; the lioness soon presented a one-fingered paw for each plumber and proudly announced that at least her Giants managed to get to a World Series in recent history and were thus more deserving of the adjective "Amazing" than the Bad Guys. The dispute ended with an exasperated basta from Peach, who was more interested in playing a game of doubles badminton than arguing over baseball. To avoid the inevitable re-match of Hit Me in the Ass, she insisted on guys versus girls. Daisy, who was fired up from Mario's taunts, eagerly awaited a chance to kick his Brooklyn Italian ass. After several games, the tournament ended in a draw due to the older plumber hitting the feather into a tree. It took the auburn-haired lioness thirty minutes to climb the fifteen feet, retrieve the game piece, and safely return to ground.

In spite of the Tree Incident, a sweaty and grimy Daisy noted to herself that this Jewish New Year had ended on an high note. When she thought that it could not be any better, Luigi made her moan and gasp with excitement for hours in their shower and adjacent bedroom. Later that night, as she lay coiled in his arms, listening to his soft snores, the other incident – her conversation with Salvatore – kept her from traveling into sleep. She had not told Luigi; they had spent months dealing with Lucas, the plumbers' union, and the Mafia, and both desperately needed a break from their existence. Nonetheless, she wondered if her father was right; were they underestimating the Mafia's desire to control Luigi? Although she had no intention of leaving him, Salvatore's desperation troubled her on many levels – intellectually as well as emotionally. Whatever happened, whatever the Mafia did, it caused him to run away in anguish to the ends of America. She shivered involuntarily at what that could have been. Then at another discrete thought, the auburn-haired woman frowned; Father Sal had called her sobrinhaniece in both Portuguese and Judeo-Spanish. Whereas Pete seemed indifferent to their relationship, and Giuseppe fearful of it, the priest had accepted her as Luigi's de-facto spouse. Was it due to her months-long presence, his Catholic desire for cohabitating couples to marry, or another reason?

That was her final thought before sleep forced her analytical mind to stop.

The following morning, they rose for a European-style breakfast of fresh bread, fruit, and coffee, with Mario frying up bacon and eggs to avoid starvation by vegetarianism. This earned him a collective stai zitto! Peach attempted to hide the ketchup bottle, but the red-shirted man retrieved a backup for emergencies and, much to the house's horror, slathered his bacon and eggs in the condiment. Once the meal was finished, Luigi and Daisy dressed and went out for a 'friendly' game of soccer while Peach insisted that she and her boyfriend remain at home to install the new dishwasher that she had ordered. A petulant Mario acquiesced; as his brother and girlfriend went out to play in the sunny, seventy-degree weather, he cursed and labored in the kitchen, disconnecting the early-2000s-era appliance for the newer and smarter 2013 machine.

"Motherfucking pezzo di merda!" he swore.

Peach, who was reviewing various medical scans at the living-room coffee table, simply replied, "I rather hope not, amore mio. That's a brand-new dishwasher."

"Nah, I'm just introducin' myself. Besides, I didn't become an electrician 'cause I hate connecting shit."

She hummed absently, typing a quick response on the last CT scan in her viewer. "That did not stop you from attempting to redesign the wiring in my apartment."

"'Ey! My Pops always bitched about shitty wiring in those million-dollar lofts in Manhattan! I wasn't gonna start a fuckin' fire!" he retorted while making the last connection.

"That may be true. But as I seem to recall, we needed to hire an electrician to restore my lights."

"I'm ignorin' that, Peaches!" A few seconds passed before he changed the subject. "This shit with the Sfacciata makes me nervous. The other night, Sal said something to her. I saw her go outside, then he followed. I wasn't gonna be a creep and eavesdrop, but he's makin' more appearances. Before the … anniversary, I found out he was fuckin' made."

She tore her blue eyes from the X-ray to stare at her boyfriend. "You're joking?! The bloody priest is a mafioso?!"

"Yeah, that's what I said. And worse, I think – no, I know – Uncle Joe knew it. Pops may have known, too." With a scoff, he muttered, "No wonder why Nonno wasn't a fan of my mother. If the Sfacciata's parents were to find out … Peaches, I don't know if Luigi would recover from the heartbreak."

"Christ," she mumbled. "And I was hoping that Salvatore was just dropping in for a family dinner. What … What can we do, amore?"

As Mario was about to give a response, they both heard a knock at the door. Peach rose from her makeshift worktable and called out to her boyfriend that she would get it. Looking through the peephole, she frowned at the unfamiliar man on the other side. She slowly opened the entrance and said, "Yes, may I help you?"

The spectacled, clean-shaven man, who was dressed in a white Oxford, red zip-up sweater, beige pants, and leather shoes stood neutrally in front of the blonde. "Hello, my name is Harry Abravanel; would you please tell me if a Mario or Luigi Masciarelli lives here?"

Peach affixed her best dispassionate physician's look to hide her alarm. "Please wait here. One moment." Shutting the door, she tiptoe-ran into the kitchen. "Mario!" she whispered, "I think Daisy's father's here. He said that his name was Harry Abravanel."

"Fuck!" he mouthed quietly. "Aight, let me handle this. Go to the bedroom. Don't tell Weegie that he's here." Making sure that the dishwasher was secured, he tottered to his feet and went to the door. Once Peach was out of sight, he steeled himself for a confrontation, then opened the door to the waiting man. "I'm Mario Masciarelli. Can I help you?"

Harry examined the heavy-set, mustachioed plumber before him: he was vested in a pair of ratty jeans and a red tee-shirt; based on the grease and dirt on his hands, he had been doing some sort of repair. Whereas Luigi seemed younger than his chronological age, his brother seemed older and less likely to obfuscate. "Yes," he finally spoke. "My name is Harry Abravanel. I believe your younger brother's been … associating with my daughter, Daisy. She, uh, took off a few days ago. Since she's not at her studio in Park Slope, I decided to come here. Have you seen them?" At Mario's probing stare, he swallowed and murmured, "Please. I'm a worried father who'd like to know that his daughter's safe."

He vigilantly pushed the door wider to let him inside. "Come in; they'll be back soon. Daisy's with Luigi."

Giving a nod of thanks, Daisy's father entered the small house. He noticed several medical papers and a closed laptop rested atop the living room coffee table; on the mantle across from it sat an American flag, a photograph of a late-thirties or early-forties man in a FDNY lieutenant's dress uniform, a black-and-white group photo of several teenagers, and a portrait of the man and a woman – whom Harry assumed was Gabriella – against the backdrop of the Brooklyn Bridge. He watched Mario retreat into the kitchen where he had been working on the dishwasher. "D'you want an espresso?" asked the plumber politely. "It'll be a half-hour or so before they return."

"Please. Uh, thanks." The guest continued to inspect the living room photos as the kitchen espresso machine whirled, whistled, and warbled. Adjacent to the older pictures of the brothers' father, mother, uncles, and their friends were framed portraits of Mario in his Special Forces uniform and an adolescent Luigi holding up a gold medal with three other boys – two Asians and one blond. His familiar amber eyes swept over the cream-colored walls; there were no crucifixes of any kind, much to his relief. Daisy and Luigi had been telling the truth about the Masciarellis' lack of religiosity, especially as his private investigator discovered that the house had once belonged to Audenzia Rigassi. Gaining as much knowledge as he could from the mantle, Harry entered the kitchen and sat at the table where Mario set the two small cups of espresso. The plumber took a chair and gestured for him to sit across from him.

"Aight," began Mario in his best Italian patriarchal tone, "what is it you want to ask me, Mr. Abravanel? Or rather ask about my kid brother?"

The lawyer took a sip of the espresso and contemplated his next move. The red-shirted plumber, via a subtle display of his Army tattoos, was letting him know that he was in charge. He also noticed that the blonde woman – presumably Mario's girlfriend or fiancée – was nowhere to be seen. Ultimately, he decided that candor was the best course of action with him. "Alright," said Harry. "I don't approve of their relationship. I am … concerned about Luigi as a person and as a … relative of certain individuals."

Mario nodded, biting his lip to refrain from giving him a heartfelt Brooklyn fuck you. "I see," he replied in a neutral tone, sipping his coffee. "By certain individuals, I take it that you're referring to our maternal side? The Rigassis?" Harry regarded him blankly. "Pops – my father – made sure that we didn't have much to do with 'em. As for Luigi, he went to live with Jackie Morano while I was stationed in North Carolina and Georgia. I wasn't there, so I couldn't take custody. They didn't get along. I'm sure you can guess why. He then went to live with our uncle Joe, who's not Mafia. Luigi ain't Mafia and will never be. And as for me, well, I've kicked the shit out of them since I was twelve."

Harry took another sip of the coffee, reflecting upon Mario's response. Most of what he said corresponded with the investigator's findings, including a possible reason for his presence at the Mafia-run cage fights. However, he did not mention the maternal uncle, which only alarmed him further. What are they protecting? Why? "Your brother's started a new job as the manager of your shop, correct? It sounds as though he wants to be … settled."

Chuckling a little, the plumber answered, "Weegie – Luigi – is his own man. He's a late bloomer. It runs in the family – me, Pops, Uncle Joe, Uncle Sal – we're all the same way. He wants to go to college; for a lot of reasons, he couldn't do it after high school. And frankly, I don't think it was such a bad thing that he waited. Kid's smart; he got that from Uncle Joe and my mother. But it's just recently that he has started to … bloom. And it's because of your daughter." At Harry's raised eyebrows, he continued, "She's strong-willed, sometimes too much for her own good, and just as smart as Luigi. Yeah, I know that he isn't Jewish, and what youse think a' that. I was a Shabbos goy in Borough Park. And Bensonhurst was once part Jewish, so we've all known it. But … she's good for Luigi, and I think he's good for her. He tempers her desire to tilt at windmills. From your accent, I'm guessin' you're from around Boston. Well, you and I both know that attitude, particularly from a woman, can be dangerous in these parts."

As the plumber paused for a sip of his cooling espresso, Harry interjected, "That's the problem. Do you really think Bensonhurst is safe for her? Do you really think your maternal family is safe for her, Mr. Masciarelli? Do you have children?"

"I go by Mario; 'Mister – Lieutenant – Masciarelli' is deceased. As for your question, my candid answer is that no one is safe around them. I don't have children, but I do worry nightly about Luigi. This is my fault; I went to fight terrorists and … left him behind. I'll go to my grave regretting that decision. But I'm here now. Would I approve of my daughter datin' a man with ties to the Mafia? Without knowing him, I'd say over my dead body. And I understand where you're comin' from – you don't know Luigi … or me, for that matter. You're a lawyer, right?" Daisy's father nodded. "I know you gotta be careful and you wanna protect your daughter. However, there's a lot that you can't get from a background check or investigation." The other man tried to interrupt, yet Mario held up a hand. "Please don't insult me. That's the only way you could've known about the Rigassis. Yeah, well, here's what's not in your file: Luigi's a sweet kid, mentally unable to harm anyone; when they're here, he's protective of her, treats her like his queen – like a good Italian ragazzo should! In the first month that he's run that shop, he's made changes that were needed, and I'm sure he applied that supersecret business shit from Stanford. He's a late bloomer, but it isn't his fault! Our father … I'm sure you know what happened to him. And while Uncle Joe did his best, he's overprotective."

The other man crossed his arms and retorted evenly, "I do know what happened to your father. And you have my … sincerest condolences and respect to your family. I won't give you platitudes; I won't pretend to know what you and Luigi went through as a result. And I met Luigi the other night; he is harmless. But in some sense, that's what concerns me. You and I agree that the Mafia is no joke, and they seem to be … interested in you both. They may stay clear of you, Mario, as a Special Forces guy. Luigi is a kid, by your admission. How will he deal with them? And, by proxy, Daisy?"

Mario drank the remnant of the coffee to give him time to answer. This was the one question that he had not wanted Harry to posit. While he was proud of his little brother for the steps that he had taken toward full adulthood, he was not entirely convinced that the latter could handle criminal masterminds like Pete Morello or Lucas Kariolis. Even though they had not voiced it openly, he knew Giuseppe and Salvatore privately agreed, hence their recent presence in Bensonhurst. Could he even handle them? That was why he wanted to take Luigi and Peach to Springdale; they would be less likely to approach a military base filled with fully-trained Special Forces personnel. Nevertheless, the entire shop – he and Joe included – begged him to return to Brooklyn to oversee the shop. Men take responsibility. "I … He's got me. We're a package deal, Mr. Abravanel. And as for the Sfacciata," he clarified to the suddenly confused man, "Daisy, as I told you before, they're good for each other. Just like my Peaches, Daisy comes with him."

Harry nodded a little, acknowledging the man's words. "It's a tall order to protect everyone, Mario. Too tall, I think." He checked his wristwatch and said, "Once Daisy's here, I'm going to ask that you and Luigi let her go. Please – if you care for her, you'll want her safe as I do."

His blue eyes hardening, the plumber responded flatly, "She's a sfacciata – she got a mouth. And that mouth won't do what she doesn't want to do. If she wants to leave, then neither Luigi, nor I will stop her."

Daisy's father cast a blank expression at the flustered Mario, who glanced at the kitchen clock. Just as he was pondering over how to stall the resolute lawyer, the front door abruptly opened, and a couple's flirty voices could be overheard from the table. Daisy and Luigi were playfully arguing over the last goal of their game; the 'cheating prick plumber' had picked her up and slapped her on the ass before she could complete the penalty kick. As he was about to make a rather colorful comment about his girlfriend's shapely rear bumper, his blue eyes caught sight of the two men sitting at the kitchen table, and he let out a surprised squeak. This caused Daisy to halt in her trek upstairs, and she popped her head to spy a uncertain Mario and a determined Harry Abravanel finishing coffee.

"Papai, o que está fazendo aqui?" she whispered, her voice tremoring from shock and anger.

"Miha, you know why I'm here," he snarled in English at his daughter. "Now, let's end this. Come back to Williamsburg. Now."

She crossed her arms. "Não vou deixá-lo!"

Harry launched off his chair to face the obstinate young woman properly. "Be sure of your decision, menina. You either leave with me now or you don't bother coming back."

As a pang of ice slammed into her body at her worst fears having come to pass, an appalled Luigi yelled, "Stop this! If you got a problem, then say it to me!" Mario immediately stood up and slowly approached his now infuriated brother, gesturing with hands to calm down. The shouting also drew out Peach from the downstairs bedroom, who put a comforting hand on Luigi's shoulder.

The older man glanced at the younger plumber questioningly. "I think I already have. As I said to your brother, Luigi, your family is a problem. And I warned Daisy not to come here. You both act like little kids, thinking that the Mafia – your maternal line – can't harm you! What the hell were you thinking?!"

"Basta!" she cried angrily. "For … as long as I can remember, O Senhor Abravanel, you've said that I have common sense, a logical mind for the law! You've also said that I shouldn't spend my life alone. You and Yael have pushed man after man on me! I tried dating the Orthodox Jewish men that you've arranged, but guess what: they had no interest me because I have that logical mind. They were more interested in what I cook for dinner than engaging me! They aren't you!" Wiping away her tears while noting the stunned look upon her father's face, she hissed, "I never counted on meeting Luigi Masciarelli, but now that I have, there's no way I'll give him up. Yes, he's a plumber. Yes, he's Catholic. Yes, he has psychos in his family. But that doesn't have anything to do with him!"

"Doesn't it?" rejoined her father resignedly. "If they were in prison, if they were dead, then … I might've overlooked the fact that he's an Italian Catholic without a college degree. But that's not the case. Is it?" His shifted his brown eyes to the fuming Mario and Luigi and went on, undaunted, "No. We have Salvatore Rigassi. And don't bother to bullshit me about him being a simple priest. And I did some more digging. Who the hell is Pete Morell?" The four offended glares soon morphed into nervous and contrite ones. "Yeah, my thoughts exactly." His eyes softening somewhat, Harry addressed his daughter, "Miha, you can do so much better than this. You are putting your education at risk, your future in the law at risk, and even your very life at risk. Is he worth it?" He turned toward Luigi and demanded, "What do you think, kid? Should Daisy sacrifice everything for the likes of your family?"

As a furious Mario jabbed his finger at the door, Luigi, still staring at Harry, roared, "Enough!" Everyone gaped at his outburst, yet remained silent in anticipation. "Who the fuck are you to insult Mario, Daisy, Peach, and me in our own home?! I don't care whose father you are or how much money you have – you're way out of line. And since it's my house, I'll gladly comment on your … accusations. First, Daisy makes her own decisions from her own sense of integrity. You don't know how many times we've had this very conversation. And every time, she's asked me to trust her judgment. Do I love her enough to let her go? If I had to make the choice, and it were mine to make, then yeah, absolutely." Pivoting his head briefly to connect with the tearful Daisy's fingertips, he spoke in almost a whisper, "Is it my choice? No." He faced the lawyer once more. "Second, Pete Morello is our asshole cousin. I have to play ball with him to keep thirty good men from losing their jobs, including my brother who's still part-time military. At least for now. Third, Uncle Sal was a mafioso; he became a priest out of remorse for his past. And finally, I do plan on getting my engineering degree once the shop's in a better position. The rest? Yeah, I'm a Brooklyn Italian plumber – guilty as fucking charged. Now, since it's my house, as plain as it is, I say Daisy can stay here if she chooses. You? Take your fancy law degree and get the fuck out."

Mario and Peach, speechless at Luigi's explosion, exchanged an awed look while Daisy walked over to her heaving, red-faced boyfriend and interlaced their fingers. Harry raised his eyebrow and, taking one last steady glance at the four pairs of livid eyes, soundlessly exited the A-frame. Shutting the doors behind him to the afternoon sunshine, the olive-skinned Brazilian allowed the hint of a smile to appear.