Author's notes: Okie-dokey. Thanks to everyone who has favorited, liked, or written reviews for the story.

A few notes about this chapter: without giving key details away, I have based it on what would have been more or less accurate for November 2014. The areas in question have changed quite a bit in eight years, so if you've been recently, and find this a bit outdated, that's why. Also, I have transliterated the Arabic to approximate sounds using the Latin-based alphabet. It's imperfect, but I can't easily switch between European languages, which are written left to right, to Arabic, which is written right to left.

Okay, here we go!


Chapter 50: The Good Samaritan

-"In the desert of life the wise person travels by caravan, while the fool prefers to travel alone."

After his evening shower, Mario woozily scrubbed his damp face and made his way to his Lazy-Boy. With Giuseppe and Maria having departed for Staten Island a little after seven o'clock that evening, Pete and Sam having retreated downstairs, and Salvatore soon thereafter to return to St. Rosalia's to prepare for Halloween night and All Saints' Day, the plumber found the fresh silence to be deafening, and he could not bear another night in the bed made for two. He glanced at the clock on the flat-screen television – 9:45 p.m. Grabbing the knit blanket, he was about to settle into the chair when he saw headlights graze the side of the house and windows. Mario's eyes darted to his Smith and Wesson, which was within a hand's reach; he picked up the weapon and cautiously peaked through the edge of the closed curtains. Exhaling in relief a moment later, he set the gun down and walked over to the door to open and greet the blonde woman jogging up the steps, overnight bag in her hand. Wordlessly, Peach entered the empty house, dropped the bag down on the floor, and angrily spun to face her boyfriend, who was locking up behind them.

"So what is it this time?" she demanded, arms crossed over her bright pink button-down shirt.

"Peaches, look, I … Trust me, you don't want to be involved," said Mario quietly.

Her blue eyes flared like a flame. "Che cazzo significa?! What happened to Luigi? Daisy?! Sono ancora a Dubai? Parli!"

"Yeah. Saranno a Dubai fino a mercoledì."

Nodding, Peach bit her lip to keep her temper in check. "Capisco. Is that why you won't come home?" When Mario refused to answer, she growled at the distraught man before her, "I am so fucking sick of this! You want me to marry you? You …" Beginning to pace back and forth in front of the mantle, she half-muttered, half-yelled, "How can I marry you when you refuse to share your problems?! How much do I need to find out last minute, huh?" He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand and shook her head. "No! Mi ascolterai! This has bloody crossed the line, Mario Masciarelli! Luigi is my family, too! I am worried about his safety in the bloody Golfo Persico! You and I both know that isn't the safest of places for him or Daisy!"

"Yeah, I'm aware of that!" interrupted the plumber with a yell. "But I got a fuck-up on my hands, Peaches! Of epic fucking proportions, and I'm doin' the best I can!"

"Mario, you can't do this on your own! I know the Mafia's involved! My father, he could …"

"Goddamnit, amore, I don't want you involved!" He shook his head at the enraged blonde. "I've … lost my father … now my fratellino. I can't lose you, too."

"Well, that's fucking nice!" she screamed, dainty hands balling into frustrated fists. "Really fucking nice, you fuckwit! Because whilst you're busy wondering when you'll 'lose' me, I never had you to begin with!"

Mario's blue eyes flared dangerously. "Che cazzo significa?!" he hissed, repeating her question.

"You hide things from me, you don't tell me the truth, and you run away from me! It's always one step forward and three steps back! Well, I've had it! Because I can't take it anymore!"

Stomping across the living room, he halted a foot away from her. "That it? You wanna leave me?" She did not reply, instead wiping away fresh tears that had begun a lonely descent to the carpet. "I … I know I should encourage you to leave. These people, Peaches, are beyond dangerous. It's not just the Mafia. And I … I couldn't bear it if … I'm barely holdin' on as it is. But I don't know what's worse – losin' you to them or breakin' your heart." She sniffed audibly, brushing away more tears. "I love you, Peach. Please don't … Please don't blame me for wanting to protect you. That's the truth."

"Mario, I … I don't blame you. But sometimes I wonder … I wonder if you're in need of a project. Now that I don't need saving, you don't need me," she rasped.

"What?" breathed the short plumber. "No, that's not true! It's the opposite, Peaches. I don't want to rescue you! No, wait," he squeezed his eyes shut and began to pace while she remained silent and immobile, "that's not what I mean! If you need help, I'll always come. Always! But every time I gotta come for you, I … I lose my mind a little, and I wonder if it's the last time. And sayin' goodbye to you?" Opening his eyes, he stared at her seriously and whispered, "I'd rather someone just fuckin' kill me!"

"You're killing me every time you shut me out!" sobbed Peach. "What good is protecting me if my heart's dead?"

He let out a sad sigh at her last words. Perhaps she had a point about postponing an engagement and marriage. In his desire to prevent evil forces from tormenting her again, he failed to care for that which she – they – valued most: her heart. There could be no marriage without intimacy, and there could be no intimacy without sharing his pain and difficulties. Wiping his mustache nervously, Mario spoke, "I … I don't want to hurt you. I've never wanted to hurt you. Ever. I just … I want to protect what I hold dear in this fucked up world: you and Weegie. And now … a fuckin' Sfacciata. I know that it ain't enough to protect. I've contented myself with that, I think. Because riskin' my heart is …" He trailed off, finding himself unable to continue, an assortment of familiar and unfamiliar emotions constricting his throat.

"Amore, you … you're the bravest man I've ever known. And I'm not talking about the Green Berets. It took me coming to New York to really see you. This place – Bensonhurst – would've killed a weaker man. Mentally and physically. Neither you nor your fratellino became mafiosi. Your father and … 11 settembre. Then your leg," they both looked downward to his prosthesis. "Whether you say it or not, I know they affect you. Like there's a piece missing from each incident." She pressed on, despite his fresh tears, "And now us – Luigi and I. You're doing your best. Lo so. You're worried that another piece will vanish. But we're not … uh, marionette, immobili. Give us a chance."

Mario chuckled through his tears. He loved Peach's approximate translations from Italian to English. Some were cute; some were outright hilarious; some were right on the money. "Aight. I was, uh, negotiating. Between us, the Masciarellis, and them."

Her eyes widened. "Ti sei seduto a un tavolo con gli mafiosi?"

He nodded as he moved to sit down on the couch. Peach followed, sitting in the space next to him. "Si, amore. We got a plan going. If Weegie and the Sfacciata aren't back by Wednesday, we'll send Sam Carlino, our second cousin from Colorado, to Dubai. I'd go myself, but I had to get control over the shop from José Hernández. Normally, the guy's a straight shooter; I don't know what's going on with him. Anyway, I got to make sure nothing gets fucked up here."

"Bene," she agreed. "Are Luigi and Daisy safe?"

"For the time being, I think. Or rather, Miles thinks so. Luigi's made a contact, whose last name is al-Ketbi. He's some big shot construction engineer in Dubai." She placed his hand into hers. "I got to trust that right now."

"I'll ask Rospo. He's been anxious to know what's happened with Luigi, as well, and has some contacts in the Gulf."

He gave a brief nod. "As for the, uh, Mafia, the boss is gonna send someone to Dubai, presumably to go after that little shit. The bad part, Peaches, is Marco's ex-wife, bigamist wife, whatever."

"Polina," she supplied with a livid lilt in her voice.

"Yeah, the Bowser Bitch. She … She and Lucas are definitely working together. Miles hacked the little shit's phone. We overheard a conversation that … let's just say she implied that … she wants Luigi and Daisy dead. That's why I had to make nice with those shady Mafia fucks."

"Santa Vergine delle Rocce!" growled Peach, her blue eyes filled with terror. "She's Russian, well, half-Russian. My father's never talked about his associations much, but some of his friends … really despise the Russians. Dodgy dealings through and through." He nodded his agreement. "Maybe … we should go to the FBI. Your family friend, DK?"

"I thought about that, Peaches. And it's not off the table. But I'm afraid that if I do involve the cops at this point, whatever 'good will' the Mafia have toward me and my uncles will evaporate. Let's get Luigi and Daisy home first." Reluctantly, she nodded and squeezed his hand. "There's something else," he murmured. She noticed that he studiously avoided eye contact, which he did whenever he knew she would soon be pissed off at him. Unsure of what it could possibly be, she waited, watching his facial expressions in silence. "Sam's with me. Downstairs in the basement."

The blonde frowned. "There's a basement to this place?"

"There is," he affirmed. "It came with the house, I think. Anyway, Pops was tryin' to fix it up in the months before he died. Never knew why. He just said that it would increase its value. He insisted that he wasn't gonna sell it, but I never entirely believed him. Sam's in the basement. And that's not … all."

Her blue eyes narrowed. "What? Who else …" Suddenly, they widened, and she launched herself off the couch as if she were sitting next to a poisonous snake. "No, dimmi che stai scherzando." He did not reply. "Il fottuto capodecina del Colorado è di sotto?!" He did not react except to avoid her pointed glare. "Che … Ah, putain! Pourquoi!"

Finally, Mario shrugged a little. "Eh, insurance policy." However, he no longer knew exactly against whom it was insurance: the Bowser Bitch or a pissed-off-for-the-eight-hundred-forty-third-time Peach.


At dawn, the household rose drowsily for the neighborhood mosque's early-morning call to prayer. Luigi, however, did not require much convincing; although the male guest room was comfortable, without Daisy in her rightful space next to or upon him, he tossed and turned fretfully throughout the night. As the faithful attended to the fajr, Luigi lay in bed to briefly check his emails and messages. He breathed a sigh of relief when there were no irate voicemails from either Mario or Uncle Joe, no encrypted texts from Miles, and no threats from his ex-friend. Deciding to take a quick shower and get dressed for breakfast, he padded to the sizeable bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, he re-emerged in a pair of khakis that his girlfriend had packed in her bag for him and a green tee-shirt. As he plucked a pair of clean socks out of his suitcase, he heard a knock at the door. Looking up, he noticed a smiling Ali. "Good morning, Luigi. Good, I see you're dressed. We'll have a small breakfast; I want to be on the road by seven to beat some of the crowds at Wadi Shab. Since it's Saturday, we'll go there for the day. Tomorrow, you'll do a demonstration of your thermal device at the Muscat office. We'll drive back to Dubai on Monday."

"Tomorrow's Sunday," replied Luigi in confusion. "Isn't that the weekend or …?"

Ali shook his head. "No. In the Gulf, our working week is Sunday through Thursday. Our 'weekend' is Friday and Saturday."

"Okay. Sorry, I probably should've known that," he apologized sheepishly.

"No worries. It was reverse cultural shock for me when I went to New York. Thankfully, I could do jummah on campus." Abruptly, he frowned. "Do you, uh, go to church on Sunday? You are Catholic, yes?"

Tilting his head to indicate that he did on occasion, Luigi responded, "Yeah, I'm Catholic. And I do attend Sunday mass every so often. My, uh, maternal uncle's the parish priest in my neighborhood. So my older brother and I go to listen to him, mostly. I do major holidays and, uh, confession every, like, year. Why do you ask?"

"Well, due to the difference in the working week, I did not want to impede on you if you and Daisy attend mass. While they're not public, there is a Catholic church in Muscat if you wanted to go. I think the service is in English or French."

The New Yorker chuckled a little at the thought of the Sephardic Daisy attending mass. Nonetheless, he was curious at how mass was celebrated in the Arabic-speaking world. "Thanks; I'll see what Daisy wants to do. Maybe in the early morning or late evening. It shouldn't keep me from doing the demo, though."

Ali gave a satisfied nod. "Okay, we'll keep it in the afternoon, so if you did want to go, you'll be able. Anyway, I'll meet you in the dining room."

Over the next forty-five minutes, the group took breakfast which, to Luigi and Daisy's surprise, was a bit more Western: cereal with milk, yogurt, eggs, labneh, fruit salads, brioche. Ali's grandparents were more traditional, opting for cooked fava beans, chopped vegetables, and khubz. When no one was looking or engaging them in conversation, the lovers communicated with heated stares, flirty grins, and accidentally-on-purpose grazes of their hands. Their culturally mandated separation frustrated them both; after dinner and putting the kids to bed the previous evening, the men had absconded away to smoke hookah for which Luigi was grateful, as the green apple- and watermelon-flavored nicotine helped alleviate his desire to drag Daisy into the nearest closet for a bit of privacy. Following the filling meal, Luigi helped Ali gather what they would need for the day's excursion to Wadi Shab while a delighted Daisy changed out of her hijab and djellaba, which they all said was unnecessary for the Omani outdoors, and into a long-sleeved yoga shirt and pants atop her one-piece bathing suit. Ali, the two foreigners, and one of his middle sisters, Maha, who invited herself on the trip, then met downstairs. Earlier, Luigi and Daisy had watched with pity as the teenage girl taunted her younger brother, Khalid, for being grounded over missing or incomplete Chemistry homework and a subsequent poor mark for the term. In response and revenge, Khalid tattled on his sister for going out without her hijab – again. Forced by her grandmother, aunties, older sisters, and mother to wear the headscarf, Maha sulked inside the SUV. Once all waterproof bags were loaded, Ali jumped into the driver's seat and began the ninety-minute journey to the famous canyon. When her elders were out of sight, the young Emirati promptly discarded the hated hijab, earning a soft, albeit understanding chuckle and shake of the head from her elder brother.

With the exception of a brief stop for gas on the outskirts of Muscat, the trip to Wadi Shab was uneventful – Luigi and Daisy taking turns catnapping on the other, Maha texting her girlfriends on her cellphone, and Ali quietly listening to the news on Muscat FM. By a little after 8:30, Ali managed to find a parking space at the entrance to the caves. He and Maha disembarked to open the trunk and grab their gear as Luigi nuzzled his sleeping lioness awake. The two jetlagged lions picked up their small, waterproof backpacks and followed their hosts toward the sandy-colored limestone cliffs and palm trees. A queue of various people – Omani and international – had formed; Ali greeted the older captain of a canoe-like motor boat and handed him four rials – one for each person. Signaling for them to board, they eased themselves into the vessel; two other people joined them before the man indicated that those still in queue would need to wait for the next available boat. Once the engine revved to life, the blue boat zoomed down the wide green river; Maha, Luigi, and Daisy began snapping photos of the scenic brown-purple mountains, palm trees, and green brush. The sun started to peak out from behind the clouds when it arrived at the edge of a rocky pathway not five minutes later. Helping Ali and Luigi disembark, who in turn lent a hand to the women, the captain reminded them that the boats ran every twenty minutes and cease service at a quarter to five. Thanking him, they then commenced the forty-five-minute hike through the palm brush, banana trees, and through the canyon to the wadi pools. Luigi regarded the path in wonder, having abandoned the steel and glass of the extended New York skyline for a sight straight out of Indiana Jones. What had been flat gravel soon became a steep climb over large rocks and boulders, at times necessitating the hikers to dip below drooping limestone. Arriving at the swimming area consisting of three turquoise pools, they all discarded their top layer. Whereas Ali, Luigi, and Daisy had opted for more conservative swimwear, Maha unrepentantly revealed a two-piece tankini, forcing a muttered Ma'sha Allah from her brother. Theft being a crime severely punished in Oman, Ali and Maha encouraged the skeptical New Yorker to leave his and Daisy's backpacks behind, assuring him that they would remain untouched. Eventually, he relented when his lioness squeezed his hand in reassurance. Luigi's anxiety momentarily rekindled when he saw Daisy remove the fede and place it in a secure inner pocket of her bag. Giving him a quick kiss, she whispered that she did not want to damage or lose the ring in the caves.

Diving into the surprisingly warm, mid-morning water, they negotiated the alternating deep and shallow parts of each pool. Watching the tourists wince at the sensation of their bare feet upon the sharp rocks of the riverbed, Daisy was glad that Ali and Maha had an extra pair of aquatic shoes in her size. Wading from the first pool to the third, she felt heated blue eyes gazing at her back and ass; she snickered in smug, feminine enjoyment at her plumber's hyperarousal. Although they had had sex a handful of times in Dubai, the danger associated with the act as well as their nighttime segregation in Muscat made their usual craving for each other's bodies more intense – the forbidden fruit. At the front of the pack, their hosts did not see Luigi rub himself suggestively against her, nor did they hear her soft, approving moan. While moving underneath the rocks to access the third pool, the plumber pulled her into a dark corner and slammed his lips upon the surprised and giggling lioness; breaking for air, he whispered in her ear, "It's a beautiful place, but not as beautiful as you, cat-face."

She flashed him a feline-like smile and purr. "When we return to New York, kerido, I intend to fuck you senseless. You and your," she ran her hand through his wavy brown hair, "Italian locks." She then brushed his wet torso with her fingers, "And your very lean Italian frame."

He hummed with a leer. "I intend to hold you to that, cat-face." Leaning in to kiss her again, he spoke in a timbre that only she could hear, "Ti amo molto."

They broke away to rejoin the group who had gathered at Wadi Shab's best kept secret: a small waterfall at the end of the third pool. After paddling in the crystal clear water for a solid twenty minutes, they returned to their makeshift basecamp where, as Ali had promised, all of their personal items remained intact. Even though it was only ten in the morning, they decided to snack on the dates, cheese, and fruit that Ali and Maha had taken from the kitchen refrigerators. Additionally, the Emirati had brought a small insulated thermos for warm coffee, an absolute must at mid-morning snack time. Whereas Daisy was still full from breakfast, the thin New Yorker, who had been shaking from hunger for the first time since his arrival in the Gulf, enjoyed the cheese and fresh fruit. As Maha engaged Daisy in conversation over the latest FIFA news and the former's excitement over the tournament potentially coming to Qatar, Ali and Luigi chatted a bit about technology and construction in Dubai and New York. In the midst of their mutual complaining about the lack of decent coffee in New York, Ali briefly glanced at his phone and muttered a Wallah? Noticing that his new friend's normal smile had disappeared at the message, the plumber asked if he was alright.

"Yeah, al-hamdu l'Allah. We'll grab some lunch nearby and head back to Muscat by one o'clock." He stared at Luigi for a moment before speaking once more, "We won't be returning to Dubai. Change of plans."

The New Yorker frowned. "Did something happen?"

He glanced away to the water. "In a matter of speaking, yes. At the soirée in Abu Dhabi, there was an unauthorized intrusion into Prince Abdulaziz's bank accounts. A sizeable amount was stolen. Understandably, the prince is upset. He's an important business partner of my father's, so we are helping him with his investigation in the UAE. The Abu Dhabi police is involved – quietly."

Feeling Ali's eyes scrutinize his body language, Luigi steeled himself not to look at Daisy. If the Abu Dhabi police was anything like its Dubai counterpart, Lucas's actions meant big trouble for his lioness. Aside from attending the party as his supposed plus-one, Emirati investigators frequently arrested innocent witnesses in the interest of "protecting their testimony." In reality, however, whomever was better connected had the upper hand; although her integrity would demand that she side with the Saudi prince, it would inevitably be discovered that she, a Jewish woman with familial ties to Israel, was accompanied by her unmarried lover, both of which were criminal offenses throughout the Gulf States. Lucas might go to jail, yet so would she. The eight-hour time difference between Oman and New York left him on his own; nodding at the Emirati to keep up appearances, he quickly mulled over their options. He had to assume that they would be watched, leaving him no good opportunity to warn her. Play it cool, he thought; let them make the first move in Muscat. Though he would undoubtedly wince at the current month's roaming charges, he would conduct research on how to get one-way tickets out of Oman within the next day.

Making their way back to the water taxi and, finally, the parking lot, the nonchalant Emirati suggested that they stop in Tiwi, a coastal town just south of Wadi Shab, for fish curry and, in Daisy's case, vegetable noodles. In addition to the naan-like flatbreads, Omani fast-food consisted of an assortment of dishes from all over the Middle East and Asia: kebabs, Indo-Pakistani curries, Vietnamese rice noodles, Afghani borani banjan, and Persian stuffed vegetables. They spent an hour at the almost rough-and-ready restaurant with plastic garden chairs and tables, metal fans, and refrigeration units from the early 2000s. At Ali's offhanded comment that his thermal device would benefit the mom-and-pop establishments in the UAE and Oman, Luigi affected a nervous smile. Afterward, the teenage Maha insisted on ice cream. On the way back to their house in Muscat, Ali dutifully stopped at an ice cream and juice shop, where the girl ordered a large helping of pomegranate and mango soft serve. Daisy copied her idea, adding pomegranate seeds. As for the men, they each ordered a pomegranate-lime granita which the New Yorker found refreshing in the ninety-degree, seventy-percent-humid heat.

Returning to the Muscat household just before three in the afternoon, the Pakistani once again separated the four by gender, with Jawed guiding the men to Mohammed's spacious office toward the back of the house. Once summoned, Ali entered the space respectfully, moving to greet his father by kissing his cheek and hand. The older man then waved the now timid Luigi inside; the latter greeted Mohammed with a handshake and a smile. Ali stood by his father, who nodded at him. "It's okay, Luigi. Please sit," he said, gesturing to one of two plush marron armchairs in front of the desk. As he slowly sat down, a knock came at the doorframe.

The older Emirati waved in the confused Daisy and silently pointed to the other chair. "Igrab. Tfadhali, min fadhlik," he instructed, knowing that she could understand Arabic.

Once everyone was seated, Ali went to close the door. His father gave him a single nod to begin. "As I told Luigi, Daisy, we received a message from Prince Abdulaziz stating that there had been an unauthorized access to his bank accounts. Having checked the security footage, the staff noticed that you and Lucas Kariolis went toward the back offices. You weren't supposed to be there. What we found most interesting is that not only did you accompany him to the dinner, but you moreover followed him. Why?"

Before Daisy could answer, Luigi interjected, "She did nothing wrong. And forgive me, Mr. al-Ketbi and Ali, but your country's laws … they jail people who are in the vicinity of the potential crime. Why would she respond, knowing that this is a possibility?"

Mohammed did not reply; instead, he directed his brown eyes to his son, who replied, "Precisely, Luigi. That's actually why we do not want to return to Dubai. The Omani and Abu Dhabi police are far more reasonable, especially to foreign women. But that is if she is innocent of the crime. That's what we need to know. Prince Abdulaziz is a very good associate of ours. We do not want to see that relationship end."

The plumber cut in once more, much to Daisy's growing irritation. "And we wouldn't want that, either. However, I won't allow her to be harassed for a crime or potential crimes that she did not commit or could control."

At his father's subtle gesture, Ali leaned down to the seated man who whispered something in Arabic. Nodding, he addressed them once more. "I think … we understand what you're saying, Luigi. Your unmarried status. Prince Abdulaziz isn't interested in that. He'd already assumed it, I think."

He raised his eyebrow. They did not do or could not do a background check on her beyond her educational and work history. Or they're holding back. "Yeah," he answered. "Alright."

The three men turned to Daisy who, calming herself, began to speak. "I know who stole the money. It would be seventy-five million dollars. Lucas Kariolis used a USB drive to break into the prince's personal computer. He transferred the money to a crypto account. While I did see the crypto bank name, I was unable to see the account number."

"Daisy, why did you follow him?" inquired Ali with a mixture of awe and concern. "Do you know what kind of man he is?"

"I do," she affirmed with a nod. "He's a criminal, albeit a pretty stupid one. He's," she pivoted her head to Luigi whose blue eyes gave wordless permission to voice what they did not know, "associated with the Italian-American Mafia. The Cosa Nostra. That's … why Luigi came here. Why I'm here. You know he compelled us to come to Dubai; what you don't know is that Luigi's been trying to raise money to, uh, keep the shop from becoming a Mafia front."

Ali and Mohammed exchanged an unreadable look. "How … How do you know he's Mafia?"

"Because it's my family," whispered Luigi quietly. "My mother's family." He chuckled a little before continuing, "Frankly, I'm surprised your background check didn't show that. Lucas works for my cousins; I only found that out recently. My great-uncle is the boss – head of the local crime family. It's not something I'm proud of, and I've tried to keep my distance. Anyway, we didn't know about his activities in Syria and Lebanon. The first I'd heard of it was when he ran his mouth to Daisy."

The older Emirati crossed his arms and twisted away from them, reflecting upon what he had heard. Ali gave a satisfied nod. Finally, Mohammed asked in English, much to the shock of the foreigners, "You have proof?" A moment later, he added an explanation in Arabic, unsure of the equivalent words in his guests' language.

"The problem is that, undoubtedly, that … criminal will run to the Dubai authorities and claim that Daisy stole the money. Without corroboration, it's his word against hers. And unfortunately, even a known liar's word counts more in an Emirati court than a foreign woman's," the young man translated.

Luigi smirked a bit. "In addition to the texts that he sent her, Daisy's a tough, resourceful woman. She got the USB." Both Emiratis blinked in surprise. As Ali opened his mouth, the plumber held up a hand, "We sent it to friend of ours for safekeeping. He will deliver it to the NYPD and FBI who can authenticate its existence. This was done for Daisy's protection. We know he's working with … unsavory characters who may want to do us harm."

Nodding again, Mohammed requested the name of the crypto bank from Daisy. Writing it down phonetically in Arabic script on his personal notepad, he picked up the landline telephone and dialed a number. A moment later, he commenced a conversation in his native tongue. As the New Yorker looked downward and reached for Daisy's hand, unable to understand any of it, the lioness attempted to eavesdrop; less familiar with Gulf Arabic, she could only make out the words "problem," "bank," "meeting," "may God protect you," "thank you" several times, and the phrase, "We will be there." Hanging up the phone, Ali gently questioned his father over the conversation, which resulted in a back-and-forth for a couple minutes. Daisy winced at the speed of their conversation, rendering it incomprehensible for her basic Arabic ability. Nevertheless, both she and Luigi became increasingly anxious at Ali's somewhat raised voice, as if he were becoming fearful. Mohammed's tone sharpened briefly before attempting to assuage his son's concerns and encouraging him to translate.

"Okay," Ali began uncertainly. "My father just called Prince Abdulaziz directly. He explained everything to him. However, given the seriousness of the situation, His Highness wants to speak with Daisy personally. It will be in your presence, of course." Turning again to his father, who motioned with his head to continue, he added, "Due to some, uh, personal affairs, he won't be available to come to Oman or go to Abu Dhabi. We will need to come to him."

"What does that mean?" inquired Luigi while squeezing his lioness's hand.

"For the next week, he will be at his home in Riyadh."

"Wait, what?!" demanded the plumber. "We … We cannot go to Saudi Arabia! No, no, no! Us," he wildly gestured to himself and Daisy, who was attempting to calm him, "being here together is a crime! What do you think they'd to do us there if we're caught?! Not to mention … Daisy cannot go there. And how the hell are we supposed to just go to Riyadh? Visas?"

"We can't refuse His Highness's invitation, Luigi," replied Ali simply. "It would be taken as an insult, especially given what Daisy saw." He sighed, looking at his now concerned father, "As for the visas, Prince Abdulaziz is arranging for you to apply at the Saudi Consulate here in Muscat. There's no need for you to return to the UAE. In fact, that's the problem."

"I can be prosecuted in Dubai merely for having been there. However, if I'm in Saudi, and I give testimony, the courts will value the victim's opinion, particularly a victim of their royal family, and will want to save face," concluded Daisy quietly. Mohammed nodded. "And whoever's in Dubai can't get to Riyadh without Prince Abdulaziz and the Saudi government knowing about it." She turned toward the incredulous Luigi. "No foreigner can enter Saudi Arabia without a pre-approved visa. The most … risky place for us to be is right now the safest." Grasping his hand, she murmured, "Kerido, I think … we should do this."

Growling in anger and fear, he yanked her from the chair and, with the politest smile he could muster, cried, "I'm sorry. Would you excuse us, please?" Unwilling to wait for their reply, he led the stunned lioness out of the study, down the hall, and into the deserted courtyard and pool area. He let go of the now agitated Daisy's ringed hand and hissed, "What the hell do you think you're doing? Huh? Going to Saudi Arabia, Daisy?! Do you know what they do to Jews?! Women? Or, shit, people like me?" Looking around for any eavesdroppers, he whispered, "Bisexual men?"

"Yes!" she shouted. "But I also know that whomever Lucas and his friends, not to mention Carlo Morano, have sent, they're either already in Dubai or are on their way. Mohandis Mohammed is right – the Dubai police will not protect us. And we need to make it back to New York. The shop's waiting for you. Our families are waiting. Yours and mine," she stated. "Plus, if you – if we – do this, then both the Emiratis and Saudis will owe you big time. You'll be able to save the shop without Lucas, the Mafia, or even your family. You, kerido!"

He shook his head, tears forming in his eyes. "I don't care about the shop or … I want you safe! None of it matters if … if I lose you. None of it. This … is serious!"

Taking a few steps to close the distance between their bodies, Daisy took his hand and brought it to her lips. "You will not lose me, meu kerido. I can't control what will happen, and you're right; it's a risk. But I'm asking you to take the risk. For so many people. For me. For you. But I will do whatever you ask me. I won't go behind your back. You have my word, Luigi."

Luigi stared into her serene, yet determined brown eyes. What do you want to do, figlio? echoed his father's composed and loving voice. "Jesus," he breathed, pulling her into a warm embrace. They stayed in each other's arms for some time; Daisy laid her head against his chest, the plumber kissed the top of her head and stroked her medium-length auburn strands. "You are so brave," he murmured. "When I watched you in that bagel shop, when I imagined us together, I never thought that you were so … strong! What the hell are you doing with a coward like me? You and Mario could do this so much better than me." She neither replied to his verbalized insecurities, nor did she move away from him. "But I believe in you. I believe in us." Stepping back to gaze into her eyes once more, he went on, "I'm not a hero, cat-face. I'm just a Brooklyn plumber. I don't have any special skills. That said, I do know that I love you, and I will do my best to protect and support you."

As he lowered his regard, suddenly embarrassed over his weakness, a pair of feminine lips crashed upon his. "I love you, Luigi Masciarelli," he heard her murmur, both as a statement and a vow.


Subsequent to Sunday morning breakfast, Lucas lounged on one of the white chairs near the Burj al-Arab's infinity pool. Despite casing the al-Ketbi corporate office in Dubai as well as breaking into the plumbing union's financial records, there was no sign of Luigi or Daisy anywhere in the city-state. Where the fuck did they go? According to their company website, the al-Ketbis had branches in Dubai, Abu Dhabi, and in each major Gulf country. If that fucking plumber and the Amazon Queen were not in Dubai, then they had to be at one of those satellite offices. A quick hack of their website revealed nothing; having to wait until that morning, as the office was closed on Friday and Saturday, he posed as a prospective American investor on the phone, to which the secretary promptly asked him to schedule an appointment for next month and steadfastly refused to answer any further questions. He called the Abu Dhabi office, only to be met with the same result. Next, he attempted to hack the plumber's phone carrier; strangely, the last "ping" showed Brooklyn, New York. Did Luigi get another phone? He had not thought so.

On the subject of cellphones, Lucas was rapidly becoming frustrated with his newest model. For the past few days, the Internet had slowed down, which he initially attributed to the substandard Internet speeds of the Gulf. Nonetheless, he ran antivirus tests and memory scans to reveal nothing out of the ordinary. Though he loved to travel to exotic places such as Dubai, Abu Dhabi, and the south Pacific, a major drawback was the inability to bring his full spread of tech. Oh well; in a few years, a billion dollars would cure that problem, he thought smugly. He adjusted his Raybans upon his long nose. For the time being, he would need to make lemonade from particularly shitty lemons. As the Bowser Bitch had not taken care of the Morello problem, he was disinclined to deal with the Luigi and Daisy issue in a permanent fashion. Sipping his pomegranate juice and having more time to think, he had a better idea. Let Luigi have his moment in the sun; he still can't beat a billion dollars. Between the modest profit of War Rampage 3, a few new games in the works, and a few investments in electric cars and online shopping platforms, he had roughly nine digits in cash and his portfolio. Half of that could be used to buy the shop itself. Lucas snickered; he would literally own Luigi and his invention. As for the Amazon Queen, the anti-Zionist-crusader Dubai police would be more likely to believe that a Jewish woman would steal Saudi money for the International Zionist Conspiracy than a rich New York guy with almost as much in the bank as the prince. The Manhattanite giggled as he visualized the distraught face of a certain Brooklyn plumber watching his lover languish in some horrible Emirati prison. Maybe a few months of torture would change her mind about dating Luigi the Loser. Lucas stretched, then checked his watch. He would go to the police station after a leisurely lunch.

Swimming around the pool for another hour, he attempted to hit on a few Spanish girls on vacation. When he came up dateless, he decided to return to his suite. He made his way to the elevators and selected the top floor. Examining his misbehaving phone, Lucas failed to notice two burly guys in thousand-dollar suits – no tie – flank him from behind. As the elevator dinged, he was about to take a step inside when he was shoved forward and manhandled. One of the big guys jabbed at the button to close the doors while the other growled in a Jersey accent, "Say a fuckin' word, and I'll unscrew your head from your body!"

"What the fuck?!" yelled Lucas, who was met with a slap across the face.

The tall man quietened as they finished the elevator ride to the top floor. His captors forced the struggling man to his suite; yanking the keycard from his hands, the big guy on the left unlocked the door, shoved him to the marble flooring, allowed his companion to enter, and shut the entrance. The right-most man picked the flailing Lucas up like a ragdoll and slammed him into one of the chairs. Keycard Man waddled into the kitchen and, a moment later, came back with a large butcher knife.

"It's too fuckin' bad that they don't let us carry knives with us anymore. These fuckers," he gestured to the window and city below, "took care of that."

"Who the fuck are you and what do you want?" demanded Lucas.

The weaponless man crossed his thick arms. "Cut the shit, Kariolis! You fuckin' know why we're here! Our boss ain't very happy with you!"

Affixing an innocent look, the prisoner replied, "Is that supposed to scare me? I don't know even know who your boss is, nor do I work for said boss."

Keycard Man flicked the knife across the exposed skin of Lucas's torso, causing him to wince at the pain and blood. "Try again, you little shit."

"Alright, alright!" he cried, holding up his hands in surrender. "I'm workin' on getting Luigi and his girlfriend home! Tell Carlo that this was Jackie's idea!"

His last response earned him a second slash, and he shut his eyes against the pain. "That's not what you told the boss. You said you'd kill the little bastards."

Lucas slowly opened his eyes. They work for her. Relaxing and wiping the trickle of blood from his chest, he said, "I told the boss that I'd take care of it. In fact, I was going to do it after lunch. The Arabs take two hours at midday, so there'll be no one at the police station."

Mickey's grip on the knife tightened and Al looked at him skeptically. "Why the fuck are you callin' the cops?" the latter barked.

"Because I'm going to have Daisy thrown in jail. She's a Jew-bitch in hostile territory. And since she's actively fucking Luigi, to whom she is decidedly unmarried, they'll both face Emirati justice, or lack thereof. See? Easy. Everything's closed on Friday and Saturday, so that's why I couldn't do it before your arrival! No need for bloodshed!"

The two wiseguys looked at each other. "Yeah, bullshit. Why the fuck would they waste time on who's fuckin' who?" griped Al.

"Al, I read it in the guidebook. They actually take that shit seriously," affirmed Mickey, waving the knife instead of his hand.

Still keeping his hands up, Lucas asked, "Will that appease your boss? Hmm?" He smiled a little to placate the wiseguys, "I mean, c'mon; no work on your end. You can even spend a few days in Dubai, get some sun. New York's pretty dreary this time of year."

"Ey, fuck you!" barked Al. "We're from Morristown! And lemme tell ya: it's every bit as dreary as New York, you got that?!"

"Right …" he deadpanned. Jesus Titty-fucking Christ, do New Jerseyans suffer from Small Dick Syndrome. "Anyway, you guys must be tired. Go take a nap. I'll take care of the plumber and his piece of ass."

Mickey shook his head while pointing the knife at him. "Nah, I don't think so. We're gonna be like flies on your piles of shit – make sure you do what you promised. Our boss's expecting … results. And if he don't get 'em, well, we're the, uh, consultants come to terminate your employment." Al nodded in agreement. "You get what we're sayin', you little Greek shit?"

He? Lucas frowned; unless Lady Bowser underwent a sex change, there was a definite disconnect in their shared information. Was she working for the boss or was the boss working for her? "Yeah, I got it," he finally said. As these New Jersey wiseguys did not seem particularly intelligent, the Manhattanite decided to play them to find out the name of their so-called boss. Given that they were from some backwoods, shitkicker exit off the Turnpike, he knew that they were not Carlo Morano's guys. "Actually, the food here is pretty decent. Are you guys hungry? We might as well eat, as they're on lunch break until, like, two or three in the afternoon. My treat."

The wiseguys traded a look and shrugged. "We don't eat goat and hummus," growled Al.

Lucas stared at the two corpulent men before him. Are all wiseguys fucking stupid or just the Garden State variety? "Uh … lobster, steak, pasta? This is a five-star hotel, not a Bedouin tent, man."

Mickey pointed at him and added, "As long as they got tomatoes!"

The Manhattanite's look became even flatter. "I'm sure we can work something out."

Guiding the wiseguys to the dining room table, he placed a surf and turf lunch order with the private butler and kitchen staff, then proceeded to the shower to clean the drying blood from his chest and get dressed for his visit with the Dubai police. He soon exited the large bathroom to his bedroom to pick out a conservative grey suit, purple button-down shirt, and shiny Milanese shoes. Hurriedly dressing, the tall man re-entered the suite where the fat Italians were noshing on the bowl of fruit at the center of the table. At least it was fruit and not foot-long heroes, Lucas smugly noted. He then reached for his phone.

"Ey!" called out Al, his brown eyes glancing to the phone. "The fuck you think you're doin'?"

"Um, I'm a CEO of a gaming company. Bosses do have to work seven days a week. I'm sure your boss does. I have an important call from Beijing right now. It should only take fifteen, twenty minutes."

"Bullshit!" interjected Mickey. "Hey, we're not stupid. If you think you're gonna call the cops …"

"Uh, why the fuck would I call the cops, uh …" Lucas frowned pithily. "Sorry, what are your names? It's a bit rude to keep saying 'you' a million times, y'know."

Still playing with the knife, Mickey said, "I'm Mickey. He's Al. We'll leave it at that."

"Alright. Mickey, why the fuck would I call the cops? If I did, and your boss found out about it, then I'd be a dead man walking. And I kind of want to make it out alive." He pinched the fingers of his right-hand, "Just, y'know, a smidge. So, let me make my call." They narrowed their eyes, to which Lucas growled in exasperation, "If I miss this call, then very important people in Beijing will want to know why. That brings unnecessary oversight on you."

Al glanced uncertainly to Mickey whose skeptical glower did not relax at Lucas's words. "Aight, make your fuckin' call. But here."

The Manhattanite pretended to think. "Hmm, did you sign an NDA?"

"What the fuck's an NDA?" he demanded.

"A non-disclosure agreement. You'd be hearing sensitive information about their company as well as mine. If you didn't, well, I could go to Chinese jail, my man. And frankly, that scares me more than your knife skills."

Before Mickey could argue, Al interrupted, "Mick, I saw one of them National Geographics on Tibet. Those Chinese fuckers ain't kiddin' around. They shove electric rods up people's asses and cut your coglioni off."

A seemingly innocent Lucas shrugged, gesturing to Al with both hands. "Yeah, I'd actually like to keep my, uh, coglioni. Just call your boss, and have him give the okay."

"It's four in the fuckin' morning over there!" cried Mickey. "I ain't wakin' him up just to sign your fancy toilet paper. And frankly, I don't give a fuck if you go to jail or not. If you take the call, then do it here. You think I can't hide your worthless body? I've killed more well-known people than you. And they ain't been found yet!"

Well, it was worth a try. "Alright," responded the exasperated Manhattanite. "Don't hold me accountable for what you hear." Sitting down on one of the fuchsia-colored couches, he dialed a single key and put the phone to his ear.

A couple hundred miles away, a shyly-grinning, charcoal-suited Luigi concluded his responses to a rapid succession of questions from Mohammed's Omani engineering team. Having given a demonstration of the thermal device and presented the same slides, albeit with a few additional tweaks from the past week's data collection at NYU, he spent the following thirty minutes in an informal and mostly positive question and answer session, save an Indian electrical engineer who insisted on 'interrogating and correcting' him over every small detail. Daisy, who was dressed in a light green djellaba, matching headscarf, and a tan linen pants suit underneath, amusedly observed the scene. Despite the consistent, cherry-red pallor of her introverted and socially-anxious plumber, she was nonetheless proud of how far he had come since stammering at her in the bagel shop. Every so often, his blue orbs sought out her amber-colored ones, and she was taken back by the resulting sparkle of confidence, determination, and love contained therein. At the conference's end, a satisfied Mohammed and excited Ali suggested that they break for lunch. As Daisy helped a still shaking Luigi to collect his materials, the latter's phone rang. Both he and his lioness's eyes narrowed; it was far too early for either his uncle or brother to be calling. Checking the caller ID, Luigi's blue eyes widened and filled with rage. To Daisy's shock and the Emiratis' confusion, he angrily stepped away from them, answering, "What the fuck do you want?"

"Hey, man, just checking in on our little project," Lucas responded with a snicker that echoed on the speaker.

"Fuck you!" growled the plumber. "You fucking little prick! It's my device."

The tall man checked over his shoulder to see the New Jerseyans still grazing on the apples. "Yeah, we'll see about that. And say hi to your girlfriend for me. You've got to thank her for me – handing me that little gift. It'll be very useful, especially hanging your ass out to dry. Legally, of course."

As Mohammed, Ali, and Daisy observed the scene with growing alarm, the stunned and offended Luigi halted his pacing. "You … shitfaced motherfucker. You stay the hell away from her, do you hear me?!"

"Well, it won't be me, but rather, some of the, uh, local authorities. Not to mention my high-priced lawyers coming to sue you for breaking an NDA. Unless I can be persuaded."

"What the hell are you talking about?" yelled Luigi. "I never signed one of your NDAs. And as for the local authorities? I'm sure they'll love your ass!"

"Well, see, that NDA that your union signed to put you on the, uh, project also applies to their immediate subordinates – you. Judges don't split hairs when it comes to company policy. Thank the Supreme Court for that one."

Pink from anger, the plumber barked, "What do you want?"

The wiseguys began to watch their captive with more interest after hearing his barely-hidden threats. "Easy. Terminate your relationship with that little bitch! Now. Also, give me the fucking prototype and," he lowered his voice, "your current location. Leave business to the professionals and not … snotty, intellectually-inferior borough faggots who think they're hot shit abroad!"

Luigi smirked nastily. "Lucas, before I hang up, go fuck yourself with a rusty, jagged pipe. Oh, yeah, consider this the end of our fake friendship! It was just as fake and shitty as you are!" He quickly punched the end key and switched off the phone.

Lucas gaped at his home screen. "Tough business call, huh?" he heard Mickey remark between bites of banana. That motherfucker! How dare he?! He gave that street rat a purpose in life! Fine; if he wanted to prioritize a Brazilian Bitch over his generosity, then he'll rot in an Arab prison! And he would make sure that Daisy would be unrecognizable upon her releaseif that ever happened. A sly, sadistic smile passed over his features. He would so enjoy playing the weepy Good Samaritan with the Dubai police.


After Lucas's disturbing phone call, an alarmed Mohammed called for Jawed to drive them straightaway to the house. While on the way to the al-Ketbi residence, Daisy stroked Luigi's hair in a vain attempt to calm him, even as his fingers silently tremored for a cigarette. Although he refused to voice what exactly the Manhattanite had said, the lioness had caught part of the conversation, specifically his hissed warning to stay the hell away from her. Upon seeing the shaking man, Huda ordered their servants to make some Moroccan mint tea and mezze. Ali and Daisy followed the distraught plumber outside to the courtyard; once under a thick grove of palm trees, he began to pace agitatedly. Abruptly, Mohammed walked past them, a small crimson box in his right hand. Turning to Ali and Daisy, he signaled to his son to leave them. The younger man obeyed, gently guiding a hesitant Daisy inside the house. Mohammed coolly waited for Luigi to make eye contact with him before offering a cigarette from the crimson box. The desperate plumber gave into the vice, both thanking him and whispering an apology to Daisy, as the Emirati flicked a mother of pearl lighter to light the end. He then lit his own cigarette and took a drag.

"My wife does not agree," stated Mohammed. "But sometimes, a man needs smoke. If we cannot drink, then we smoke."

Removing the cigarette from his lips and dropping the ashes on the concrete, Luigi laughed. "Mine, either. Daisy will probably be pissed at me."

The Arab chuckled in response. They smoked in silence for several minutes; despite feeling some guilt over breaking his promise to Daisy to refrain from the habit, he felt a little lighter from the ever-present burning in his stomach. As the older, goateed man put out the cigarette butt, he advised, "Come, we eat. Saudi Consulate opens in two hours. Prince Abdulaziz said visas will be ready by then, in sha Allah. Leave the evil man to Allah, Abu Yusuf."

They went back indoors; Luigi excused himself to the guest bathroom to brush his teeth and floss. He reappeared five minutes later, his mouth freshly cleaned, his shirt changed, and his blue eyes carrying a guilt-ridden glint. Though she was aware of what had transpired, Daisy did not castigate her lover, knowing that, without the more positive vents of therapy or a good bike ride, his anxiety would continue to build negatively, and Lucas would use it against them all. Instead, she made sure that he ate well and sipped his sugary tea. Lunch was a quiet affair; the household, save Huda, Mohammed, and Ali, had flown back to Dubai and Abu Dhabi either the previous evening or earlier that morning. The Emirati made serious conversation with his wife who expressed a certain amount of displeasure in their native tongue. Even though Daisy could not follow much of it, she did understand that the woman was upset at Prince Abdulaziz's 'request' that they visit him in Riyadh. Whereas she wore the abaya and hijab in public and in Luigi's presence, Huda made her dislike for the niqab known by dismissing it in Englishas un-Islamic and barbaric. The Brazilian woman did not disagree with her; it seemed too easy to make women responsible for some men's inability to keep it in their pants. Toward the end of lunch and before their appointment at the consulate, Luigi reached over to squeeze her hand in his, as if to apologize for putting her at risk again.

Just after three o'clock in the afternoon, Mohammed received a call from the Saudi Consulate that they were ready to complete the expedited visa process, courtesy of His Royal Highness. Ali drove the foreigners to the consulate where they were asked to fill out a form in English, present two passport-sized photos, which they had taken prior to Luigi's demonstration, and passports. Much to her internal indignation, the Saudi official demanded that, as a condition of entry, Daisy have a mahram – a male guardian – with her at all times. Ali interjected to say that Luigi was her mahram as her husband. However, the former became nervous when the official requested official proof of marriage. Inwardly reciting a Hail Mary, Luigi explained that the official marriage certificate had not yet arrived in the mail from the City of New York, but he had a photo of the temporary one, which he offered to the man. Though visibly unimpressed, the official responded that, for the short-term visa of two days, this would be acceptable; in the future, if they were to make a second application, they would require the certificate with apostille. Luigi was profuse with his apologies, but the man waived it off and continued with the evaluation. He asked Ali for the travel booking to and from Saudi Arabia, which he provided via a printed email from Prince Abdulaziz's office stating that they would be flown in his private plane to Riyadh and they would be exited one-way from Jeddah to John F. Kennedy International Airport on Tuesday morning. As they would leave the following day, the official provided them a coffee and asked them to wait. An hour later and right before closing time, the official handed them back their passports with their visas printed inside. The stunned Luigi and Daisy stared at the blue, pink, ivory, and sea-green document that read in English and Arabic: "Validity: 90 days. Muscat – Riyadh – Jeddah – New York. Number of Entries: One way. Duration of Stay: 2 days."

"Prince Abdulaziz and my father thought it prudent that you leave from Saudi Arabia to New York on Tuesday morning," Ali elucidated in the car on the way to a shopping mall near their house. "He'll fly you to Jeddah from Riyadh; I will escort you to the plane to New York, no problem. Given that phone call from Lucas at midday, it is inadvisable to return to UAE. And, well, Saudi Arabia's known for its … uh," he lowered his voice, "pissing matches with UAE officials. Lucas will be unable to follow you to Saudi."

Luigi blinked. "Wow, so … when do we leave tomorrow?"

Ali shrugged as he made a right turn toward the mall's entrance. "Probably around nine o'clock so that they can pray just after landing in Riyadh. Early enough to leave Muscat and meet Prince Abdulaziz at his home. We'll leave Riyadh later in the evening, around seven, so that we can get some sleep. I think your flight to New York leaves at just before six in the morning."

Curb-parking along the main doors, they strolled inside, where Ali guided them to a slightly upscale women's abaya store. He greeted the thirties-something attendant in Arabic and, verifying that she did not speak much English, explicated that Daisy would be taking a two-day business trip to Riyadh and needed an appropriate black abaya and niqab. Familiar with the conservative city's stringent rules on "women's modesty," she immediately gestured for Daisy to accompany her to the back of the boutique, passing by Emirati and Omani women's preferred style of silver-embroidered kimono and abayas for the plain black coat-like garments. Eyeballing her form and height, the woman selected a short-sleeved, black chiffon dress and a lightweight, black chiffon abaya with black and silver embroidery on the edge of the sleeves. Next, she plucked a long piece of matching-color material, a hair bonnet, a chest-length face mask, to which Luigi tried not to show dismay, and proffered them to Daisy for her inspection. Both Luigi and Ali took turns bartering with the shrewd Omani woman who relished in making her male clients sweat before agreeing upon one hundred-thirty American dollars, plus a few extra hair pins for the hijab. Smiling at Daisy's faintly embarrassed look, a nonchalant Luigi paid the woman, then jokingly whispered to his lioness that "it was her souvenir for the trip." They moved on to a men's clothing store, where Luigi bought another charcoal gray suit that thankfully did not need to be hemmed, a light silver dress shirt, and medium-gray tie. Finally, on the way back to the al-Ketbi compound, Ali stopped at a halwa shop to buy a present of Omani sweets for their Saudi host.

Averse to using their cellphones in case Lucas or the Dubai authorities attempted to track their whereabouts, Luigi sent an encrypted email in hex to ask Miles about the USB as well as to let him know of their impending departure on Tuesday, though he would forward flight details on Monday afternoon New York time. There was no way in desert hell that he would tell or put Miles in a position to be forced to tell Mario, Giuseppe, or even Salvatore of his impromptu adventure into Saudi Arabia. Not to mention one Harry Abravanel who would undoubtedly fly to New York to kick his sorry Italian ass. At around eight in the evening, per Mohammed's request and lack of objection from the uneasy Huda, Jawed picked up an order of a special Omani comfort food from a local restaurant in Qurum. Luigi and Daisy's expressions morphed from excited to perplexed when presented with a potato-chip sandwich. Ever the food purist, the plumber took a cautious bite; it resembled a creamy grilled cheese lined with hot sauce and spicy Doritos – only better. Deciding that it was not terrible, he began eating in earnest while watching his lioness contentedly bite into the fast food. By a little past midnight, the house had retired to bed, except Luigi, who had gone outside to the courtyard to get a bit of fresh, humid air. Daisy quietly came outside, wrapping her arms around his torso. Obscured by the night, he spun around to kiss her, running his hands along her curves. "Cat-face, I …"

She put her finger to his lips. "Io capisco, amore mio," she whispered. "And you've got courage to go to Riyadh, to stand up to Lucas, to do what's right."

"He … threatened you, cat-face. That's why I went pazzo earlier. You've got nothing to do with this, you …"

"Kerido," she began seriously, tilting his head so that he was forced to look at her, "he will threaten me, Mario, Giuseppe, anyone he can to manipulate you. But what he hates the most is that you've always been smarter and stronger. He wants to be you. What he talks about doing, you actually do, Luigi. No matter how much it scares you. Yesterday, you told me that you're just a plumber; you're not, though. And today, when you presented your invention and answered those questions, you showed that to the world." She leaned in to kiss him. "The world's now your oyster."

"I couldn't have done that without you, Daisy," he insisted, touching his nose to hers. "Before I met you, I hid from everyone. I was so … bored, no, drained! You helped me find that strength. That's why I'm so scared – I can't lose you."

Daisy flashed a toothy grin. "I think I told you that I go wherever I choose. I choose to go to Riyadh; I choose to stand by you. And because it's what I choose, I am not going anywhere."

He laid his forehead against hers and nodded. "When we get back to New York, I want us to date more. I don't want our relationship to be about my family's drama. We should be having fun, like yesterday at Wadi Shab. Every 'vacation' we've had has been fucked up by him and the Morellos."

"I am having fun," she insisted. "That being said, I know what you mean. I agree." Then she snickered evilly. "More soccer and baseball games, plumber."

"Jesus …" he snorted, shaking his head. "As long as we're not with the fucking Bleacher Creatures. And I'll even buy you a veggie dog." They continued to embrace for several moments, after which Luigi spoke again, "Kerido … are you afraid? You know … of this whole thing. Of me?"

His lioness became quiet, reflecting upon both the question and response. "I know this is dangerous. And I know … my father knows something's up. However, I have faith in you. I have faith in us, Luigi. You won't let me down. You haven't let me down." She gazed up to his astounded expression. Worried that she said the wrong thing, Daisy opened her mouth, only to feel his tender lips upon hers.


The next morning, Luigi woke up midway through the first prayer. As the Muslim occupants in the house addressed their Creator in Arabic, he quietly fell to his knees at the side of the bed, crossed himself, and recited a Latin prayer that Father Sal had taught him as a child whenever he would hide from the school bullies: "Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: tuque, Princeps militiae coelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude. Amen." He crossed himself once more, then rose from the floor to change into his running clothes, as he promised to meet Daisy for a quick jog before leaving for Muscat International Airport. While the house concluded the fajr, he and Daisy, who chose an ensemble covering her arms and legs, left a handwritten message to their guests that they would return for breakfast. She cajoled him to race her, giggling as he easily pushed by her with his long, muscular legs, until they were heaving from the exertion. The sweaty couple came back at the beginning of a medium-sized breakfast: flatbread, dates, a vegetable and cheese omelette, vegetarian and meat pakoras, orange juice, and black tea.

Afterward, Luigi and Daisy retreated to their respective bedrooms to shower and dress for the trip. Making sure that he had collected all of his belongings, the plumber, now vested in his black and gray suit, met Mohammed and Ali in the men's majlis, from which Jawed took his roller suitcase and backpack to the car. At around eight o'clock, they met Huda and Daisy, who had donned the black abaya and hijab, outside of the compound. Loading her luggage next to Luigi's and Ali's overnight bag, Jawed announced that he and the car were at their disposal. Giving his nod of approval, Mohammed helped Huda inside, followed by the foreigners, and Ali. The drive to the VIP Terminal took approximately forty minutes with traffic, though Ali was quick to assuage Luigi that the plane would wait for them. The check-in process was relatively straightforward; whereas the Emiratis were waived right through, Luigi and Daisy were given extra scrutiny due to their foreign passports and entry to Saudi Arabia. Verifying that Daisy was accompanied by her mahram, at which she barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes, they wished them a good flight to Riyadh. If Lucas's private jet was luxurious, Prince Abdulaziz's domestic jet was Air Force One: cream-colored Lazy-Boy seats, polished oak and marble tables and paneling, lush crimson carpets, and a snack bar with a variety of juices, viennoiseries, and fruit. A male flight attendant greeted them warmly in English and assured that hot coffee and tea would be served once they were in air. Withdrawing to his seat once the plane taxied toward the runway, the pilot broadcasted over the intercom in Arabic that they had received permission to depart, and the estimated time of arrival was 11:15 a.m. Luigi and Mohammed breathed a sigh of relief when the aircraft lifted off the pavement and into the Omani blue sky.

For the next two hours, as the plane zoomed over the western edge of Oman, Abu Dhabi, the Qatari coast, and into the tan dust of Arabia, the passengers enjoyed fresh juice, fruit, and hot coffee. Mohammed, Ali, and Luigi all engaged the private Internet connection to do work or check their emails. The latter received an encrypted message from Miles happily acknowledging the good news as well as warning him of an intercepted phone call between Douchebag and the Dubai police accusing Daisy of breaking into Prince Abdulaziz's bank accounts. Despite their well-funded administration, their security was complete garbage and he was able to see what they had done so far; even though they had opened an investigation, the lead detectives had done little else. Miles ended the brief missive by pleading with them to leave the Gulf as soon as humanely possible and that he would not tell either Mario or Giuseppe about the call until they were en route to NYC. In response, Luigi thanked him, though reiterated his request for an update on the USB, with which they would need to prove Lucas's culpability. Unobtrusively, he whispered to Daisy not to turn on her cellphone until they reached New York, as Douchebag had definitely gone to the Dubai authorities. She nodded once, attempting to hide the fresh streak of apprehension that spread throughout her body. Luigi had seen the faint gulp; he put his hand over hers, vowing in Italian, "I won't fail you."

Fifteen minutes prior to landing, the attendant requested that everyone take their seats. Luigi eased himself into the seat next to Daisy and looked out of the window to see the smog and urban sprawl of Riyadh over the tan-colored desert. Huda reluctantly fetched her niqab and, shooting a glare at her pouting husband, as if to say you owe me big time for this, secured the mask over her face by tying the straps in back. Daisy copied her movements; her remorseful lover watched as her face disappeared underneath the black fabric, leaving only her eyes visible. "Ti amo," he mouthed; her amber eyes sparkled in the same way when she smiled.

The aircraft touched down at one of King Khalid International Airport's VIP Terminals. There was a momentary wait to deplane, and the group was escorted to a private waiting room. Glancing into the terminal area, Luigi squinted in confusion as the security and immigration screening shut their windows. Ali reassured the New Yorker by saying that the midday dhuhr prayer was about to start. He and Daisy walked about the terminal to give Mohammed, Ali, and Huda privacy for the following fifteen minutes; gazing out into the desert, they lamented the lack of access to their cellphones. Reaching into her purse, Daisy removed a ten-dollar bill and volunteered to buy a throw away camera with which to take pictures. The terminal slowly came back to life, and the airport ambassador, accompanied by a man in a white thobe and red-checkered ghutra, welcomed them with a Asalaamu Aleikum. Switching to English for Luigi and Daisy's benefit, the ambassador described the expedited process: Mohammed, Huda, and Ali as Emirati citizens would be passed through first, as they are allowed unlimited entry into Saudi Arabia; Luigi and Daisy's passports would be verified for the visa, and they would answer a few simple questions. Leaving the man in the thobe with the Emiratis, he ushered the foreigners to the immigration clerk, addressed the man in Arabic, and handed him their passports. Scanning the Saudi visas, he first stamped Luigi's passport, then mumbled a question in the language, comparing it to the Brazilian document. The ambassador turned to Luigi and inquired in English, "Are you this woman's mahram?"

"Yes," spoke Luigi confidently. "I'm her husband. I have the marriage certificate from New York if you need it."

Having understood the plumber's answer, the immigration officer gave a short Leh and stamped Daisy's passport. The group passed by, voicing a short shukran to the officer, to join the Emiratis and Saudi-Iraqi who were waiting next to Luigi and Daisy's luggage. As Luigi thanked the staff member and bent down to collect their bags, the Saudi-Iraqi called out with a la la la. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I am Hamza, one of Prince Abdulaziz's man-servants. He sent me to greet you. Please." Collecting their luggage, he guided them out into the dry, yet cool November air of the Arabian desert. After gently placing the suitcases and Ali's overnight bag into the silver Cadillac's trunk, Hamza ambled to the front seat and helped Mohammed into the passenger side; closing the door, he moved to the rear door and gestured for the women to sit in the back row; finally, he signaled to Luigi and Ali to sit in the middle row. Driving away from the curb and merging to the freeway toward the city center, he began, "Ahlan wa Sa'hlan. Did you have a good trip to Riyadh? It's supposed to be sunny and thirty degrees."

"Yes, al-hamdu l'Allah, the trip was very good," answered Mohammed in halting English.

"Excellent," affirmed Hamza. "His Royal Highness thought that our American guests would appreciate a tour of the city. Then, in sha Allah, he would receive you for lunch."

"Um, sure, that would be great. If it's okay with Prince Abdulaziz," replied Luigi.

"Of course! I would also be happy to take any souvenir photographs for you. We will send them to you via email."

The plumber frowned in confusion as to why they would want to take pictures for them, but decided to go with the flow, as that tactic had served him well in the Gulf. "Sure, if that's no problem. I don't want to impose."

"No imposition. Please, you're our guests."

He forced a smile and nodded, which satisfied the driver. Ignoring the bumps, both Daisy and Luigi eyed the roadside and the bush-like trees that added a bit of green to the flat tan-colored landscape. As they approached the city center, the bush changed into groves of palm trees, bright blue exit signs written in Arabic and English, and a modern skyline in the haze. The freeway's surface became smoother and widened to accommodate heavy traffic and turnoffs for a variety of shops and streets. Contrary to American television, which tended to depict Riyadh and Saudi Arabia as a sparce collection of tents out in the desert, the road into Riyadh center resembled any major city in California or Florida: lines of palm trees, green bushes, major shopping malls, three- and four-star hotels, and skyscrapers. If Luigi had not noticed the exit signs in Arabic, he would have thought that he was driving into some unknown part of downtown Los Angeles. His eyes caught a tall, looped building.

"Ahead is the Kingdom Center," called out Hamza. "We can stop for a coffee and a picture if you'd like." At everyone's agreement, especially about coffee, he pulled into the valet parking. Allowing Mohammed to disembark first, the males second, and women last, the staff verified the car owner's VIP status and assisted them in entering the mall correctlythrough the gender-segregated doors. Hamza thanked them and led his party to the food court and a group of Saudi and Western-franchised cafés. To Luigi's internal relief, the Saudi chose the local fare; with Mohammed next to him, Hamza ordered six coffees and a basket of luqaimat. The plumber watched as Mohammed and Hamza argued over who would pay, with each man loudly pleading his case. While he was unable to understand what was being said, Mohammed eventually relented after going back and forth with him three times; given that it seemed so precise, he assumed that this was, in fact, cultural. The bill paid, they chose a booth in the "family section" – versus the "single men only" – of the food court.

As they sat down, each family at a separate table, and men on one side and women on the other, Luigi suddenly became alarmed at how Daisy and Huda would be able to drink and eat. Were women banned from public consumption of food? The counter signaled to Hamza that their coffee and treats were ready; he returned a moment later with a large tray of dark coffees and donut-like sweets. Distributing the coffee and sweets in order of age to the males, leaving Huda and Daisy to take some afterward, Hamza invited them to eat and drink before disappearing to the "single men only" section with his coffee. Luigi frowned again; what kind of host just leaves his guests? Uncomfortable from the "separate but equal" treatment of the women, the Brooklynite observed Huda as she subtly adjusted and brought the coffee underneath her niqab; although no one saw her face, the disappearance of the paper cup and the content look in her dark brown eyes implied that she was indeed able to partake. Only when Daisy successfully replicated what Huda had done and enjoyed both the coffee and the louqaimat did he relax and sip his own coffee.

Clandestinely, Ali removed his iPhone and, showing Luigi the device, snapped a picture of the meal. As Luigi was about to speak to them, he saw Mohammed's eyes vaguely expand and tap his son underneath the table. The younger man looked up and slowly set the phone down on the surface. Luigi's eyes moved toward the object of their anxious stares – two bearded men in white thobes and red-checkered ghutras who had stopped at his table.

"Assalamu Aleikum," greeted the rightmost man sternly, fixing his regard upon the obviously European man.

"Uh, Walaleikum assalaam," he stammered, unsure of the correct Arabic pronunciation.

"English?" he barked.

"Yeah, I speak English. Can, uh, I help you?" he inquired with his best 'I'm just a New Yorker' accent.

"Religion police. Papers!"

Minchia! Luigi began to sweat. Although he generally knew little about Saudi Arabia or the Persian Gulf, he had heard of the dreaded mutaween who were in charge of policing the population according to an extremist interpretation of Islam and were known to attack and arrest Saudis and foreigners for improper mingling of the sexes, even at the Aramco compounds where they were supposedly forbidden, receiving Catholic mass or worshipping as Shia in private, being a 'suspected Zionist,' casting black magical spells all the way from Lebanon, and celebrating Valentine's Day. About ten years prior, they proudly prevented a group of uncovered schoolgirls from fleeing a burning building; fifteen perished. Unilaterally loathed by the majority of Saudi Arabian youths as well as by other Muslims throughout the Middle East, their pathological bullying was nonetheless supported by Saudi right-wingers, and thus, they were allowed to evade inquiry over consistent abuses of power. He heard the man snarl the command with even less patience than before. Taking a deep breath to keep calm, he reached into his coat pocket and slid his American passport to the mutawa. Opening up the blue booklet, he briefly squinted at the international page, then quickly searched for the visa and name translation into Arabic. Eyeing the New Yorker's picture and his appropriate gray suit, he closed the passport, yet kept it in hand. "Who is she?" he demanded. "Papers!"

"She's my wife," he answered evenly. "It's alright, amore. You have your passport?" He glanced at the now frightened Daisy, who took out her Brazilian passport from her pocket and handed it to her lover. The latter slid it toward the Saudi who snatched it from his fingers. Repeating the same examination, he seemed almost disappointed upon reading on the visa that her husband was Luigi Gabriele Masciarelli – the same name in the American passport.

"Why is her passport from Brazil? You are Americans?" he rumbled.

"Yes," replied Luigi, still forcing the dopey smile with Riyadh's Fatwa Fucker. "She is Brazilian and American. Her father's Brazilian."

"Why she not use American passport?!"

The plumber inhaled deeply to avoid an outburst or a characteristically New York smartass comment about it being dry cleaned. Letting his soft eyes drop to calm his nervous lioness, he hissed in spite of his fake smile, "Because her passport's being renewed in New York. I don't know about Saudi Arabia, but our government's process is slow. It didn't arrive in time for our trip to Muscat. I'm on business. That's why I'm here. I was invited by High Royal Highness Prince Abdulaziz Mamdouh al-Sa'ud. In fact," he made a big show of checking his watch, "I'm supposed to meet him for lunch soon. I, uh, wouldn't want to disrespect him by arriving unfashionably late." Both mutaween's eyes widened at the name, yet remained quiet for the moment. "Look, guys, let me buy youse a coffee. It's a custom in my country – New York and Italy – to offer the police a regular. Huh?" Much to the collective incredulity of Daisy and the Emiratis, he calmly walked up to the counter and ordered two small espresso shots. Curious, the mutaween followed the American, who paid for and handed them the small cups. Exchanging an astounded look, they accepted the drink, muttering a shukran. Mohammed, who had stood to intervene, Ali, Huda, and the recently arrived Hamza gaped at the scene; the mutawa wordlessly returned the passports to Luigi. Then mumbling a ma'asalaama, they ambled out of the café's family section.

Now out of danger, Luigi's body slackened like a untied cord, and his relieved eyes met the proud, gratified orbs of his Daisy.