Author's notes: Hey everyone - another chapter. I hope there are still readers out there. Reviews and comments are always welcome.


Chapter 48: Confluence

"Jesus, Sal, even after all these years, you sure know how to scare the shit out of someone," said Pete, whose heartbeat had not so subtly skyrocketed from his usual sixty beats per minute to ninety.

As he began setting out the groceries on the small kitchenette countertop, the olive-skinned priest raised an amused eyebrow to his first cousin and fellow mafioso. "So I haven't lost my touch," he snickered. "I still get a lot of practice in the confessional and rectory." Opening the small refrigerator, he then commented, "I don't know what kind of crap you've been eating in Denver, but I got all fresh Italian figs, cherries, tomatoes, legumes, and pasta. Some cheese, bread, and butter, too."

Pete shrugged. "Yeah, we don't get figs out there. It's meat and potatoes. But my, uh, restaurant does occasionally import them. Depends on cost. The bagels there are a bucket of shit."

He nodded a little while organizing the pantry. "Yeah, when I lived in Montana back in the '80s, they didn't know what a bagel was." Looking over his shoulder at the shorter man, he added, "I suppose you stay out there for the environment. Peace and quiet."

"Something like that, yeah," Pete replied. The next few minutes were spent in an eerie quiet, with Salvatore finishing his task and assuring himself that the Denverite had essentials for a few days. Taking a few short breaths to calm himself, Pete spoke, "Listen, Sal, I … Thank you for hiding me. But why?"

The priest calmly rose to his full height, leaning against the kitchenette cabinet to face him. "You have something I want."

Pete knitted his eyebrows. "I do?" The other man nodded. "What?"

"You're an insurance policy. I left the life thirty years ago, so I have no use for money or a cut in whatever. That doesn't interest me. But I do have a vested, immediate interest in three people: Joe, Luigi, and Mario. And by proxy, Cristina and Daisy. Jackie's always been a colossal idiot. And he will get everyone killed. As for Uncle Carlo?" He scoffed angrily, shaking his head, "He's always covered his son's ass — even at the expense of innocents." The black pits of anger notwithstanding, the New Yorker laughed a little. "And now, I figure, you'll stop being Carlo's errand boy and start thinking for yourself."

Pete sneered, crossing his arms. "Ah, Sal, you've always been an arrogant prick. I guess you could be, back in the day, il Signor Mietitore. But now, you're just a standard-issue Sicilian prick in a costume."

Salvatore lightly lifted his shoulders. "Interesting theory."

"What specifically do you want, you fucking snake?"

"I told you, Pete. I want my famiglia unharmed. If I help you fix your … problem, then you'll leave Luigi to live a normal life with Daisy. You'll leave Mario to marry Cristina. And you'll let Giuseppe spend his remaining years in peace."

"Mario belongs to the Masciarellis. I have no interest in him beyond being your nephew and my cousin. Joe's a bystander. An annoying one at times, but I …" He paused, the grief over his childhood friend's fate briefly surfacing, "I don't want him to die, either. There's not much I can do about that. However, his life should and will be comfortable – I'll personally make sure of that. That being said, Luigi is a separate issue. He is ours — a Rigassi and a Campisi. He is the last hope that our family can finally sit on the Commission. My son can't because of the rules on mixed ancestry members — you know that!"

"Luigi's in love with Daisy, a Portuguese Jew. That's enough to disqualify him."

Pete guffawed, his own brown eyes burning. "And I'm not ignorant of the fact that you encouraged the relationship!"

Father Sal smirked. "Ah, young love. And she even speaks decent Italian."

"I'm not giving up Luigi."

Shrugging once more, the priest fixed his darkened eyes upon the equally menacing capo. "Well, enjoy the schifezzathat will end up on your doorstep. As soon as Jackie's daughter whacks your sorry deretano, the little 'dynasty' you've been trying to create will go up in smoke."

The Denverite's brown eyes narrowed. "Just what the hell are you talking about, Sal?"

"Oh," replied the priest innocently, "you didn't know about our long lost cousin? Well, first cousin once removed, I guess. Inevitably, Jackie's little dalliances produced a child — a daughter, to be precise. You remember Irina, right? The Russian ballerina turned prostitute that you and Jackie took turns with? Well, she apparently gave birth to Marco Bowser's first wife. Now, that same woman is, I'm guessing, behind your current predicament." His eyes became a perfect black. "And Lucas Kariolis."

Gobsmacked, Pete walked himself back to the worn couch and collapsed upon it. "Motherfucker …" he breathed perplexedly.

Salvatore shook his head, crossing his arms while continuing to lean against the kitchenette. "Ironic, isn't it? You, Carlo, Jackie … Inordinately obsessed with your so-called honor, yet none of you could remain within the confines of marriage. Commitment is honorable. Greed and infidelity are not."

"And just what would you know about commitment?" he hissed viciously at his cousin from the couch. "You ran away from your oath! You ran away from your family! And for what? A fucking deviant fantasy that had no chance of working in the real world!"

Despite facing the priest throughout their conversation, Pete had not anticipated the stinging slap across his cheek. Grunting in pain, his angry brown eyes met the pitch-black orbs of a more irate Sicilian. "If I hear you say that again …"

"What, Sal? Huh? See, I'm not afraid of hell. I'm not sure I even believe in it. You, on the other hand? Well, your ass belongs to the Church – in more ways than one."

Salvatore smiled maliciously, a contemptuous grimace that promised unyielding pain. "Cross me, Pete, and you'll wish for hell. Now, I'm going to allow you a choice: the Mafia or Luigi. I won't let you have both."

Not bothering to rub his cheek from the slap, Pete retorted, "And what makes you think that you have any authority here? I wouldn't want to be you. Not quite a bystander, not quite a soldier."

"Because I'm not a capo on la lista nera di padrino." He smirked once more, "And Luigi trusts me as his maternal uncle and priest more than he'll ever trust you as a cousin whom he barely knows." Crossing his arms over his priest's clerical shirt once more, Father Sal calmly inquired, "So, Pete, what will it be?" The Denverite copied his cousin's gesture in a silent rebuke, to which the latter nodded, "Fine, have it your way." Approaching the sitting man, he lowered himself so that he was eye-level with the caporegime and growled, "The life – in or out of it – forces you to make peace with dying or going to the can at any point. You know that as well as I do. However, if you, Carlo, or any other so-called 'uomini di rispetto' come a mile-high mile of Giuseppe, Luigi, Mario, or their donne, I won't hesitate to declare war. And I don't have to kill you to do it. I'll gladly rot in prison just to send you all to Club Fed or in hiding. The only reason why I kept omertà was to keep them safe. Take that reason from me, and well," he sneered, "I have nothing to lose. And you know that I am still man enough to keep my promises."

Pete involuntarily shuddered at his cousin's threat. Despite the circumstances around his departure from the Family, the reputation of il Mietitore survived for a notable reason – he always kept his dark promises, from breaking the knees of gambling addicts who owed them tens of thousands to making disobedient wiseguys vanish without a single trace. Nevertheless, even if he were to outlast Jackie's attempt at erasing him from the line of succession, his power base depended on Luigi; ergo, the former mafioso's offer was merely an illusion of choice.

Nodding to show his own satisfaction, Salvatore quietly stood to his full height and ambled to the exit. As he reached the door and turned the handle, Pete spat, "They'll kill Joe, you know. Jackie's figlia and whomever she's working with. If she is Irina's daughter, then you know it's Brighton Beach. And then what? You're without your … amico. Without your two nephews. Luigi's Carlo's erede di sangue. You were supposed to be, but you refused the honor, and embarrassed the entire Rigassi family! So like it or not, cuginu, you caused this because you were a goddamned weakling! And now, she'll be gunning for him!" The priest glared dangerously at the Denver capo as the latter rose from the couch and took two steps toward him. "So, you know what? Fine. Bene! Take us all to jail, Father Rigassi! Get up on that little holy throne of yours. But guess what: it'll be made of fucking skulls!"

"You finished?" he deadpanned, to which Pete merely blinked. "What do you want, Pete? I could never figure that out. Had you stayed in New York, you could've been the successor. And probably should've been. See, I never wanted to be. Papà never wanted me to be, either. That's ultimately why he died. But you … went back to Denver. You went to college. You got to marry who you wanted. It took your father being on his deathbed, still …" Wiping his suspiciously wet eyes, he continued, "You got a life and perhaps a semblance of a soul. Why take that away from Luigi? Did I … Did Mario piss you off so much that you'd want to deny him that?! What more could you want?!"

The Denverite exhaled raggedly; all of a sudden, his previously rigid position becoming slack. Sitting down on the crook between the back and arm of the couch, he looked to a space somewhere beyond the Sicilian's shoulder. "I … I don't know. When you left, I … It shocked me, Sal. I already hated Jackie, as you know. It used to be us! You, me, and … Joe to a certain extent." Glancing at the man's softened face with his own watery smile, he adjoined, "I remember how much you tried to get Joe to be one of us. I didn't know at the time why." Sal's expression became carefully blank. "Anyway, I guess I wanted Luigi because … it'd bring you back. Bring Joe back." Then he shook his head. "But I never approved of how … Carlo wanted it done. Back in '86. I wanted to approach him in his teenage years … like I did with my own son and his cousin. When he could understand it."

"What the hell did you think would happen, Pete?" hissed the priest.

"I know, goddamnit!" he yelled. "At the time … I was just a soldier. I was following orders. Or that's the lie I told myself. The truth?" Sal cocked an eyebrow. "Greed. Power. Connections." Glancing at him once more, he rasped, "Family."

"And now look at you – you're hiding in a poor man's basement with no connections or family. Complimenti."

The scoffing capo muttered, "Always the smartass." Shrugging, Salvatore did not respond further. "Luigi's too important to the family." He looked at his cousin piercingly, "You, Joe, and Mario knew Carlo and Junior would demand reparations for your absence. As long as they're alive, there's nothing I can do." As the indignant priest closed his eyes and Pete exhaled, the latter appended, "But … I have faith in Luigi. He's exceptionally intelligent. Gifted, even. He will forge his own path. For right now, however, we have a larger problem. Jackie's daughter. Brighton Beach. And that fucking Lucas Kariolis."

Father Sal gave a single nod in comprehension.


Daisy rolled her eyes, growling at the seventh attempt by Lucas to touch her legs or put his arm around her in the back of the white Rolls Royce. As the glass divider between the driver and cabin had been rolled up upon his request, she was left alone with the libertine New Yorker. The first three times, she smacked his hand away and glared pointedly at him; the fourth and fifth times, she elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to gasp and rant about how violent Jewish girls were; the sixth time, she threateningly inched her fist near his balls. "Do you want to get de-nutted?" she groused between her gritted teeth at the latest.

Lucas hummed, inching his tall, lanky, tuxedoed body toward the irate woman. "Yeah, I don't think you will, ma petite princesse. See, I know you prefer boys without balls. Hence Luigi." She turned to him furiously. "But I need my balls. I deserve my balls! And honestly, Daisy? If you'd take me up on my … offer, trust me, you'll never go back to ball-less."

"Yeah, I've found that the men who brag about their dick size usually have problems in that area," she deadpanned.

Though he did not answer verbally, the Manhattanite began to whistle and drum the introductory beat to Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love." She groaned in disgust and spun away from the snickering man.

"Oh, c'mon! You're my date, ma chérie. I wouldn't be much of a man if I didn't try to hit on you at least forty percent of the time. And besides," he quickly glanced at his Rolex, "it's another fifteen or twenty minutes to the marina."

Still refusing to look at him, Daisy stared out of the window at the darkened road and palm trees. "Why Abu Dhabi?"

Leaning across the arm rest to stroke her arm seductively, he grinned. "You know, I have no fucking idea. The yacht's apparently owned by some royal asshole from Riyadh. Personally, I have zero respect or consideration for those Wahabi fucks, but … I need something from them. Unfortunately."

"And why am I a part of this?" demanded the woman, who swatted his hand away from her shoulder.

"C'mon, Daisy. You've never wanted to play James Bond? Hmm?" Inching his face into her personal space, he whispered, "Me, the suave secret agent; you …"

"If you fucking say Pussy Galore or Holly Goodhead, you'll know another meaning to 'shaken, not stirred!'" she interrupted with a hiss.

"So, so, violent! I wasn't going to use either of those names! Besides, you're not blonde. I was thinking more along the lines of Wai Lin," whined Lucas. Daisy harrumphed incredulously as he unbuckled his seatbelt and flopped on his back so that his head ended up in her lap. Resisting the urge to express her disgust by tossing him out of the moving vehicle, she stayed motionless, although she succumbed to a single scowl at the cheery man. "Much better. Anyhoo, we have to coax the Wahabi cockball into giving me the, uh, item. Well, it's not exactly an item."

"And you still haven't answered my question, asshole."

"Why do I need you?" Daisy glared at him. "I told you – you speak some Arabic, so I need to know whether bro's lying. Also, there's a nice little bonus in it for you."

"I won't take terrorists' money!" she exploded. "Syria and Lebanon?! Lucas, I know you're a power-hungry asshat, but those people are dangerous! I don't care who your father is; they'll send him a nice video of cutting your head off!"

"Easy, baby, easy," Lucas soothed with a grin. "It's not terrorist money. I may have 'friends in low places,' but I would never help the bastards who turned my city into a war zone. No way. Actually, it's Mafia money."

"That's somehow better?!"

"Well, if we fuck up, then it'll be a bullet to the head as opposed to losing it."

She scoffed and crossed her arms as he giggled, nestling his head comfortably upon her lap. "Fucking bastard," the auburn-haired woman grumbled.

"Ah, you need to pull that stick out of your tight, albeit shapely ass, ma chérie. Don't you even want to know just how a Wahabi cockball has a … not so insignificant amount of Mafia crypto?"

Looking down at his smirking form, she snarled, "I would … If I knew you'd tell the truth."

He lifted his shoulders across her quads. "All you'd need to do is ask. A couple of Tony's guys, the Colorado Critters, and I stole it. Now, they thought that it was only a hundred fifty-mil. Well, I may have hidden a little … extra in the last place they'd look – a billionaire prince's assets."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, her voice suddenly becoming less angry and confident.

"First, the obvious: I can't have you translate or observe what you don't know. Secondly," his eyes salaciously dragged up and down her curves, "I'm counting on the adrenaline getting you in the mood."

They felt the car decelerate as it approached the outskirts of the capital. "Pig," she muttered.

Lucas burst out laughing. "Ah, baby, admit it: you want to get dirty in the trough with me!" For the remaining ten minutes of their trip, Daisy endured Lucas's impromptu falsetto of "I Didn't Mean to Turn You On." The more time that she spent with him, the less convinced she was that he was as 'finished' with Luigi as he had claimed. Despite his pleas and complaints, the lioness had insisted that her lion wait a distance away from the pickup point; both she and Miles wanted the Manhattanite's ego to overinflate, thinking that his 'ex-bestie' had gone to sulk somewhere. Unaware of their location, she could only hope that the hacker had begun his operation against the Evil Toothpick. As the car came to a halt, and the driver notified them via the commlink that they had arrived at Yas Marina, Daisy quickly ran threw her list of objectives: find out the identity of Lucas's Saudi 'billionaire prince;' get a footprint of the crypto so that Miles could prove its existence; get the Rigassi ring back.

Exiting the vehicle, they walked a short distance to a well-lit megayacht that, in Daisy's view, resembled more like a luxury cruiser. Fishing out his phone for the secret invitation with his left hand, he grabbed her arm with his right, tangling them to appear as if they were a couple; she resisted the temptation to stab his knee with her shoe heel. Convivially greeting the bouncer, he presented his invitation with a grin, explaining that his awkward date was his plus one; nodding, the burly man gestured for them to pass with a single tilt of his head. Whisper-warning her to behave, he led her aboard the large ship. The thoughts of bludgeoning her 'date' with her high heels were interrupted by the magnificent sight of the crystal, marble, and gold-accented interior; the head butler, a Jordanian, kindly guided them down the gold marble hallway to the reception area and bar, announcing that their host, His Royal Highness Abdulaziz Mamdouh al-Sa'ud, would receive them at dinnertime. Daisy watched additional European and Arab guests file onto the yacht while Lucas put in a drink order at the bar. Since the reception room had become increasingly loud and crowded, she moved toward the stern and open air. The al-Tair pulled away from the docks and set out to the open waters of the Persian Gulf. Letting the sea winds rip through her auburn strands as the ship gained speed, she tried to relax her racing heart with the cool night air. Her eyes closed, she failed to notice a tall man approach her from behind; encircling his arms around her waist, his lips tickled her earlobe as he said, "If the boat sinks, I'm not giving you the door."

"Casse-toi, roi des cons !" she roared, eyes still closed.

"Oh, baby, I love it when you insult me in French," retorted Lucas with a chuckle.

"I'm surprised that you haven't gone off to chase one of the models."

He pressed his body against her, which caused her to gag silently. "Now, what kind of date would I be if I did that? Hmm? Besides, I'm enjoying the fact that," he chortled, "you can't kick my ass here. All I have to say is that you're a loose woman prone to move from one New Yorker to the next, and off to jail you go. Not to mention the thought of poor Luigi stuck in his hotel room, bare dick in hand, sobbing at his weakness."

"Once we get off this boat, Lucas, I will beat the shit out of you!" vowed Daisy.

"So violent," he murmured into her ear. "And all I was going to is offer you a drink."

"Well, if you really want me to be quiet and compliant, you can give me back the ring."

"What ring?"

"Goddamn you! Why do you want it so badly?" she hissed irately. "As you said, it's an antique!"

"I still don't know what you're talking about," he insisted, albeit with a smile that betrayed his lie. As she tried to turn toward him, he tightened his grip around her waist. "Nah, I don't think so. Tonight, I just want to get my, uh, stash and enjoy my date before I leave the UAE. Who knows? If you're a really good girl," he leaned into her ear again, "I might just take you with me. The more we spend time together, the more I think you need a real man." Lucas laughed again as Daisy grumbled in anger. "Smile, princess, while I get us a drink."

He abruptly let her go and strolled back to the bar, leaving the woman on the stern. Her fists balled in pure rage. Luigi was right; he would never return the ring, especially as it had meaning to them both. Additionally, his constant double-dealing and malignant narcissism obfuscated any real 'truth' in his objectives. Despite his denials, she shuddered at the real possibility that this Saudi prince was either a terrorist or the target of terrorists, and she had unwittingly walked into a trap. She studied her surroundings – all open water, and now a mile or miles away from coastline. Jumping off the ship was no longer an option. Forcing herself to take a deep breath to calm her nerves, Daisy gazed at Miles's tracking device. "C'mon, damn it; start the hack," she breathed to the absent engineer. Adrenaline pumping through her body, she reluctantly accepted her current circumstances and re-entered the bustling reception area, where she heard partygoers speaking English, French, German, Russian, Spanish, Arabic, and Urdu all overlapping each other in a mishmash of incomprehensible phrases. To her surprise, Lucas was waiting at the bar alone, presumably waiting for his drink. Upon sighting her, he raised his eyebrows coquettishly.

Bastard, she thought while cautiously approaching him.

"Everyone, we shall serve dinner in about fifteen minutes," the head butler suddenly announced. "We're waiting on two guests who shall be arriving presently by helicopter."

Moving to stand next to him, Daisy began blithely, "I didn't know yachts could have helipads."

"Apparently, this one does," he answered evenly. "Here's your drink – martini; shaken, not stirred." Trying not to growl or roll her eyes at the juvenile cackling next to her, she took the drink. Having observed the bartender make the martini from across the room, she was certain that Lucas had not slipped anything into it. After her third sip, an older, very portly Arab and his younger lookalike, both dressed in the traditional ghutra, bisht, and white thobe with gold and silver embroidery entered the room; Lucas and Daisy, martinis in hand, watched as the older man and the butler exchanged Arab greetings – kiss and gesture to the chest. "Looks like Saudi dudebro's bro has arrived." He looked down at the woman who had neither responded nor reacted. "Did you pick anything up?"

She shook her head. "Too far away." Two can play this game. Whereas it was too far away to hear entire conversations, and her Arabic was limited to her grandmother's Maghrebi-Jewish dialect as well as a few words in fus'ha, the literary and media lingua franca of the Arab world, she did overhear the man's name – Ahmad al-Husseini and his son, Adnan. They were both wearing the bisht, which meant they were government officials of some sort.

As Lucas was about to whisper a particularly crude suggestion to her, the second encourage entered: a middle-aged man and his thinner son, similarly dressed in the thobe, bisht, and ghutra, whom they both recognized from the gala at the Burj Khalifa – Mohammad al-Ketbi and his son, Ali. A third man in a light-green Oxford and charcoal gray Italian suit made up the rear, causing Daisy's heart to race and Lucas to spit out his drink. Following their welcome, the tall man in the suit purposefully walked to the pair. Lucas, who was still wiping his mouth and face from spewing his martini, glared at him. Placing a hand on Daisy's shoulder, he plastered a fake smile. The determined man stopped just shy of the Manhattanite's thousand-dollar Italian shoes. "Ah, Luigi! Fancy meeting you here! You didn't tell me that you had plans."

"You have something and someone I want," the plumber said in a deadly calm voice, though unwilling to make a scene.

"And what's that?"

"My wife and her wedding ring."

Lucas began to howl with laughter. "Oh, you bullshitter! I know you're banging her, but … wife?"

Luigi did not smile. "Does it look like I'm kidding? Where the hell do you think we were in those hours outside of your presence? Making sure that the license went through back in New York." He looked reassuringly at Daisy. "The ring was the only reason why she accompanied you. With my permission. Until, of course, I could get here."

The Manhattanite glanced around him, where a crowd of mildly-interested eavesdroppers had begun to form. That motherfucker set me up! Instead of using their relationship against them, Luigi was going to use it against him. At that moment, he could not disprove the plumber's rather public claims; fighting the man would only make him look bad, even if he knew that he was bluffing. Coughing a little to regain his composure, Lucas gingerly reached into his tuxedo coat pocket and took out the small fede, holding it between his index and middle fingers to Luigi, with the middle extended just shy of the decipherable obscene gesture. Luigi nodded, yanking the ring off his digits. He then moved to the astonished, yet relieved Daisy and slid it onto her left fourth finger, kissing the back of her hand chivalrously. Finally with his right hand, he intertwined it with her ringed left and led her away from his ex-friend. As they ambled to the dining room, they grinned at each other upon hearing the infuriated waaaa behind them.


Halfway around the world, an eager Miles, Yoshi, and Birdo stared at the hacker's multiple-screen and virtual machine set-up. "C'mon, motherfucker; take the fuckin' bait!" cajoled the Japanese underneath his breath. The blond ignored his friend's impatience and sucked on his hard peppermint candy. Suddenly, one of the servers came to life, and he began to type rapidly.

"Did he take the bait?" asked Birdo, who was sitting just behind her boyfriend.

The hacker nodded, momentarily too busy to give a verbal response. After four minutes of heart-racing silence, he finally replied, "Nothing … like … a backdoor. He wants to know if Luigi was telling the truth about the marriage license. I planted a fake one that will take, heh, days, possibly a week or two for the State Department to verify. I borrowed Salvatore's signature as the celebrant; I figured he wouldn't mind. However, it also contains a little … surprise." A moment later, Miles smirked and made a victorious fist, "Gotcha, douchebag! And your security is a piece of shit, by the way." Lucas's iPhone home screen appeared on one of his virtual machines; he adjusted the window size so that he and his audience could view it better.

Yoshi snickered. "I guess he forgot his, uh, protection at home. I hope he enjoys the unprotected and unlubed assfuck."

The blond's face scrunched up in repugnance. "Gross, man! I wouldn't want to stick anything near his, uh, orifice."

Before the physicist could make a quip about his friend's prudishness, Birdo pointed at the screen. "Hey, guys, what's that?" The males turned their heads to the now black background indicating that Lucas was receiving a call from Unknown.

"Yo, can you listen in on the call?" inquired Yoshi.

He nodded. "One sec. I'm also going to record it." Typing a few more commands on an adjacent screen, two voices came through his desktop's speakers – Lucas's and a woman's. Increasing the volume, a hush fell in the room as they listened intently to the exchange.

"Just what the fuck are you up to, you little shit?" barked the woman's voice. "The Middle East?! And just when I had the Morellos two steps in the morgue, you had to fuck it up! Now the Moranos know something's amiss. Carlo's pissed off enough over your little stunt that he's sending people to Dubai. And guess who he plans to eliminate?"

"Relax," responded Lucas irritably. "I've got a plan. It's a supplementary plan to back up your plan against the Colorado Critters. But I'll need to eliminate a problem. The goddamned plumber that I used to call a best friend! You want a war, right? Well, what better way than to make Carlo look like a massive fool in front of his men?"

"I doubt you intend to do the deed yourself," she scoffed skeptically.

"You're right – I'm adverse to blood. Didn't go into pre-med for that reason. But … his little paramour's here, so … he can go directly to jail for porking a Jewish girl outside of marriage. He's not supposed to be fucking non-Italians, remember?"

There was a brief silence on the phone call while Miles, Yoshi, and Birdo exchanged worried and outraged looks. They heard the woman hum in thought, then a second later, resuming the conversation:

"Not a bad idea. Alright, let's go with it. But if you're screwing me over, Lucas, so help me God, you'll end up with my friends in the organ trade. Don't think for one minute that we don't have contacts in the Middle East, Greece, or wherever else you might decide to hide. You have forty-eight hours to accomplish this objective. No more. I have to push up my plan by a day or two."

"What about Pete Morello? I haven't heard that he's finally gotten what he deserves."

"That little problem will soon be resolved."

"Waa? Whoa, whoa, wait a fucking minute, lady!" hissed the Manhattanite. "That was supposed to be resolved already! I can't take out Greenie and the Bitch if he's still alive!"

"Well, it would've been resolved if you hadn't fucked off to the Middle East and tipped the Padrino off, you fucking asshat! So you'll need to improvise."

As Lucas started to argue with the woman over her lack of direction, the three youths heard a solid knock at the front door and a familiar voice call out Miles's name. Continuing to listen to the inane argument, the hacker gestured to let him inside; Birdo put out a hand and left to the answer the growing impatience of the man at the door. A minute later, she returned with the questioning Mario, who began, "I don't have much time; my lunch break's …" Yoshi shushed him, much to his amazement and annoyance. Then his blue eyes flared dangerously at the sound of Lucas's voice.

"Alright, alright! I'll figure out a way to work around it. Fine! Jesus, take a chill pill."

"You better, you little shit! We will get rid of our Colorado problem. Then I will take out those fucking plumbers. Just make sure that Greenie, as you call him, and his little girlfriend don't make it back to New York. I can't have Carlo or Morello be in a position of power."

The call abruptly ended, and a speechless Mario froze while Miles and Yoshi blankly watched Lucas's iPhone return to the home screen. Birdo put a reassuring hand on the burly Italian's back. Exchanging a brief, nervous look, the Brobot Boys then slowly twisted toward the red-hoodied plumber who, despite the small woman's pleas, had not yet uttered a single word. Nevertheless, sweat had started to appear upon his brow, and his blue eyes became glassy and distracted. Sensing that the Masciarelli volcano was about to erupt, Yoshi motioned for Birdo to step back from him. Miles cleared his throat to speak when they heard Mario's maddened voice finally snarl, "Was that the entire conversation?"

"No," the blond reacted softly, as if talking to a wild animal ready to strike. "I recorded the entire …"

"Play it. Now, Miles!" the soldier ordered in a tone normally reserved for the military base. He obeyed, and group remained silent from start to finish. Discombobulated, Mario gave a single nod. "We … We need to get him and the Sfacciata out. Tonight. My guess is that the Bowser Bitch doesn't want Carlo's hitmen arriving in Dubai – it blows her cover to shit, especially if they're able to whack Lucas."

Yoshi glanced at Miles, who answered, "We can't. Luigi and Daisy need to stay. Well, Luigi does, and Daisy won't leave without him. The reason why we got that conversation is because, uh, we had help. Luigi's got a contact."

"Wait, what? What fucking contact?" demanded Mario furiously.

"I used a fake marriage license for Lou and Daisy to backdoor Lucas. We'd already planned that one – him, Salvatore, and I. However, Luigi met a figure, just by chance. Muhammad al-Ketbi and his son. I did a bit of research, and they're high-ups in the Emirati government – contractors. So high up, in fact, that they're regular, close guests of the royal family. They brought Luigi to the party where Lucas and Daisy were going. I think they're protecting Luigi. I don't know why yet."

The older plumber shook his head. "Dipshit, these people are dangerous. I'm not kiddin' youse. Dubai's the fuckin' Las Vegas of the Middle East; that's true. However, one wrong move, and you'll end up in a shithole. They got no qualms throwin' anyone in jail! And not only that, but Israel and the UAE aren't exactly on speaking terms right now. Sfacciata's a nice Jewish ragazza – it ain't a safe place for her!"

"Mario, I don't like it, either, but we got to let Luigi try! This is his call!" insisted Yoshi.

"Goddamnit, Dipshits! How many fuckin' brothers do you think I got, huh?"

Unable to repress his anxiety any longer, Miles leapt from his swivel chair and faced the equally irate Mario. "And how many friends do you think I have?! I want them to come home! Alive! And this is the best way I know how! The Ketbis will protect them. I have no proof to give you, but that's what my intuition is telling me. What we – you, Yoshi, Birdo, and I – need to do is find Pete Morello. The longer he stays alive, the more problems Polina will have!"

Raising an eyebrow, Mario crossed his arms. "Have you lost your fucking mind? You want me to find a Mafia capo?! And not just any capo – one that Carlo, Jackie, and the Bowser Bitch want to whack?"

Miles nodded.

Use your head instead of your fuckin' fists, figlio, echoed a disembodied, twenty-year-old voice. I can't be here to protect him. Rubbing his hand over his mouth and mustache, he considered Miles's plan and the conversation between Lucas and the Bowser Bitch. Johnny Scapelli was definitely one of Tony's guys, though he was not a pledged member – associate or made – of the Morano family. It was José Hernández who concerned him more. Due to his time in the military, he did not know him as well as his brother did; until recently, José had always given them both the impression of being an honest, hardworking guy. Was he resentful of Luigi's promotion? Mario did not see how that could possibly be, as Luigi had six months' seniority on him and passed the master plumber exam. However, his assignment choices were alarming, outwardly intended to polarize the entire shop in Luigi's absence. With the exception of Ginsburg, he had begun to hear grumblings among the journeymen of removing his brother for eitherJosé or Alassane, who had roughly two years less seniority than Luigi. And even though he was at the same 'rank' as José, the predominantly Latino and African workforce kept their respectful distance from the part-time Special Forces sergeant, part-time old-school Italian plumber. He had to get control over the shop, if only to prevent the union from canning Luigi as AWOL. That would give them both time, which was not in their favor.

"Aight," he rasped. "But we need to give Weegie and the Sfacciata time. If the Bitch and Loser are going to make a move, we need to be prepared. I need to get control of the shop. José Hernández is currently second-in-command, and he's splitting it in two. Why, I don't know yet. Send Weegie a message; ask him to give me the green light to take over. I fuckin' hate being a desk jockey, but we need to get shit stable so she can't attack that way. Especially if she was behind Slaughter." Miles nodded, returning to his console to do as Mario had requested. "Once I got the shop runnin' the way it should, I'll go look for Pete. You're right; he's gonna be the way out of this shitshow."

A single 👍 appeared in response to Miles's query in hex, which he, with Birdo's and Yoshi's consent, sent from her account. "You've got it, Mario," announced the hacker, showing Luigi's reply to him.

"Bene. That way, they can all be pissed at me. Meanwhile, I think it'll draw the rats out of the woodpile." Then he raised his index finger. "Weegie and the Sfacciata have until Wednesday at best. Also, I, uh, got Sam Carlino with me in Bensonhurst."

Miles, Yoshi, and Birdo's eyes widened. "You got Pete Morello's nephew with you?" she gasped. "He's a made guy!"

"Yeah. Fat Tony's idea. And no," he interrupted their inevitable question, "he doesn't know where Pete is. I don't think Tony does, either." Exhaling, he rubbed his mustache again. "Besides, he's our best chance to help me find Pete."

Crossing his arms, Yoshi griped, "Yeah, just watch your ass. The fact that he met with Fat Tony, who's the son of Big Jackass and archrival of the aforementioned capo ..."

Mario nodded. "Yeah, Dipshit, I'm aware of that. But given he was in Germany with Weegie, and was sent by Pete to protect him, I don't think he's involved with his uncle's disappearance." Checking his watch, he muttered, "Aight, since the traffic back to Brooklyn and the shop's gonna be a bitch, I'm going now. Any sudden moves by Lucas, and you let me know. No exceptions."


Lucas rolled his eyes for the fourteenth time throughout the dinner. From the host's rather boring stories about his rich-ass life in Riyadh with his four, burqa-covered wives to the pissing contest between Ahmad al-Hosseini (whom he internally named 'Ahmadinejad') and Mohammed al-Ketbi ('Fucking Arab Toad' or 'FAT'). Although the initial caviar course was decent, he was in dire need of a whiskey, a Cubano, and a blowjob. He glibly wondered if his Arab hosts would find it too tacky to have a Greek-American guy receive head from a Jewish girl underneath the long dining-room table. His brown eyes fell upon the couple two chairs across and to the left of him. That fucking Luigi Masciarelli – him and Daisy Abravanel. He did not believe the marriage story at all. For one thing, Luigi did not have the balls to pledge his life to anyone, let alone the Amazon Queen. Secondly, there was no way that he would have had time to arrange a quickie marriage prior to his departure abroad. Though he was, for security reasons, loathe to use his iPhone, he opened his DIY hacking tool to access the city's marriage records; much to his shock and anger, there was a City of New York marriage license filed and in process for Luigi Gabriele Masciarelli and Daisy Trott Abravanel, performed and signed by Father Salvatore Rigassi on October 17, 2014 at St. Rosalia's Catholic Church, Brooklyn. Even if he brought it to the attention of Emirati authorities, it would take some time to prove that it was fraudulent. And, on the off-chance that it were valid, he would be guilty of theft and the attempted seduction of a married woman.

Then again, the idea of sleeping with Luigi's alleged wife was beyond intoxicating.

His and Luigi's eyes briefly connected, the latter sending him a message laced with blue steely poison. The Manhattanite raised his eyebrow, impressed at his usually meek friend's stones. Refusing to break eye contact, Luigi put a protective hand at the small of Daisy's back, a wordless rebuke and vow to his ex-friend that he would not be afraid. Over the main course of roast duck and, for several guests, including Daisy, roast vegetables, several smaller conversations took over, culminating with yet another dick-measuring contest between Ahmadinejad and the FAT, each taking swipes at the other for their 'substandard building projects.'

"Ma'sha Allah, you two would argue over the first medjool on the Iftar plate!" exclaimed the Saudi prince in a chuckling, albeit annoyed voice. He turned to his guests at the long dining table and added, "Thirty years! These two have never agreed upon anything!" Lucas observed with increased interest as Ahmadinejad harrumphed and the FAT merely shrugged with another bite of khubz. "Let's be friends for one night." The guests laughed politely, taking their cue from the host. "Speaking of friends, Muhandis Mohammed, who's Ali's new friend? I haven't seen him before."

"Your Royal Highness, this is indeed my colleague, Luigi Masciarelli. He runs a plumbing company based in New York," answered Ali, having received permission from his father, who was both naturally taciturn and reluctant to speak English publicly.

Nodding between bites of the duck, Prince Abdulaziz replied, "Welcome. Do you have any children – sons?"

"Uh, n-not yet, Your Royal Highness," stammered the Brooklynite. Lucas snickered audibly, to whom Daisy gave a piercing glare and twirled her knife. "But, uh, I'd probablycall my first son after my, uh, adopted father. Giuseppe – Joseph in Italian."

"Ah, so, you're Abu Yusuf. Very well. And what brings you to the Peninsula, Abu Yusuf?"

"Um, well, my wife and I were on vacation, and we happened to attend this dinner. We ran into, uh, Mr. al-Ketbi and his son. I'm developing a thermal device, which has generated some, uh, interest."

Ahmadinejad and his son traded enquiring looks while the prince acknowledged the plumber's reply with a single impressed nod. Lucas folded his arms, eyes shifting between the two competitors. Why wait for the police when I can just play one against the other? he thought with a snicker. Let Ahmadinejad toss Luigi's worthless plumber's ass in jail.

"Forgive me, Abu Yusuf, but you're quite young to be running your own business," stated the prince. "You must have started early."

"Yeah, I did. My, uh, adopted father, who's also my paternal uncle, Giuseppe, brought me into his shop when I was sixteen. I've been a plumber ever since. About four months ago, I took the master plumber's exam at the behest of my boss, who retired a month or two afterward. I took over for him."

"And is your entire family into plumbing?" inquired Adnan with a hint of derision. Lucas snickered and mentally high-fived the snotty Ahmadinejad Junior.

Luigi faced the young Emirati and glibly replied, "Yeah. They've been the heart and soul of the New York plumbing industry for sixty years. And in Italy? Probably a hundred. My father chose a different path, however. And my children," he quickly turned his head to beam at Daisy, "may choose their own. But," he then glared at the other New Yorker, "I'm not ashamed of who I am."

While Lucas scowled at his ex-friend, particularly upon seeing Daisy squeeze his hand in support, Prince Abdulaziz asked, "Your father did not follow in his father's footsteps?"

"Oh, Your Royal Highness, he was a firefighter," Lucas interrupted with a smirk, enjoying the Italian's skin becoming ashen at both the question and his answer. Whereas Mohammed, Ali, Daisy, and seventy percent of the guests glared at the impudent Manhattanite, Ahmad and Adnan raised their eyebrows in increased interest. "He was a lieutenant at a firehouse in, uh, Lower Manhattan. Right, Luigi?"

About a third of the room looked down at their dinner plates in discomfort, including Ahmad and Adnan. Daisy gripped the knife in her hand, mentally driving its point into Lucas's jugular. Mohammed threw down his bread onto the table and crossed his arms in disapproval. Ali bit his lip at Lucas angrily. Nonetheless, he young plumber took a few deep breaths and, squaring himself at his frenemy from across the table, said, "Yeah. That's all true. And I'm not ashamed of him." Turning toward the now uncomfortable prince, he added, "He … wanted me to forge my own path and see the world. He wouldn't be ashamed of me, either." Luigi smiled a little. "Anyway, he'd have been impressed with your yacht. A mansion on the water."

The Saudi prince's discomposure immediately changed into boisterous bragging about his megayacht and how it was bigger than that of his cousins in the direct al-Saud line. Everyone except for the tall man, who was sitting petulantly and seething through his teeth, relaxed at their host's shift in attitude. Every so often, Luigi's gaze would connect with his lioness's, her whiskey-colored eyes warm and molten with amazement, pride, and tenderness. In response, he grinned, delicately mouthing an I love you to her. At the end of the meal came five large cookie plates with thick, cardamom-flavored coffee and orange black tea. Daisy's eyes brightened at the ma'amoul, to which her boyfriend gave a hearty chuckle, graybeh, and pistachio shortbread. The Saudi prince claimed to hold the best for last, which only the Arabs knew about, having attended several of his dinner parties: kunefe. Luigi frowned at the pastry; despite the strong Middle Eastern presence in Brooklyn, Queens, and Manhattan, he had never seen this particular cake – if it could be called that. Abdulaziz called upon everyone to sample the delicacy from Nablus which he had flown in that day from Palestine. Daisy leaned over and whispered to her lover that Nablus was the Cheesecake Capital of the Arab World. Luigi regarded both her and the pastry skeptically; as an Italian, it was hard to beat a proper cassata; as a New Yorker, a thick, creamy, graham cracker-crusted cheesecake was a plate of heaven. He eyed the massively large slice on his dessert plate: the pastry was a bright orange, like a pizza or pumpkin pie, from its thread-like dough topping and crust; in its middle was a layer of cheese resembling mozzarella; atop the kunefe was a line of chopped pistachios. Using his polished gold dessert fork, he cut into it and took a bite; he felt the crunch of the shredded dough, followed by the mozzarella-like cheese, sweet orange-flower water, and sugar. He smiled to his host to assure him that he liked it. Inwardly, however, he did not know what to think; it was good, but it was not, in his opinion, cheesecake. In spite of his personal misgivings, he saw the Arab men divide the kunefe between themselves, with Ali snickering to him that, much to his grandmother's and mother's horror, his father could easily and unapologetically eat a kilogram and a half at a single sitting.

After dinner and dessert, Daisy found herself once more on the stern underneath the stars, an iced pomegranate juice in hand. Initially, she trailed behind Lucas who was attempting to ingratiate himself with several groups, all of whom snubbed the rude man and refocused their attention to each other or Prince Abdulaziz. But the guests' flux from one group to another kept her from pursuing him closely, and she eventually stopped just shy of the reception hall. As she witnessed the silent, yet passive-aggressive sniping between Mohammed and Ahmad, she felt a familiar hand at the small of her back. Giving a toothy grin at the tickle of male lips teasing her ear, she then heard, "Salaam, principessa mia. Why are you in the corner?" He lifted her left hand to kiss it.

"Reconnaissance, mi kerido. I'm hunting a particularly annoying rat."

Luigi sighed to keep his anxiety at bay, kissing her hand once more. "Sweetie, be careful. I don't want him to hurt you. God knows what he's up to."

She leaned into his touch and remarked, "Something about hidden crypto. He may be lying, but he claims he hid it in Prince Abdulaziz's assets." Glancing at him, she inquired, "How … How did you get here?"

Taking a sip of his Pinot Noir and smirking, he responded, "Well, about fifteen minutes after you left, Ali came and got me. I … I don't know just how he knew where we were staying, but he and his father, uh, invited me to the party. They also seemed to know that Lucas was going. I filled them in about you … us. Lucas."

Daisy nodded. "And they told you what to say before dinner. To Lucas."

"Yeah." Chuckling a little, he went on, "They didn't seem to mind that you and I weren't exactly married. We aren't Muslim, we aren't married to other people, so they consider it a cultural difference. They don't need to approve. Although …" The lion first gazed at his lioness, then at the ring on her left hand meaningfully, "it was obvious, even to them, how I feel. La mia coppia."

"I hope you know how I feel, kerido," she said quietly. "Mi pareja."

"I do." He kissed her hand a third time, causing her to blush. "Anyway, I sent an SOS to Miles, who put together a marriage certificate to backdoor him."

Mid-sip, she snorted, pursing her lips together to keep the liquid inside her mouth. A moment later, she spoke, "Ótimo. Heh. I hope he enjoys a real badass up his ass. A nice way to celebrate our nuptials." Out of the corner of her eye, the lioness spied her prey and let out a victory purr, much to her lion's dismay.

"Daisy …" he warned.

"Kerido, let me finish what I came here for. You got back the ring, for which I'm grateful. I know I probably shouldn't say that, given that it's your family's ring. But I need to investigate, for my own satisfaction." Searching his distressed blue orbs, she insisted in a soft tone, "Please. You find out more about the al-Ketbis."

They stared into each other's eyes for a full minute. Conveying a pouty, last protest against her course of action, Luigi placed her left hand upon his chest and heart, wordlessly reminding her to be careful and not approach him directly. Once she smiled at him, he moved to join the men's group in the other room, every twenty feet tossing her a reluctant, yet loving look. Now on her own, Daisy cut through the crowded bar and reception area, chasing the tall man down the hall where waiters and servers were coming and going with various trays and drinks. Pretending to look for the ladies' room to anyone who inquired about her intentions, she ultimately made her way to the ship's private apartments. To avoid drawing the Manhattanite's suspicion, she removed her heels and tiptoed barefoot along the gleaming marble to a large office. Daisy unexpectedly noticed his sticklike form, and she hid behind the massive door. Now out of his view, she peeked around it every so often, discerning that he had hacked into the prince's state-of-the-art desktop computer using a corrupted USB drive. Lucas snickered to the empty room about Boomers' incorrigible Windows asslicking and how aptly named Gates's piece of shit OS was. Occasionally eyeing the door for voyeurs, he continued to type into the command line; he bit his lip at the splash page of the man's bank, which was written entirely in Arabic. Unable to decipher the script to select English or French as the viewable language, he lamented audibly how the Amazon Queen could've been useful here. Shrugging, he exited out of the splash page and searched for it in Google, simpering as he arrived at the English translation.

Daisy eyed her tracker, soundlessly hoping that Miles had not only backdoored him, but was moreover following the Evil Toothpick's every keystroke. She shifted her weight, which resulted in a faint creak of the door. Freezing, she stilled her breathing as Lucas's eyes narrowed, and he glowered at the entrance. She closed her eyes when the tall man left the office chair, taking a few steps near her location to check for spies. After a full minute of holding both her breath and body, she heard him return to the executive chair and gold-accented ebony desk. The typing recommenced; certain that his attention was directed away from her, she spied on him once more. Squinting to make out the small print, her eyes widened at the transfer of a hidden fund to a fake, -like crypto wallet: 200,000 in coin.

Now what? Despite having witnessed the commission of a major international crime, Daisy could tell precisely no one. For one thing, the money which he transferred from the Saudi prince's account, of which he likely unaware, had been stolen from one or more unknown sources. Furthermore, cryptocurrency was notoriously untraceable, hence why it was a popular and rising tool among international crime syndicates and other low-lives of cyberspace. She hissed in frustration that the crypto account was obscured from her view. The act a fait accompli, Lucas carefully backtracked and closed the computer, retrieving the USB and placing it into his pants pocket. Once more hiding in the shadows, she glared at the arrogant man, who exited the office to waltz down the hall. While there was nothing that she could do about the theft, the lioness reasoned that she could try to predict his next move. After waiting thirty seconds, she skulked from the door, shoes in hand, and tailed Lucas down the corridor, cautious of being discovered. Midway down the hall, she momentarily slowed down, balancing on one foot, to slip on her heels; resuming her course, she took five steps when her body seemed to divert itself into an adjacent room, and a slender hand covered her mouth to keep her from shouting. The angry Daisy wiggled in the unknown man's grasp. "Jesus Christ, do you want both of us to walk the Arab plank?" he hissed just above her ear.

Though her mouth was covered to impede an actual rejoinder, she nibbled at his fingers with her incisors, causing the man to yelp and let go, sliding several feet away from her. She whirled around to view an outraged Lucas clutching his fingers. With a satisfied smirk, she crossed her arms and barked, "Why, fancy meeting you here, Monsieur le roi des cons!"

"Hey, you followed me!" he retorted. "Did you really think I didn't see you, Agent 99?!"

"James Bond, my ass! You're a fucking thief!"

It was his time to smirk. "Uh, yeah, I told you that before. What are you going to do about it, my violent little flower? Hmm?" He took a step toward her, to which she narrowed her eyes. "You have no evidence; just your pretty little brown specs. As a lawyer-in-training, that must really piss you off."

"Except that you told me about it. Why?"

Another step forward. "Why not? It's not like Luigi of all people would do anything about it. And as for you? Well, what can you do? Even if you tattled to the Saudi sheikh or whomever, it's in crypto – you'll find Atlantis or Jimmy Hoffa before you'd ever find the money." He peered down at the hostile woman, his eyes walking over her curves. "You know, part of me is really hoping that marriage story is true; I'd love to fuck Luigi's wife and make him a very sad cuckhold."

"Enjoy the wait for a Minnesota-frigid day in Hell, you prick!"

He snorted and took a third step, bringing him inches from her. "Which part – the marriage or making him a cuckhold?"

"You get one warning, psycho. Back up now," she snarled.

Lucas playfully tossed his hands up. "Oh, please, pretty please, Mademoiselle Abravanel, not the nunchucks up my ass!" Wiggling his eyebrows, he clarified with a couple of pig-like snorts, "At least, not without the black lacy corset!" Keeling over with laughter, he failed to see her roll her eyes and leave. Rising to his full six-foot-four-height, he skipped after the woman, using his long legs to close the seven-second head start. As she entered the crowded reception, he called out, still giggling, "Wait!" She ignored him, making her way to the safety of the corner. Eventually, he flanked her and asked, "But seriously, why are you with such a fucking weenie? Do you really want to wake up next to Mr. I-Collect-Shit-filled-Pipes for the rest of your life?"

Daisy stopped, spun on her right heel, and, putting her hands on her hips, answered, "Hmm, I'm getting the distinct sense that you're jealous. Only I can't figure out if you're jealous I'm fucking Luigi or Luigi's fucking me. My theory? Luigi's more than just, hmm, a tennis buddy for you. That is if you play tennis."

The Manhattanite's eyes shifted from a molten chocolate to steely black, and he used his extra eight inches to loom over her. She, however, refused to budge, her whiskey-colored orbs twinkling in victory. "Looks like I hit a little nerve. After all, why spend so," she took a step into his space, "much time on trying to fuck me? 'Cause, Lucas, and I mean this, neither Luigi nor I would fuck you if you were the only other option on the entire surface of planet Earth."

He grimaced nastily and closed the distance so that they were toe to toe. "You don't know what you're missing, honey."

"Oh, yeah, I do. You know what they say about Greek boys?"

Blinded by anger, he snatched her right hand and placed it upon his crotch. Daisy's lips curled in distaste, though not before she pulled him toward her, left hand accidentally-on-purpose moving into his pants pocket. He smirked triumphantly, murmuring, "Not bad, eh?"

She slammed her right high heel into the top of his dress shoe. The leer vanished, having been replaced by a suffering expression. "Adios, asshole!" she jeered before quickly walking away, USB drive clutched tightly in her hand, from the bouncing and cussing Lucas in the corner.


Six o'clock could not come fast enough for the dead-tired plumber. After an hour-long fight with José and Alassane, Mario persuaded them – forcefully – to relinquish control of the shop, per their boss's directive from Dubai. Furthermore, to preempt the foreseeable grumbling of the journeymen who had, in the past week and a half, chosen sides, he called a five-minute team huddle, during which he presented his Louisville Slugger and crowned himself King Asshole of Dumbo under the absent Emperor of Plumbing, their God of Paychecks. Unwilling to push the Green Beret's limited tolerance, they accepted the Maricón's directive as well as the return to their previous schedules. Over the course of the afternoon, he answered two calls, one of which was a complaint from a longtime customer, prompting him to tear one of the first-year journeymen a new asshole for fucking up a basic HVAC install. In the old-school style of Giuseppe and his Nonno Masciarelli, he told the stunned young man to get his fucking ass back to Astoria and do it right, even until two in the morning, if he wanted to keep his fuckin' job. The sympathetic Ginsburg brought him a regular coffee and a bagel, for which he was thankful, as he had not had lunch.

Returning to the A-frame in Bensonhurst, he found his mafioso second cousin sitting on the couch, papers and a Lenovo laptop strewn across the coffee table. He managed a buonasera to Sam prior to his ten-minute shower in the downstairs bathroom. Mario emerged from his en-suite in a black tee-shirt and red boxer shorts, his prosthetic visible to the surprised younger man. "Afghanistan," he explained succinctly as he set about placing an online order for a sausage and pepperoni pizza on his phone.

Nodding, Sam reflected upon this somewhat new bit of information. A minute later, he awkwardly responded, "Uncle Pete, uh, mentioned that you'd been … injured in the line of duty."

Mario scoffed. "Yeah, somethin' like that. Fourteen months at Bethesda."

"And you didn't retire?"

"Nah. Well, semi-retired, I guess. I was active until I lost part of my leg. Now I'm on base one weekend a month. It gives me benefits and the, uh, feeling that I'm serving my country."

"Yeah, I spent six years in the Navy," said Sam. "E-4. I thought about staying in – you know, making it a career. I, uh, went into the family business instead."

Rubbing his eyes and mustache tiredly, Mario slowly moved to his Lazy-Boy and sat down. "Was going into the … family business your idea or Pete's?"

"Uncle Pete's. But it's honestly not a bad job. I get to fuck with some assholes infinitely worse than the Mafia. The only difference is that we call them 'Your Honor,' 'Your Excellency,' or 'Congressman.'"

The plumber studied the blond Coloradan's unrepentant regard, then shook his head. "Look, Squid, I don't know how youse operate out in Colorado, but here, in Bensonhurst, the Mafia's all about ripping off honest folks and killing 'em when they refuse to pay the pizzo. I was, what, eleven or twelve when they killed that poor bastard Yusef Hawkins 'cause he was a black guy looking to buy a car in an Italian neighborhood. They're no fuckin' different than the KKK. They tried to kill Luigi, whom your fuckin' uncle claims to … mentor. You and that fuckin' snake, Lucas Kariolis."

Staring at his Brooklynite cousin, Sam tossed down his pen on the wooden table and crossed his arms defiantly. "Okay, Grunt, let's get something straight: our family – and by family, I mean the Rigassis – is not okay with hate crimes or murder. We actually changed our names – Morello to Morell and Carlino to Carlin – to hide from the KKK and the Denver PD who weren't exactly fans of the Italian community. Neither my cousin, Matt, nor I have ever killed anyone. And as for that stupid dickhead," he spat, "he was not our idea. Given how much Uncle Pete loathes both him and his father, I'm ninety-nine-percent certain that he was Jackie's brainchild."

"It's awfully convenient to blame your uncle's rival."

Sam scowled. "Yeah, well, it's the truth." Biting his lip, he mumbled quietly, "I didn't want to leave Luigi in Germany. He told me that he didn't have a choice. If I had known that Lucas had lured Daisy to Dubai, I'd have gone with him. I wanted to. But I'm also beholden to my crew, much as you are to yours – be it the Special Forces or the Masciarellis. I have to find out what happened to my boss. Uncle Pete."

"And did ya find out?" inquired Mario with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"No."

"Figures. Ottimo lavoro, calamaro."

The Coloradan froze, having to mentally translate the Italian into English. Relatively sure of what it meant – nice work, squid – he flicked his hand from his chin at the semi-amused Mario and retorted, "Arschloch."

Mario raised an eyebrow while pinching his fingers together. "Non parli italiano? Sei mafioso che non parli italiano? È vero?"

He smiled sheepishly. "No, I understand it better than I speak it. Pete wanted Matt and I to learn, but my father didn't really see the point. For him, language's about communication. Better Spanish or Chinese. I wasn't much about learning characters, so I picked up a little Spanish and German." He grinned at his second cousin. "And what about you, Green Beret? Italian's not exactly a popular language, even for them."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, smartass. I did Italian in school. Back then, I was a royal fuck off, with my nonno's blessing. Pops hated that. I already knew I wanted to be a plumber, so I played sports and took all the easy classes, just to coast until I went to trade school. I already spoke Italian at home, so it was even easier than fuckin' English. It didn't help me with the recruiter, who didn't think I had the right pedigree to become 18X, but screw him. Anyway, since I got deployed to Afghanistan and Iraq, they required me to do either Arabic or Dari. Since the latter was closer to Italian, I did that. Still can't speak it for shit, but I got my 1/1 ILR on the oral. Kept the brass off my ass, and I got some extra money for it."

Sam was about to ask another question when a firm knock at the front door resounded throughout the house. Standing up from the Lazy-Boy, Mario grunted and, checking that the tip was in his shorts' pocket, ambled to the entrance. He opened it to reveal a slightly confused and vexed Father Sal. "Niputi, what're you doing in Bensonhurst? You're not in Manhattan with Cristina?"

"Nah, I got some shit to do here. Actually, Zio, it ain't a good time."

As Father Sal opened his mouth, the young Coloradan walked up behind Mario. The latter shifted uncomfortably while the priest did not show any reaction. His familiar brown eyes moving from his second cousin to the middle-aged Sicilian, they finally widened in recognition. "You're … ? It can't be …" he breathed.

"Do I know you?" challenged Salvatore.

The blond hesitated. Mafiosi were supposed to deny all knowledge of each other unless they were properly introduced, usually in the presence of a third party or higher-ranked mafioso. Aside from conforming to omertà, this was to keep the FBI or other acronyms from inadvertently obtaining information about another crew member's activities during an interrogation. Neither Uncle Pete nor his father had introduced this man to him or Matt, despite them knowing precisely who he was from the family albums. Salvatore Rigassi, il Mietitore, notorious contract killer, made man just two ticks shy of making caporegime. The man to whom Pete Morello owed his meteoric rise to the 'administration.' "No," Sam finally said. "Sorry, my mistake, sir."

Giving a single, satisfied nod, the priest turned his attention to his eldest nephew. "Everything alright?"

Mario's blue eyes narrowed in suspicion at the brief and terse interaction between the two mafiosi. "Yeah, for now. Hopefully, Luigi will be home in a few days. Daisy, too."

"Bene," replied Father Sal. Forcing a light smile, he concluded, "Well, I'll catch up with you later, niputi. Ciao."

"Ciao," murmured the plumber quizzically as he watched the priest calmly descend the staircase and walk toward St. Rosalia's Church. At the same time, the delivery man approached them, large pizza in hand. A surprised and delighted Mario, who had expected the order to take at least fifteen minutes longer, gave him a generous tip and brought the box inside the house, eyeing Sam as he shut the door with his foot. Setting the box on the vacant edge of the coffee table, he groused, "Okay, calamari, what the hell was that?"

Sam shrugged nonchalantly while grabbing a slice. "Nothing. I thought I recognized him from somewhere. That's all."

"Yeah, my ass," he retorted under his breath.

Over the next couple of hours, they split the pizza in a companionable silence, with Mario turning on the television to channel surf. By nine o'clock, the plumber announced that he was going to call Peach and go to bed, as he had to be up in the morning to do damage control at the shop. He left the television on for the more energetic Sam who, despite his recent return from Frankfurt, was quickly adapting to Eastern Time. An hour afterward, the house became quiet. Using Luigi's upstairs ensuite to shower and care for his hygiene, Sam redescended the stairs to the flicker of the nightly news. Like many Coloradans and residents of the Rocky Mountains, who preferred a cooler temperature to sleep, he cracked the patio door open to allow the night air to circulate throughout the living room. At the last minute, however, Sam decided to slip outside to the small, hardly-used backyard. Both his father and uncle hated live in the city, both purchasing family homes on the outskirts of Pueblo and Littleton respectively. Though there were street lamps, particularly in Highlands Ranch, the Coloradan was accustomed to viewing most of the stars in the sky; the Brooklyn street lamps nearby obscured them almost completely. Instead of relative silence, he could, even past ten o'clock, hear impatient drivers honking at each other off 18th Avenue. He chuckled to himself and wondered just how in the hell could Mario and Luigi have grown up here?

As he turned to go back inside, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a partly-obscured utility closet which, while innocuous in itself, had the lock discarded in the adjacent grass and concrete. Leaving the patio door ajar, Sam carefully approached the grayish-white closet within the red brick of the house. He used his index and middle fingers to crack the door open, which, to his surprise, revealed a long staircase downward. He walked down the stairs, step by step, until he reached another door. Curiosity besting him, he turned to knob to reveal a completely dark, studio-like room. After taking a tentative footstep inside, the Coloradan felt strong arms wrap around his neck in a chokehold. Immediately elbowing his assailant, he ran their bodies backward to the door to weaken his hold. Moaning in pain, the intruder kicked Sam's knee, which knocked him face-first to the ground. Sam flipped on his back, crouching like a turtle, to protect himself against the inevitable kick to his head, solar plexus, or groin; the man did not disappoint, and the ex-sailor blocked his attempt, trapping his foot and yanking it from under him so that he landed on his back. Strong thumping along the staircase came at them in a crescendo; five seconds later, Mario, Smith and Wesson in his hands, yelled, "I'm armed, motherfucker! Freeze! Hands up!"

Both men, who were on the ground, obeyed. "Mario, it's Sam!" shouted one of the shadows.

"Aight. Who the fuck's your buddy?" he demanded.

"Mario, turn on the light," gasped the other. The plumber did not recognize his voice. But before he could ask Sam to do as the man had requested, the Coloradan suddenly leapt to his feet and pulled down the string to the overhead light, illuminating a slumped, middle-aged Italian, who was wiping blood from his nose.

The plumber's hold on his gun remained unwavering. "The fuck's this?"

"Um, cousin, meet Pete Morello. My uncle and boss."