Author's notes: Hey there! Yet another chapter! Thanks to all who have supported the story through favoriting, comments, and/or kudos. Please feel free to continue :)

And without further ado ...


Chapter 45: La Cerca, Part II

The knocking grew more insistent as the two men hurriedly stashed Luigi's blueprints and papers into the safe located next to the flat screen television. Once it appeared as though the plumber was only depressed and not working on a prototype did they face each other again.

"Jesus river-dancing Christ, Weeg! Are you seriously going to make me beg the Nazi asshole downstairs to do a welfare check on you?!" demanded Lucas from the hallway.

"Ouch, goddamnit! I don't know anything!" Luigi suddenly shouted, causing Sam to frown in confusion. "I don't know what he's up to, man! Please … Please you gotta believe me!" Silently, he enjoined the mafioso with his arms to continue the act.

"You better fucking tell me, Masciarelli, or I'll make sure that you fucking regret it!"

"Hey, what's going on in there?" called out the Manhattanite weakly.

Hit me, mouthed the plumber to Sam, whose brown eyes widened in disbelief. Hit or choke me in front of him. After hesitating and his cousin gesticulating to do it, the Coloradan quickly grabbed Luigi in a chokehold, making his cheeks and lips turn pink, then opened the door to let the other New Yorker enter. Upon stepping inside the room, Lucas halted in front of the door, stunned at the sight.

"Hey, what the fuck?!" he growled. "Did Pete all of a sudden get bored and decide cannibalism was a new venture? Let him go!" Sam smirked at him, to which he yelled, "Now, asshole, before I scream Sieg Heil in a crowded German hotel!"

To ensure that the tall man believed Luigi's ruse, he let go of and threw him to the floor. As the Brooklynite coughed and brought his hand to his throat, Sam hissed, "Do you honestly think a few Germans can stop me from taking care of both of you if my uncle were to order it? Hmm? I've dealt with far stickier problems. But please, oh, please, fuck up so I can waste your ass at last!"

Lucas raised an eyebrow at the cowboy as the latter, still eyeing him, stormed out of the room. Once the mafioso disappeared down the hall, he shut the door, locked it, and knelt by the coughing Luigi. "Jesus, what the hell happened? Can you breathe?"

He nodded as he gasped for air. Shaking his head, the taller man pulled him into his lap so that he was cradling his body like a child, much to the plumber's shock. "What am I going to do with you, Weeg? Huh? This is why you can't be left alone!"

"I'm fine!" he insisted.

Shaking his head, Lucas looked down at him seriously. "No, you're not. And just what the hell did the Satanic Critter want?"

Luigi shook his head. "I don't know. He wanted to know what you were up to, with your disappearances and mysterious meetings."

"That's precisely why I didn't share it with you, Weeg. If the Critters were to find out our plans, they'd undoubtedly kill you. Now, frankly, I don't give a shit about pissing them off. In fact, I enjoy vexing the fucking shitkickers. But that's between them and me — not you." For the first time since he came into his friend's hotel suite, Lucas blinked disgustedly at the stacked dishes, then looked down at the scruff of facial hair on the man's face. Wrinkling his nose, he said seriously, "Okay, you've been living like an Italian Vincent Van Gogh for way, way too long. Get up; for the love of all that's normal, take a shower, shave, and get dressed. You're coming out with me. Now." Before he could protest, the Manhattanite hauled the occasionally coughing plumber to his feet and dragged him to the spacious bathroom. Turning on the shower and checking the water temperature, he snickered, "You have sixty seconds before I plunge your dirty plumber ass!"

Rolling his eyes, Luigi began to strip his two-day-old clothes as Lucas promised to return in five minutes. The hot water soothed his sweaty skin; as he made use of the high-end herbal shampoo and body wash, he let his hands imitate the teasing and possessive caresses of his lioness whom he let, in the comfort of his imagination, take control of their mutual pleasure. He wished Daisy were there to press her blush-colored lips to his skin, flash her coy, yet inviting amber eyes, and murmur just how much she wanted to ride him like a horse, even rendering his Coloradan cousin jealous. While he loved to talk dirty to her in their private moments, his feisty lioness giving orders made him hot and bothered beyond the point of no return, each time pushing him to please her more than the previous. His fantasy Daisy having become indistinguishable from the real one in New York, Luigi started to speak and growl aloud in English and Italian. Unaware of anything but their desires, he did not hear the bathroom door suddenly open and a familiar voice call out, "Yo, Weeg, I heard you …"

Turning bright red underneath the steamy shower, the plumber cried, "I'm fine, now get the fuck out, Lucas!"

Several moments passed in silence; Luigi began to relax, thinking that his frenemy had left, when he heard boisterous laughter. "Oh, shit, man! Now I get it! You've been horny. Son, why didn't you just say so?" He rolled his eyes at the still cackling man. "Ahem, finish … hehe … and, uh, we'll see what we can do. I have to warn you that the red light district sucks here. Not quite Amsterdam, Paris, or Hamburg. And it's too late to rent a car."

An offended and winded Luigi swung open the glass door to the shower, steam obscuring his body from Lucas's view. "I'm only gonna say this once! I am in a committed relationship with Daisy Abravanel. I don't want a prostitute or another woman – at all! If you want to go fuck whomever, be my guest!"

The taller man put his hands up and muttered, "Jesus, Weegie, relax! It was a fucking joke! Touchy and horny. Just … get dressed. I have a plan. And no, it doesn't involve other chicks, rent-a-hos, or massage parlors. Okay?"

"There better not be," warned the plumber as he shut the glass to finish rinsing the soap from his body.

Giggling, Lucas shut the wooden door once more and entered his friend's bedroom to search for his suitcase. On one hand, an aroused Luigi was somewhat amusing, especially, in his view, how uptight the plumber normally was; even in high school, the awkward Bensonhurst Italian only smiled and nodded at the partying co-eds who gave him the once-over several times and were practically begging him to bed them. On the other hand, the man in purple knew that he would refuse comfort from all but one particularly vexing bitch. Briefly, Lucas considered slipping him something to allow a local woman to get him off, thus simultaneously ridding himself of the Amazon Warrior Princess; however, in the aftermath, a heartbroken Luigi would become irrational and possibly alert New York. His father was right about one thing: a sexually frustrated man was an incompetent worker and thinker. The problem was that he seemed to take after all of the asshole plumbers (and firefighter) in his family – one-woman-trick ponies. Well, except the priest, he thought; I doubt he stays with one altar boy or goat. Ultimately, he found the man's suitcase and fished out some underwear, a pair of designer jeans, a light green Oxford, and a gray suitcoat, laying them in an orderly fashion atop his best friend's bed and avoiding the obvious, if acrid-tasting answer to the Luigi Problem.

The door opened to reveal Luigi with a damp white towel wrapped around his waist. More relaxed, Lucas assumed that he had concluded his business in the shower. Inspecting the clothes that he had selected, the plumber shrugged his consent and directed a pointed stare at him. In response, the man in the light metallic purple suit and vest crossed his arms. Growling, the nearly nude man snatched his underwear and re-entered the ensuite to change in privacy. Suddenly, the man's phone rang, causing him to re-emerge from the bathroom, press the green button, and tiredly answer, "Hey, sweetie. I miss you …"

Once the door had shut again, Lucas stuck out his tongue in disgust. "Pet names? Seriously? Goddamn, Weeg, do you still have your balls?" he whispered. Then, groaning, he added, "The shit that I do for you …"


Rainwater sprinkled upon his curls, Mario gingerly ambled through the glass door that was exceptionally open despite the prominently displayed 'CLOSED' sign. Stopping at the familiar polished bar and mahogany, he maneuvered his short legs and prosthesis around one of the stools and sat down, folding his broad hands and fingers upon the wooden surface. Never a patient man, the red-hoodied plumber started to drum his digits on the bar; after a minute had passed, he then yelled, "Yo, what the fuck, ya Irish piece of shit?!"

Ubiquitous toothpick in the corner of his mouth, the six-foot-two redhead barreled out of the back toward the bar. "I was workin', asswipe."

"Yeah, well, I was getting off work! I got your message and drove in the rain from fucking East 102nd. So make it quick, fuckhead!" growled the mustachioed man.

Without immediately answering, Bowser, who had opted for a black New York Yankees tee-shirt and jeans, reached into the mini-fridge below and fetched a can of Coke Zero, slamming it on the bar. While pouring himself a cup of black coffee, he snickered, "I ain't givin' you the real shit, fuck-plunger. You look like you've had too many helpings of spaghetti bolognese in the past couple days."

He glared at him and, cracking open the seal, mumbled, "Prick."

Sipping his coffee, John shrugged. "One day, the Squa … Peach will come to her senses and realize that she's sleeping with a tub of lard." As he brought the Coke can with his right hand, Mario flipped him the bird with his left. "Anyway, that's not why you're here. It's about Greenie. I, uh, heard things." The plumber raised his eyebrows in interest while fiddling with the can. "Tony's ass is real tight, and Carlo's pissed about something. I don't know for sure, but I think it's got somethin' to do with your cousin in Colorado – Pete Morello. And Greenie's his fuckin' darling."

The red-hoodied man extended his index finger. "Now, let's get somethin' fuckin' straight here, fuckball; my brother ain't Pete Morello's darling! He's over in Germany 'cause he has to be. And no thanks to your boss and his … purple-vomit-wearing associate."

Bowser twiddled the toothpick and, looking around for eavesdroppers, lowered his voice, "Stupid dickwad, you underestimate what's happening! They've been after Greenie since day-fucking-one! Tony, that tall piece of shit, Carlo, Pete, even Jackass."

"He's the second son and is a Rigassi. Yeah, I've heard all this shit before," Mario in a deadpan.

The bartender shook his head. "Nah, nah. Well, yeah … But this is different. Usually, when kids go through the process, they're initiated, paired, until they can prove two things," he replied, holding up two fingers. "First, gettin' pinched to prove that they can keep their mouth shut. Second, makin' money. Now this is the part that I heard from some real fuckin' unsavory characters a couple nights ago. Your kid brother … he's only responsible for doing the latter. Meaning that they don't want the FBI or NYPD on his tail. This is the Campisi-Rigassi way of doin' things. If it's true underworld …"

Mario's face blanched. "He's the new face of Carlo's famiglia. It's more than being next generation. He's … it."

Nodding, the redhead responded, "Now, you're getting it. The rumor is that the Campisis are expert at remaining in the shadows. They're the assassins. The Rigassis are the project managers. And they intermarried in Italy to make … youse. Well, it was initially your mother's side – Gabriella and Salvatore."

The portly man rubbed his mustache and weakly mumbled, "Jesus, just what the fuck was Uncle Sal?"

"I don't know. But …" he took a nervous sip of coffee and continued, "there was an American Campisi who was feared by everyone – Il Mietitore. Him and another guy. It was before my time, and my father and brother were more into that shit that I ever was or wanted to be. I didn't put two and two together until …"

"Until you got your ass kicked at the church," finished the plumber.

"Yeah. And based on the very little that I've heard, Il Mietitore is not someone you want to meet. He's beyond cold-blooded. Hardened mafiosi tell stories about him just to scare the fuck outta each other. He hasn't whacked anyone in recent history – or at least, that I know of. Truth is, he doesn't need to."

"What'd he do, John?"

Twirling the toothpick in his mouth a second time, he stared at the expectant, fearless man in front of him, then grabbed the nearest bottle of Grey Goose and two glasses. "I'd reach for the J. D., but it's your fuckin' poison. That bein' said, we need a goddamned drink for this one." He poured a bit of the clear liquid in each glass, slid one to his counterpart, and downed it in one go. Mario followed suit, his concerned blue eyes never leaving the man's face. Decanting a second shot, John rasped, "Now, hitmen become hitmen in the Mafia 'cause they want to get made or get a cut. Most don't get into the books. This guy did, through blood and sheer cruelty. Back in '80 or '81, aight, there's this soldier in one of the Jersey crews. He's the nephew of the boss and a moneymaker, so normally untouchable. Well, the stupid fuck decides to muscle into this plumbing job in Staten Island. That's New York territory – Carlo's territory – and he didn't get permission from the Commission. Only bosses can order soldiers' executions – you already know that. Well, the Newark boss decides to support his dumb fuck of a soldier over Carlo, thinking that his family ties will cover his ass. Not surprisingly, Carlo gets the green light from the Commission. To make a point, he sends Il Mietitore who, with two bulls, drags the underboss, the stupid fuck, and an associate of theirs out of their homes in their pajamas – in full view of their families – and takes 'em some place in Jersey. No one knows where and no one's seen 'em since. About a month later, the stone-cold fuck mails a package containing … their partly-rotted eyeballs, noses, and bone fragments to each of their widows with a farewell note. The note's written in the poor bastards' blood. He made them write a goodbye using their own blood, Plumber. After that, no one dared to even think about doin' that shit to Carlo." He scoffed as he gulped the second glass of vodka, "Kinda ironic that I showed him the note written for me."

Mario slowly put down his glass on the countertop. "Holy shit …" Their eyes connected and widened. "The crazy bitch!" they spoke together.

Bowser frowned. "No, wait a second. Polina's from New York, not Jersey. And her mother was some fuckin' ballerina from Minsk or Odessa, I think. And what the hell does New Jersey have to do with my brother or, shit, even my father?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. But … my uncle – Giuseppe – once said that Jackass had his flavors of the month. Slavic girls. Russians."

John's brown eyes expanded and, leaning into the plumber's space, rasped, "You think … Polina's Jackie's daughter?!"

He nodded deliberately. "It's the only thing that makes sense. I don't think she's Salvatore's. But what I don't get is why she'd pull a Mietitore and send you of all people a note written in blood?"

"Thanks, shithead," barked the bartender sarcastically.

"Anytime, clownstick." Drinking the last of the vodka, Mario added, "And I have a bad fuckin' feeling that the Kariolises are playin' both sides, workin' for Carlo and the crazy bitch, leavin' Weegie in the crossfire."

"Mario, Greenie's a fenucca." At the man's outraged stare, the redheaded man put up his hands to defend himself. "Sorry, but he is. Lucas's a sneaky little shit; he's smart, but arrogant. Greenie can run circles around him – no problem. But Il Mietitore, Carlo, and Petey Morello are cold-blooded killers. They are the real Mafia. Polina's … a crazy bitch. Y'know what I mean."

"Yeah, he's … all alone in the middle of a Mafia war." He picked up the nearly empty Coke Zero can and swished its contents. "And where's Morello in all this?"

Bowser leaned against the bar leisurely. "Dunno. I know very little about him. I do know that he and Jackass hate each other, and it goes way the hell back. Even worse, they're rival crew chiefs. Between you and me?" Though the red-hoodied man said nothing, he gazed at the bartender keenly. "No one on the street respects Jackass. They only obey him 'cause of Carlo. And that's the problem; the Padrino's always playin' peacemaker."

"And that's why Luigi was sent to Germany," supposed Mario while shaking his head. "The Colorado crew doesn't trust Lucas – can't blame 'em there – and Jackass doesn't want to lose face to Pete. But Carlo does trust Luigi as his great-nephew, as his successor, to which Pete and Jackass would agree." The bar fell silent for a few moments, after which a suddenly pale Mario lifted his head. "John, what … what happens if Luigi's taken out of the picture abroad? If he's … killed?"

The taller redhead gawked at the plumber, paling at the voiced question. "Morello and Jackass would undoubtedly blame each other and split the family. Meanwhile …"

Steely blue eyes bore into the disbelieving brown ones. "Meanwhile what?"

John gulped. "Meanwhile … the Irish, Russians, Albanians, Greeks, and fuck knows who else would be waiting in the wings to take over. And half of Brooklyn would end up in the goddamned morgue."

Even though his anger remained palpable, Mario smirked a little, then glanced at the soda can once more. "All over one fenucca, eh, Bowser?" When the bartender failed to reply, he pushed himself off the stool, leaving the soda unfinished. "Well, I ain't gonna let that happen. Here's what youse never understood about … the fenucca: he has the heart and imagination that none of us can ever comprehend. Mama saw it, Pops saw it, even fuckin' Joe saw it. And unfortunately, Carlo does, too. See, that heart and imagination will save us from bullies like the Mafia. Like the crazy bitch. That's why they want him." His blue eyes swiftly darkened, compelling the redhead to lean away from him. "And I will never let them have him. He's my family. My mother never wanted him in this, and neither did my father. His name is Masciarelli. He's Mario's son."

Giving one final glare to Bowser, the red-hoodied Italian turned away from the bar and made his way to the glass door. As he treaded onto wet concrete and into the cold Atlantic rain outside, he heard the man call out, "For how long, Plumber? Hmm? How long's Greenie gonna be able to resist?!"


Luigi's frenemy surprisingly kept the dinner and 'after-party' tame: a window table on the fifty-third floor of the Main Tower, a Thai-German-fusion tasting menu, plenty of German Gewürztraminer, and a small chocolate flourless cake and coffee, followed by Schnapps and drinks at a nearby café. Sam had waited impatiently in the lobby as they arrived at a relatively decent ten o'clock. In his room, once he had ensured that the prototype worked for German electrical specifications, he went to bed and slept soundly, taking breakfast at nine in the morning. He then showered, dressed, and, backpack slung over his shoulder, was ready for the meeting by ten-thirty. From the hotel lobby to the Main Tower's ground floor and elevators, Luigi's gray-suited body vibrated with nervous energy as he struggled to keep up with the brisk pace of the flashily-dressed Lucas and black-suited Sam.

"Hey, relax, Weeg," said Lucas in a careless tone inside the lift. "It's just a meeting with Felix. No stress." Sam eyeballed him incredulously, though did not voice what he had been thinking.

The parting of the metal doors signaled that they had arrived at the thirty-ninth floor. Sam and Luigi trailed the confident, smiling Lucas to the glass entrance and modern office space. A young, serious-looking, blonde woman in a blue business suit glanced up at the men. "Guten Tag," Lucas spoke casually to her, "I'm here to see Felix Müller-Schmidt."

"Do you have an appointment to see Dr. Müller-Schmidt, Herr …?" she asked him in English.

"Lucas Kariolis."

The blonde turned to her computer and searched the task management system. "Yes, here you are. Your appointment begins at eleven o'clock. Dr. Müller-Schmidt will be out presently, thank you."

Having been summarily dismissed, the three men waited patiently for fifteen minutes, with Luigi fighting the strong urge to bolt from the office space. At precisely eleven o'clock, a tall, thirties-something man with reddish-blond hair, chiseled features, titanium glasses, and a dark blue suit and tie walked out to greet them. "Hello," he greeted them with a light German accent, "I normally send for my guests. However, I already know Lucas. Please follow me into the conference room."

"Hey, Felix, my man, it's been a while!" uttered Lucas gingerly. The German smiled weakly, flushing with embarrassment at being addressed so informally at his workplace. The two other men kept quiet and shadowed the investor and techie into a recently remodeled conference room: large windows lined the leftmost wall, giving a nearly panoramic view of the city; at the center of the room sat a black oval table and several plum-colored chairs; at the farthest wall, hung a LCD flatscreen television to view presentations. Dr. Müller-Schmidt shut the door behind them and extended his hand to Luigi and Sam. "I am Felix Müller-Schmidt, liaison to the Investments Direction here at Heimar-Grüner Capital."

The plumber shook his hand. "Um, Luigi Masciarelli. This is Sam Carlin."

"Yes, hello," he greeted perfunctorily. Sam took a chair at the longer edge of the table, near Luigi, though keeping some discreet distance from the group as Lucas busied himself with setting up his presentation. Dr. Müller-Schmidt took a seat at the other end of the table in full view of the television screen. Luigi inaudibly slipped his laptop out on the black surface, ready at a moment's notice to pitch his invention to the staid man who, simultaneously, took out a black portfolio and pen for notes. "Okay, let's begin," he announced. "What is this plan you have, Lucas? Please present the methodology."

Both Sam and Luigi listened attentively to Lucas's convoluted explanations about the history of SCADA and a flow chart of half-assed ideas that, instead of flowing from premise to result, resembled a Jackson Pollock when drawn out from point A to point ZZ-Top. Despite their best attempts to hide their organic reactions, the two men exchanged disbelieving looks at, arguably, the worst presentation ever delivered in Frankfurt, Germany. Likewise, the German investor was unimpressed, having concluded his notetaking at around the twelfth minute. By the twenty-third, he slammed his pen closed to interrupt the techie's ramblings on coil data bytes.

"Right," he interjected irritably. "Lucas, while I respect our collegial relationship from the University of Pennsylvania, you have apparently no respect for mine. This idea is incomprehensible. And even if it were not, we currently aren't looking at big SCADA projects here in Germany for two reasons. First, the cost is too great. Second, we're now looking at sustainable technologies. SCADA is hardly sustainable. Develop your … idea and approach Norway – they have oil refineries and such. Unless you have something else, I am going to conclude the meeting and wish you a good stay in Frankfurt."

As the infuriated Lucas began to argue, Luigi softly interposed, "We, uh, do, Dr. Müller-Schmidt. We have a project that would satisfy your requirements."

Felix raised his eyebrow at the timid man. "And do you have a methodology or is this just an idea?"

"Oh, don't mind him, Felix," scoffed Lucas. "He's new to the game, he's …"

"And you're not?" bit out the man sarcastically. Holding up a hand in anticipation of Lucas's reprisal, he waited for the plumber to answer.

"I-I-I have a prototype. Data, too. With me, right now. The prototype's been tested in the United States and Germany."

"Well, I have," he checked his watch, "thirty minutes. This has peaked my interest. I do have another meeting, so if you can present in ten or fifteen minutes, I am willing to hear you."

Luigi nodded slowly, gulping. He absolutely loathed public speaking. At Brooklyn City, he would intentionally pair up with Lucas to avoid it; at Staten Island Tech, he repeated the same behavior with his ex-boyfriend Mark, who calmly seduced the audience with simple, confident explanations as well as his silky blond hair. Now, he was in a tough audience of one stiff German with no Mark, no blond hair, and a hostile Lucas sitting petulantly in the corner seat. Extracting the physical prototype from his green backpack and plugging in his laptop to the view screen, Luigi saw Sam move from the farthest seat to one of the chairs closer to Lucas, presumably to deter any outbursts or intimidation. The plumber momentarily closed his eyes to regain control of his breathing. He pictured a grinning Daisy positioning herself next to his frenemy, glaring at the Manhattanite as she did so. Then came Mario, who slapped the man in purple behind the head, Giuseppe, Lucia, Miles, Yoshi, his cousins, and finally, a familiar lieutenant from New York's Bravest who ambled up to him and put a comforting hand upon his shoulder. "Remember who you are, figlio mio. Real power comes from love, hope, and endurance. You are my son. You will always be my son."

Opening his blue eyes which had shifted from watery and fearful to calm and focused, Luigi began haltingly, "I-I won't bore you with a history. I'm a plumber, and I developed this prototype to solve the problem of anticipating failure of household climate controls, specifically HVAC units, that my shop sells. They fail after three to five years, sometimes faster if it's a particularly difficult winter or summer in New York." He pressed the forward arrow key to display the essential schematics of the device on the PowerPoint slide. "The prototype is a thermal control device that reads how well a room or an enclosed area is air conditioned or heated. When used in conjunction with a boiler or similar climate control system, it can read and indicate when a repair's needed. It's handheld; easy to fit and replicate. It's also designed for the plumber or repairman in mind; while the device constantly streams data back to a central computer that compiles, analyzes, and interprets data, he or she can read the device like a thermometer – there's no additional training or programming knowledge needed." Luigi pressed the arrow key once more; at some point during his explanation, Dr. Müller-Schmidt had uncapped his pen to take copious notes and write down personal observations. "The method is pretty straight-forward: just like any machine, HVAC units or thermal systems give warning signals that they're about to die, normally in the form of poor energy efficiency; the client notices that he or she has to turn up the heat or air conditioning, and they get p…uh, irritated that their electric bill's more expensive. This device collects the data that will show us, the technicians, that."

The German gave a brief nod. "And what's the error of the data? How accurate of a tool is it? Specifically on multiple systems?"

"Well, uh, I've tested it on three major systems; two that are used on the East Coast and one in, uh, Germany. It's adaptable to your 220-voltage scheme. Based on preliminary readings, it's, as you can see," he went on to the next slide, "ninety-five percent accurate. There is a large standard deviation, mainly because it's in its early stages of testing, and hasn't been UAT'd on all major climate controls."

"And I suppose that this is the reason for the request for financial backing?" asked Felix dryly.

"Uh, well, correct," stammered Luigi.

"How long did it take you to assemble and affix the device?"

"T-t-two weeks to build it, a day to program it, and, uh, I put it on the same-day. Readings began within the hour. The, uh, master computer is located at New York University Engineering."

"And since the device is streaming the data, presumably through wi-fi, how do you propose to protect it from theft or corruption?" inquired the German. "Is it New York University that will monitor intrusions?"

The plumber hesitated as Lucas continued to sulk, unwilling to assist his 'business partner' with his cybersecurity credential. He did not want to reveal Miles's identity to Dr. Müller-Schmidt or Sam, let alone his frenemy.

"Uh, sir?" Sam raised a hand to the German who cast his green eyes to him. "I'm a network and nuclear engineer by training; I did security systems and intelligence in the United States Navy. My associates and I can easily protect the system, as can the folks at NYU."

"And you are credentialed?"

"Yes, sir."

Felix nodded again, then dropped his gaze down to his black portfolio and scribbled a few additional notes. "Thank you for the presentation," he murmured as he scanned the page decorated with his precise cursive. A smirking Lucas watched his shrunk friend unplug his laptop and put away his prototype. He loudly yawned, stretched, and was about to suggest that other buyers would be interested when the German investor addressed them once more, "I would like to talk with Mr. Masciarelli for a moment. If you gentlemen would kindly leave the room, you can wait with my secretary, thank you." Lucas, stunned, felt his body being surreptitiously maneuvered out of the room by the Coloradan while a curious Luigi waited for the door to shut after them. "Sit, please," he heard the German invite. On autopilot, he did so, taking the chair nearest his host.

Setting his pen down on the closed portfolio, Dr. Müller-Schmidt scanned the anxious man before him. Unlike the arrogant Lucas Kariolis, this American seemed painfully shy and self-deprecating to the point of lacking confidence. Though the mustachioed man clearly possessed engineering skill, Felix doubted that he and Lucas ran in the same circles, either professionally or socially. "You are Lucas's business partner?"

"Uh, sort of, yeah," replied Luigi. "He's an investor with my union."

The German blinked in surprise. Union? "What do you do as a profession, Mr. Masciarelli?"

"I'm a licensed master plumber. I'm the manager of Brooklyn Plumbing and Mechanical Works in New York."

"Uh, forgive me, as I'm unfamiliar with some of the American educational and technical systems. Does this mean that you're a licensed engineer?"

"Er, not exactly," conceded the plumber. "I'm licensed by the City of New York to oversee the construction and implementation of HVAC, gas lines, pipes, sewage lines, and what not. I can run my own shop, which I do. Licensed engineers have four-year degrees in engineering and take different exams. We do similar tasks. My license is specific, whereas an engineering license is less so."

Felix nodded once more. "I see. This might pose an issue here in Germany. University degrees are rather essential to the point of being considered prerequisites for extensive funding. There is furthermore the issue of your prototype not having been tested on several systems. I wish you had come to me with an engineering diploma and a year, perhaps two or three years' worth of data."

Luigi gave a single, disappointed nod. "No, I understand. I apologize if I offended you, Dr. Müller-Schmidt; this was rather sudden, I agree."

"I did not say no, Mr. Masciarelli," interjected Felix flatly. "I said no to extensive funding – I mean major production costs. I will recommend a basic funding for data collection over the next year. If you can ask New York University to contact TU-Berlin or ETH Zurich to set up a secure system, I may be able to give you a little more, depending on what's involved. The other condition is on you professionally. Europe will require the engineering degree in hand. If, in two to three years, you have the diploma and adequate marks, and you have the extensive data to prove it works, then funding will be prolonged and increased."

The New Yorker's blue eyes widened in shock. "If-If-If I can ask, how much are you going to recommend? I mean, your conditions are more than fair, and I'll accept whatever. I just want to know …"

"I can't discuss that with you at the moment. The evaluation process takes a few weeks; it's ultimately up to my superiors." He rose from his chair to signal that their business was concluded. "Do you have a business card?"

"Uh," he blushed, "sorry, I …"

Felix laughed a little. "Here," he reached into his suitcoat pocket and pulled out two cards between his fingers. "Take one for yourself. On the second one, would you please write down your professional email address and phone number? I will contact you once a decision has been made." Luigi removed a ballpoint pen from his backpack and wrote down his information on the back of the card. "Perfect." He offered the Italian his hand, "It's been a good meeting, Mr. Masciarelli, and we'll be in touch."

"Th-Thank you, Dr. Müller-Schmidt," rasped the New Yorker, shaking his hand. The German investor opened the door and guided the still stunned American to the restless Lucas and Sam. The three men silently exited the office, made their way into the elevator, and arrived at the ground floor a few moments later. Since the Steigenberger was only a five-minute walk from the Main Tower, they braved the chilly weather on foot.

"Well, Luigi," commenced Lucas in a deceptively joyful tone, "did you have a nice fucking chat with Felix?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, it was alright."

"Agree to be in a Scheißevideo with him? 'Essen meine Scheiße, ja!'"

Whereas Luigi rolled his eyes, Sam glared at the Manhattanite. "So, what did he say, Masciarelli?" demanded the latter, carefully reprising the antagonistic role that they had agreed upon the previous evening. Impeding him physically, he added in a menacing tone, "Don't fuck me over, plumber!"

In spite of the intellectual knowledge that it was an act, the Brooklynite swallowed apprehensively. "Uh, he said no to 'extensive funding.' He did, however, say that he would advise basic funding to his superiors. If I can prove that the prototype is adaptable, then they'd increase it. And I'd, uh, need an engineering degree for even more. I tried to get him to tell me how much, but he refused to say." Sam and Lucas traded astonished looks, staying motionless for at least a full minute. "W-what?" whispered Luigi, his confused blue eyes shifting between the two men. "Basic funding's not that great, I know. It-it-It's a start, but …"

"Weeg," snarled Lucas in a voice that he had not heard in over a decade, "basic funding for these German investors is between thirty and seventy grand. Full funding is six or seven digits per year, especially if you have patent and production rights in the EU."

He gasped, his arm carrying the backpack slowly drooping. "Y-y-you're sh-sh-shitting me?"

Lucas resumed an angry stroll to the hotel. "No."

Behind the Greek man's back, Sam flashed a smug grin and mouthed to his cousin, "He's jealous as shit!"


"Fucking fuckity fuck motherfucker!" shouted the tall New Yorker, slamming the suite door behind him. Having left Luigi and Sam on the streets of the city center, the plum-suited man stalked back to his hotel room to contemplate his next move. The meeting with Felix Müller-Schmidt was never supposed to be more than a sales pitch to write the trip off on his expense report. According to the original plan, he would have ditched the Colorado Critters in Aspen, brought Luigi to Germany where they would have spent two weeks drinking and screwing the local fare, and awaited instructions from Lady Bowser. And right about that time, Pete Morello would be busy with a Sicilian Inquisition, too busy to care about what they were doing, thus rendering Sam the Snake useless as a happy bonus. However, he had not counted on his own best friend fucking it up by acquiring rudimentary capital enough for a baby step toward his own start-up.

Who does that green-loving asshole think he is? We were doing SCADA, not the Internet of Toilets!

He balled his fists in a vinegary rage; if Luigi managed to secure enough domestic and global funding for his prototype, not only would he be able to save the shop, but he would be truly independent. The quarterly revenue alone would obliterate any need for Scott Pichler or the Kariolises' contributions. Thus, Lucas could no longer manipulate the union or employ greedy, racist, public-school principals against him. No; this would not do. Luigi was his friend and his toy. Sitting down at his long, sepia hotel desk and crossing his stick-like legs underneath, he presented himself with the fundamental issue: the plumber was too invested – pardon the pun, he snickered – in his previous life. Yet perhaps the Crazy Lady had a point about patience; soon, the Moranos and Morellos would destroy each other, taking the Pretending Priest and Sergeant Major Dickerson with them, leaving Joe the Plumber to die a painful death. As for Stupid Princess Daisy, she would undoubtedly run screaming from the aftermath. Lucas grinned; Luigi did not know just how precarious, how close to the edge his so-called support system really was. All he needed to do was keep the charade going for another few weeks. Abruptly rising to his feet, the purple man bounced to the mini-bar fridge for a cold, bottled Pilsner. Not as good as going to a biergarten, but no matter; twisting it open, he sipped the beverage, narrowing down his next two steps. First, control the prototype; it was functioning and monetarily useful to the start-up; second, let the plumber's world implode on its own. Now more calm, he took another swallow of the rich, grainy brew. Luigi is his own Achilles' Heel; he cannot be left alone.

His phone rang as he entertained himself with the brokenhearted face of a plumber. Bottle in his left hand, he answered the call with his right. "Ja?"

"How's your little … vacation in Germany? I hear it's pretty gray this time of year," said a feminine voice.

"It's fine. Luigi's having fun," he spat, "and I still have Critters crawling up my ass. I did what you asked me to do, so where's your end, Mrs. B?"

"Just an itty-bitty more patience, my dear, Lucas. You've done well. And I'm happy to report that our mutual friend in Colorado is being dragged to a, well, let's call it a board meeting to discuss the missing funds. It's early here – six in the morning – and the meeting is at lunch New York time. And," she sniggered, "I smell blood in the air. It's been a while since there's been a high-profile whacking in Brooklyn."

"Oh?" he inquired, drinking a bit more of the beer. His day was brightening, after all.

"Indeed. He'll no longer be your problem in a few hours. And as for our New York friends, well, power differentials have historically never worked out well for them. They'll be too busy cannibalizing each other."

Moranos and Morellos eliminated; check. "That's … excellent news. What of the plumbing leaks?"

Lady Bowser's voice hardened at the implicit mention of the Masciarellis and Father Sal. "Ah, yes, them. Once the major players have been neutralized, I will get the remaining three. Again, Lucas, patience; we need to stick with the original plan. There's no use reinventing the wheel when it's working so well. We can, of course, make small tweaks as necessary, but at the moment, I don't see a reason to rush. Do you?"

Raising his beer in a victory toast to the empty room, he responded, "Actually, no. There's no rush."

"Perfect. Right now, your job is to keep the puppy carefree and oblivious for another couple of weeks. You're in Germany for another week or so, right?"

"Yeah. We concluded our … business today, so I'll need to think up something. Keeping Luigi oblivious? Easy-peasy. Keeping him carefree is, well, like verifying the existence of God. If it's not his shop, it's Daisy; if it's not his brother, it's Joe the Plumber. And so on." Before she could interrupt, he barked, "I know – it's my problem! As I said, I'll think up something."

"Touchy," she chortled in a mocking alto. "Might I make a suggestion? Anxious, over-analytical men need constant stimulation."

"I tried to get him laid! But the only woman he'll even jack off to is Daisy!"

She sighed in exasperation at the biggest idiot on the planet. "Then give him Daisy on a silver platter. He's a young male and, like you, young males prioritize the most readily available and desirable source of sex. If he's happy and busy with her, then he'll be too busy to notice what's happening in New York. Also, he's probably bored in Frankfurt, especially as the objective has been completed. Men like your puppy are often task-oriented. Give him a change of scenery and something completely foreign. Send his senses into overdrive."

"But … Daisy's a fucking pill!" he whined. "She's a vegetarian and … and …"

"Won't fuck you. Yes, I believe we've already had this conversation. Put on your big-boy pants and deal with the … minor discomfort for just a few weeks. Go someplace pleasurable to offset it. It's not like you're without money or access."

Lucas's mouth whimpered around the beer bottle. She did have a point about distracting Luigi. However, he refused to acknowledge defeat on The Daisy Problem. "Okay, fine! I do have a place in mind. The only problem is getting the Italian Woody Allen on the goddamn plane."

"Now that's your problem. A fundamental rule of consulting is never to do the client's work for him or her. Assist, yes; suggest, absolutely. Work? No."

"Okay, fair enough," conceded the Manhattanite. "For how long should I keep him abroad? Personally, I don't give a fuck; I can always use an extended vacation. It's both the plan and him that concern me."

The Lady hummed in thought. In the background, Lucas could hear her briefly speak to someone in Italian and pour a cup, possibly two, of coffee or chai. "That's a good question. Usually, when I enact a plan, I always budget a few days extra in case something unforeseen happens. If you leave, say, Monday, then stay through," she chuckled as she dragged her spoon across the bottom of the porcelain, "November 5. Unless you're staying somewhere like Finland."

"Fuck Finland!" he growled angrily. Fucking stupid Finnish bitches.

"Well, I suppose you'd stay somewhere warm. You don't strike me as someone who'd make do in cold weather. Anyway, since you're six hours ahead, my workday has already begun, and I'll end the call now. I will phone again on Tuesday. I assume you won't be in Australia or Japan?"

"No. I think it's only a two-hour difference from Europe, so eight hours ahead of New York."

"That's fine. I've had worse – Shanghai and Tokyo. Not fun. Ciao for now."

Lucas heard the line disconnect, and he pressed the end key. Inasmuch as he loathed the idea of inviting the Spoiled Cali Princess, Lady Bowser did have an excellent plan of taking them – him and Luigi – to an exotic place in order to celebrate the end of the Brothers Mario, the Colorado Crazies, and the Moron Moranos. He logged into his private server and accessed his bookmarked travel sites. "Hmm … Monday … Yep, doable. Booking two, one-way, first-class – bien sûr – tickets." He quickly referenced Luigi's registration for his passport number. "Jesus, Weeg, you're a fucking Italian citizen; we need to work on getting you an Italian passport. Saves time on international trips."

Step one of three complete.

Step two: think of a way to get Luigi on the plane. Rethinking his original itinerary from step one, he cancelled the tickets from step one to recuperate all of his money, and accessed another site. While the trip would have to come out of his personal accounts, which were nevertheless well-endowed, it would be the easiest way to accomplish step two. Instead of flying commercial, he booked a medium jet from Frankfurt Airport, which would also assist with step three. But how to persuade him? Lady Bowser was right that the plumber would clamor to return home following their meeting with Felix Müller-Schmidt. And since the prototype was duplicated in New York, per his presentation, stealing it would serve little purpose and, in fact, possibly alert the Critters to Mrs. B's presence. Five minutes and no easy solutions later, Lucas swore audibly in Greek. Luigi's trust in him was at an all-time low, making any appeals to the usual fame and fortune null.

If he won't trust me, I'll have to use his mistrust instead.

His brown eyes twinkled, and he pumped his fist in victory. Logging back onto the travel site, he immediately booked a first-class, one-way ticket from New York-JFK to the destination which would leave, more or less, at the same time as the chartered plane. An already en-route Daisy would undoubtedly force Luigi to board the jet in spite of the likely objections from the Critters and the Plumbers.

Step two of three complete.

Lucas snickered at his dark genius. Steps one and two effectively and efficiently laid the foundation for step three: neutralize Sam the Snake. As his uncle would be rather busy pleading for his life, the mafioso would be left cut off from his boss and instructions. The grunt fucker barely has two brain cells to rub together; inventing strategy would hardly suit him.

Step three of three complete. Checkmate, assholes.

Glancing at his platinum, custom-made Rolex, he saw that it was a little past noon. He would wait until the next day to call Princess Bratty about her plane ticket. In the meantime, he decided to call for in-room dining and, later, take the puppy out for a stroll around Frankfurt.


Daisy rolled out of bed at ten o'clock on Saturday morning, thankful for a spot of sunlight after two days of clouds and rain. She had been left alone in the spacious Upper East Side apartment; Peach had left for a last-minute surgery and Mario was on base in Massachusetts. Though the blonde physician had promised to return that evening, the staff sergeant demanded that the fuckin' Sfacciata stay in the goddamned apartment until his ass was back from Springfield. The auburn-haired woman snorted; he was still salty after losing sixty bucks to her during the playoffs and Game 3 of the World Series. Although she gleefully took his hard-earned money, the betting and banter, for both of them, served as a distraction from their mutual distress at Luigi's absence. Peach, too, was distraught; as an Italian noblewoman, baseball was less a coping strategy than cooking for and feeding her significant other. At dinner and breakfast, Mario ate copiously, particularly after returning from Bensonhurst a few days prior. He was careful not to say anything around Daisy, though right before bed, the latter overheard him break down in Italian to Peach, ranting about how he needed Luigi to come back soon, and he had seriously thought about going AWOL to be on the next plane to Germany. His almost-spouse soothed him in response, reminding him that his fratellino wouldn't want him in military prison.

Making her way to the kitchen, Daisy found some fresh Italian bread, marmalade, fruit, and vanilla yogurt for breakfast. Due to working fifty hours on data cleansing and visualization in the past week, she would be off through November 6, as Columbia as well as the United Nations had sent several warnings to her department regarding her billable hours exceeding the thirty-five-hour limit. This would leave her time to finish the first full draft of her thesis, which her advisor wanted corrected and submitted by the end of December. As for her law school applications, she was now waiting on invitations for interviews, rejections, or acceptances, all of which would occur between November and January. Knowing each man would try to argue, Daisy had not told Luigi or her father that, with exception of Berkeley and Stanford, she had applied to East Coast schools, most of which were either a subway-ride or, at most, a two-hour Amtrak to New York. Most of her coupled friends and colleagues talked about the so-called "nine-month mark" of a relationship; prior to meeting Luigi, she considered the notion patently absurd, as couples were, by definition, internally compatible. Even though she stood by the latter, she now understood that a relationship could not survive on chemistry alone, that within that compatibility necessitated foundation. Because of his job and his close-knit family, Daisy knew Luigi, despite his protestations to the contrary, needed to stay in New York for the foreseeable future. Having met them, particularly Giuseppe, Lucia, and his – she snickered – idiot, chauvinist brother, she could not face their heartbreak at pulling their youngest son and brother to California or Chicago. Furthermore, she had come to feel such freedom in New York – her friends at Columbia, her newly-found famiglia in Brooklyn, and her team at the United Nations – that she was unsure of her ability to re-integrate into the closed Sephardic communities of San Francisco and Brazil. The world had become her oyster.

Vaguely in the guest bedroom, she heard the phone ring. Since it was a Saturday, and she did not expect Luigi's call for another couple of hours, she decided to let it go to voicemail, focusing instead on her breakfast. In spite of Mario's demands and threats to put her in a cage should she leave the apartment, Daisy thought that it could not hurt to go for a quick run in Central Park and through the Upper East Side; she could even call Amy to join her as "protection." Taking a bite of bread, she heard the phone ring a second time and, once more, let it go to voicemail. On the third chomp of banana, the phone rang thrice. The lioness rose from her chair in the kitchen and briskly walked to her bedroom, now frightened that something had happened to Luigi in Frankfurt. By the time she was able to reach it, the phone had stopped ringing. Checking her caller ID, Daisy saw that an unknown caller had phoned twice. As she was about to call her lover, the unknown call ID came through a fourth time. "Hello?" she asked uncertainly.

"Ah, bonjour, ma petite rose," a familiar voice replied somewhat irritably. "Jesus, in addition to avoiding meat, do you avoid, like, normal telephonic communications, too?"

Her fear and uncertainty rapidly changed to hostility and annoyance. "Lucas," she growled. "Why are you calling me? Where's Luigi?"

"Relax, he's fine, having a blast in Germany. Like the rest of the world, he likes tasty beer. Please tell me you drink beer."

"Again, asshole, why are you calling me?" she demanded. "I'm guessing Luigi doesn't know, otherwise he'd be on the phone with you."

"Touché, bella, touché," he admitted. "No, he doesn't know. He, uh, scored some major funding. Well, not major funding … But for a Nazi toilet gadget, it wasn't bad. Nonetheless, he deserves a present. Here's where you come into it. I'm arranging a vacation for him – us, really – but him in particular. And what better way to reward him than to fly his … amoureuse out to see him? It's a nice place, and of course, I'd fly you first class. Hmm," she heard him set the phone down, though his sound remained clear, implying that he was using a Bluetooth, "you have an American passport, right?"

Daisy scoffed, unable to hide her contempt. "Sorry, but I have to decline your … invitation. Firstly, I don't know where or for how long we're going. Secondly, I don't know that Luigi wants to go. Thirdly and most importantly, you're an asshole who abandons his so-called 'friends' in foreign countries."

"Ah, why not?" whined Lucas. "Jesus, eat something more than celery – it'll take that stick out of your tight, though bodacious ass. And I think both of you will like the destination. Palm trees, beaches, ninety-degree weather … Hell, even you can eat. And since you're writing a thesis and not attending classes, you're not obligated to be on campus at Columbia twenty-four-seven. C'mon, Daisy, give it a chance! It'll be fun. You know what fun is, right?"

"Lucas, for the last fucking time, the answer is no, not unless Luigi himself calls and asks me. Now, if that's the entirety of your call, I'll bid you safe travels to wherever, and I'll await Luigi's return to New York next week."

"Well, fuck, I've never liked the word 'no.' In fact, I'm," he faked a loud and dramatic sneeze, "allergic to the word 'no.' Yeah, I'll need to take a Claritin for that. See, you're getting on that plane. Because if you don't, it won't end well for Luigi. You never know who's ordered his, uh, demise. The you-know-what is kind of famous for that. I know they don't get a lot of press in the Bay Area, but they're notorious in Newark, Brooklyn, and Queens. Landfills double as impromptu cemeteries. And Luigi is, well, abroad – there needn't be a body. If he doesn't go on our vacation, then the you-know-what will take that as him screwing them over. I'm trying to keep him calm and happy; you're … my last hope," he pretend-sobbed out the last three words in another act of fake drama while silently laughing.

"Bastard!" she cried. Lucas continued snickering, at one point having to mute his Bluetooth to let out a full belly laugh. "You fucking pig!"

"So did you change your mind yet?" he inquired between snorts.

"Of course, I'm going to change it!" she hissed, fuming at his merriment.

"Perfect!" said Lucas in a light, almost friendly tone. "I'll send you your plane ticket once you provide me your passport number and email. Don't worry; I could care less about your identity papers, but the airline's requiring it. And as I said before, use your American passport – I assume you have one – instead of your, uh, Brazilian one. I think they make Brazilian citizens obtain a tourist visa. Stupid, I know, but I don't make the rules."

"I have one, yeah," Daisy replied quietly. Sighing in frustration, she rubbed her face to keep the building fear for both herself and Luigi at bay. "It's 432156789. Email is sarasamina42 ." Though she was loathe to provide such private information, especially to a pig like Lucas Kariolis, she counted on Miles monitoring that email address and being alerted to her location.

He repeated the numbers and completed the booking. "Okay, cool. You'll leave tomorrow evening. Pack for warm weather; maybe bring a few items for Luigi, too, like swimming trunks. A week and a half's worth of items should do. It goes without saying that you won't say dick to Luigi, Mario, or Joe the Plumber. Not sure why you'd talk to the latter, but y'know, I'll just put it out there. Oh, and because I absolutely don't trust you to keep it a surprise, I'll email you your itinerary and e-ticket a few hours before you leave. Just be at JFK by, like, eight-ish. A très bientôt, chérie!" Before she could utter a parting insult, the line went dead.

"Shit!" swore the auburn-haired woman. "That evil fucking toothpick!" Countless international flights flew out of John F. Kennedy and at all times of the day; without neither definitive destination nor airline, a brute process of elimination would prove fruitless. However, Lucas did provide a key clue; if he wanted her to arrive at the airport at around eight in the evening, and he made sure that she possessed an American passport instead of a driver's license, then it was a late-evening flight to somewhere warm. Quickly, she texted Miles a brief synopsis of what had occurred. Two minutes later, he wrote back, "I'm on it. Will be tricky, as I don't know which airline. Give me a couple hrs. Play his bullshit game for now."

Over the next several hours, Daisy slipped out of Peach's upscale apartment to return to Park Slope, where she collected a week's worth of warm-weather clothing, including some items for Luigi, attended a mid-afternoon kickboxing session, at which she imagined Lucas's simpering face as the kicking bag, and returned to Manhattan to finish her advisor's numerous corrections. Around five o'clock, Miles texted her a link to join a videoconference, which she opened on her iPhone; the worried-looking blond engineer appeared on her screen. "I thought this would be easier to explain instead of trading texts," he began uneasily. "Daisy, I think we should tell Mario or Giuseppe. Normally, I wouldn't suggest it, as the former is on base and the latter is recuperating, but … this is bad. This is extremely bad."

"Why? He's not sending me to Iran or North Korea, is he?"

He shrugged. "Pretty fucking close, actually. This place … isn't nice. If I'm right, it's particularly dangerous for you, not to mention provocative as hell for Luigi's family – both of 'em."

"Miles, no offense, but cut the bullshit!" barked the lioness. "Where?!"

Nervously rubbing a hand on his chin, he responded, "I narrowed it down to three possibilities. And I spent two hours hacking into each company's ticketing system. Eventually, I did find a record for Daisy Abravanel, American passport number 432156789. That's you, right?" She nodded. "Emirates Airlines; a one-way ticket from Kennedy to Dubai International Airport. Plane leaves at 11:00 p.m."

"Fuck," she breathed. "That … is dangerous. My stepmother and grandparents are Israeli citizens; I never received my citizenship because Papai didn't want me to serve in the IDF. Service is obligatory, even for dual citizens and those who live abroad. My American passport contains Israeli stamps, which could result in outright expulsion or deportation. I know Dubai talked about relaxing their anti-Israel policy, but in the last few years, tensions have been at an all-time high. Israel stopped stamping passports last year because a lot of Arab countries have refused past visitors or dual citizens entry. Stupid fucker doesn't know I'm Jewish."

"D-d-do you have another passport?"

"My Brazilian one. I don't know if I have to apply for a visa at a consulate, though. Normally, I use the American one because I'm able to visit more countries without extra hoops. Except for Israel, I didn't plan to visit the Middle East. It shouldn't have any Israeli stamps."

He searched the regulations for Brazilian citizens and entry to the United Arab Emirates. "They'll give you a visa upon entry. Give me the number, and I can quickly change it. If anyone asks at the airport, just tell them that the booking agent made a mistake."

Fetching her Brazilian passport, she read him the number. "Will Lucas realize that it's been changed?"

"Probably," he acknowledged. "But if he wants to play games, then he'll have to suffer the consequences. Depending on what the real story is, he'll try to cover his ass, so he'll likely ask you to bring your Brazilian passport." Once more, he turned his uneasy brown eyes to his best friend's lover. "Daisy, I … I don't like this. Not at all. I know we have to send you to Dubai; however, I think this is a trap of some sort. Luigi's my best friend. You're his … significant other." He shook his head. "I don't want to lose either one of you."

Daisy gave him a sympathetic look. "I know, Miles. I don't like it, either. But Luigi's … important to me and to so many other people. And I will not allow them to harm him, even if it means putting myself at some risk."

"Some risk?!" he squeaked incredulously. "No, no way. I won't budge on this one; we tell either Mario or Giuseppe."

"Lucas, he … he warned me that if I told Mario or Giuseppe, I could put Luigi in danger," rasped the auburn-haired woman. "I don't know if he's somehow watching us. Inasmuch as you're right, I don't want to take any unnecessary risks." Huffing out her disquiet and annoyance, she added, "I can't tell Luigi, either."

He nodded, steepling his hands. "In all honesty, I doubt he has someone watching you, though you're not wrong to consider the possibility. For everyone's safety, we should assume that he is. The trouble is that Mario will blow a gasket. Actually, both Mario and Giuseppe will blow gaskets. So I don't know how well they'd be able to control themselves – not that I blame them."

"Alternatively, if I just leave, Mario will really blow a gasket," she said. "Worse, he won't be back from Massachusetts until late Sunday evening."

Miles gestured with his eyes and head to indicate his agreement. "And we could tell Yoshi, but he'll run right to Mario, who absolutely would go AWOL."

Abruptly, their eyes connected with the same person in mind.


Having concluded their business in Frankfurt, Lucas insisted that they, for Luigi's benefit, see Bavaria that Saturday and Sunday. The suspicious Sam and Luigi boarded the Deutsche Bahn train with him to Munich, which, despite the country's infamy for precision and efficiency, inexplicably arrived twenty minutes late for the nearly four-hour journey to the city center. There, the plumber's eyes widened at the Gothic, castle-like architecture of the town hall and the fifteenth-century, orange brick and green-domed Frauenkirche, and the smaller, ivory, peach, orange, and yellow buildings adjacent to them. As he had done in Frankfurt, Lucas insisted on visiting the cafés and biergartens, which frankly bored the other two men who wanted to walk the Englischer Garten. Possessing a deep sense of foreboding and doom, Luigi nonetheless remained close to Lucas, with Sam just behind them every step of the way; though the Weisswurst, dumplings, pretzels, beer, and Prinzregententorte were exceptional, he wanted to go home to his feisty princess, asshole older brother, and overbearing quasi-father in New York. Strolling around the city center and drinking and eating until very late, they finally ended the day at the Mandarin Oriental near the U-Bahn station.

With respect to his princess, Luigi had left several messages and texts on her phone; all had been left on read save one, to which she answered cryptically, "Sweetie, I will talk to you later. I'll explain ASAP. Love you ❤️ ❤️ ❤️." Although he trusted Daisy completely, he worried that something had happened to her, which only compelled him to return to New York on Monday morning. While Lucas was out partying with two blondes, Sam came to visit him briefly. There had been no response from his family. Like his cousin, the Coloradan wanted to depart Germany as soon as humanely possible. Daisy's and the Morellos' disquieting silence led him to a sleepless night staring at the ceiling, softly pacing across the room, and flipping through various German and Italian shows on the hotel's complimentary Netflix account. This couldn't be coincidence. Had Lucas or Fat Tony done something to them? At around 3 a.m., Luigi picked up the iPhone, brushing his thumb over Mario's name. He would have undoubtedly finished his service for the day and would be available for another hour. Then he stopped himself; had Daisy been in any kind of danger, Peach would have informed him, and he would have requested emergency leave from his commanding officer. Although the brass was loathe to give any leeway to "weekend warriors," Mario always accepted his assignments and, moreover, had never requested emergency leave in the entirety of his military service. But would Daisy tell them? That thought tortured him through six o'clock and the beginning of breakfast. Neither he nor Sam ate amply, too fearful of the potential fates of their loved ones; Lucas, however, gorged himself on Eggs Florentine, Weisswurst, fresh fruit, and coffee, bragging to his friend about the two American and British study abroad he had fucked the previous night. Eventually, he tired of the self-congratulations over his supposed prowess, and they, much to the Manhattanite's endless amusement, took a hotel-sponsored "Hitler and the Third Reich" history tour of Munich. To keep his mind off the unknown in Colorado and New York, Sam assumed babysitting duties for the chortling man who inquired several times as to how many riots the Nazis started in the city under the guise of "workers' freedom."

By three o'clock and three döner kebabs later, they boarded the train to Frankfurt and arrived before European dinner. Refusing to leave the hotel, Luigi and Sam each prepared for the flight to JFK the next morning. There still were no texts or emails from New York. The former sent an encrypted message to Miles, who replied enigmatically, "Shit games afoot. Call at 1 am tonight your time. Apologies for time, but necessary. Bring 5280 companion. Will send you a secure video link." Thankfully, Lucas had insisted that they go down to a nearby restaurant for one last sushi dinner in Germany. As they were seated, the plumber furtively handed Sam a slip of paper requesting him to come to his room at 12:55 a.m. for an important conference. While the Manhattanite was busy looking over his menu, he gave his cousin a single nod of acknowledgement. Both did their best to play their individual roles: Luigi as the tired and eager man ready to fly out the next day; Sam as the mafioso enforcer tasked with giving a report of the New Yorkers' progress to his superiors. Lucas did not respond to their behavior, acting nonchalantly to the assumption that Luigi would be on the flight to New York. At a little past ten o'clock, they finished dinner and walked back to the hotel. Before retiring to their rooms, Lucas cheerfully proposed that they should meet in the lobby around eight to take the train to the airport. Tired, anxious, and half-attentive to the skinny man, the Coloradan and Brooklynite agreed with a modicum of enthusiasm.

Ensuring that he was completely packed, including a few souvenirs for his family, Luigi took a shower, dressed in green pajama bottoms and a white tee-shirt, and checked his email as well as the ticketing system for the shop. He frowned, noticing José's distinct favoritism toward Felipe by assigning he and Johnny choice tickets over some of the more seasoned journeymen. The exasperated manager exhaled in dread at the hard discussion that he would need to have with José regarding his judgment. Felipe was an excellent, if temperamental employee; his relationship with the more senior and envious Alassane was habitually contentious, and the numerous quarrels over assignments as well as their respective cliques of plumbers had divided the company more than once. A bad leader is an absent one.Inasmuch as he hated being the decision-maker, thirty men depended on him to be their diplomat. Butterflies fluttering about his stomach, he tried to refocus his attention on the Netflix movie, eyeing the clock every so often until he drifted off to sleep.

"Yo, Weeg, man!"

He blinked his eyes open and glanced at the clock: 12:49 a.m. Thankfully, he had set his phone alarm to wake him at 12:50 a.m. to avoid missing the videoconference. Stretching to wake himself up and turning off the alarm, he heard his frenemy's voice again. Now fully conscious, Luigi began to panic; Sam would come to his room in five minutes for Miles's call, and he did not want Lucas to suspect that an entire group of angry hackers was watching him. He froze, trying to fool the latter into believing that he was sound asleep.

"C'mon, Weeg, wake the fuck up. I'll stand out here until you let me in, and you know I will."