Author's notes: Wow, thanks to everyone for the multiple reviews, likes, and follows of the story! They mean a lot, especially as we are more or less at its climax and heading toward the end. (But perhaps not ;) Several of you have asked for a sequel. If this is your wish, let me know in the comments, if you haven't already.)

A general warning for the next couple of chapters: the rating will temporarily increase to a low-level Mature for language and violence. While there is nothing graphic in the chapter, there is a scene involving torture (first 1400 words) that readers may find distressing. If you're concerned, PM me, and I'll give you a synopsis. Again, I've taken great care NOT to be graphic or sexual, so it's nothing worse than a scene from North American television.


Chapter 53: The Ronin of Brooklyn

Following a quiet afternoon tea with bread, chocolate butter, and spice cookies, the four men rose from their chairs. The green-hoodied man attempted to pay for the four of them, but Alexei wordlessly shook his head, knowing better than to exchange money – guest or host – with them. Exiting the Vasilisa and finding himself flanked from all sides by the burly Russians, the American man meekly obeyed Alek's suggestion that they go for a drive. One of his men opened the rear passenger door of a black BMW and gestured for their guest to get into the back seat; once sandwiched between two of the men, they yanked his hoodie down from his head and shoved a black hood over his face. From the front passenger seat, he heard Alek say in English, "You will with us go to our boss." As his heart began to thud against his ribcage, the car sped off; over the next fifteen minutes, the thieves conversed with each other and occasionally communicating with their captive in English and Russian. Throughout the ride, Luigi visualized his beautiful lioness in an effort to prevent a panic attack. As he bit his lip to keep from crying out, the car came to a gentle halt. He heard the doors open and, still hooded, felt his seatbelt being unbuckled and his body being hauled to its feet. Two men then guided him into some sort of building and down a steep flight of stairs. Positioning him in a wooden chair, they pulled off the black hood and, much to his alarm, yanked his green hoodie roughly over his head to leave him in a gray tee-shirt. Next, they restrained his arms behind the chair and ankles against the legs. They backed away, leaving him to examine his new surroundings – an empty, damp basement with cement floors. The ominous smell of bleach assaulted his olfactory senses.

A heavy-set, dark blond-haired man and a medium-sized blonde woman appeared before him. Both were dressed in thousand-dollar suits and several-hundred-dollar Italian shoes. "Здравствуйте," greeted the man in Russian.

"З-З-Здравствуйте," stammered the captive.

"Well, well, well …" began the woman in unaccented English, "it appears that skinny shit fucked up and let you escape Dubai. Never send a boy to do a man's job. As for you, I can't decide whether you're fucking stupid or insane." She sauntered over to him and lowered her cold blue eyes to just above his, "Cousin Luigi." He stayed quiet. "Speak, you little shit!"

"Polina Yakovna," he began softly, "I've come to give myself up. I have no interest in the Moranos or the Rigassis."

Her eyes flickered an unknown emotion, yet she maintained a stony expression. "Then why didn't you just die in Dubai?"

"Because your … associate threatened my girlfriend. Now that she's presumably safe, I'm done."

She incredulously turned toward her companion, Sergei, then twisted her body and arm toward the seated man, and a heavy, high-pitched slap sounded throughout the room. Luigi winced at the pain along the left side of his face. "That was a mistake, you cowardly piece of shit! But I'll make sure to finish the job!" Leaning into his right ear, she hissed, "I'm going to drain your worthless body of every drop of Rigassi and Campisi blood. I'll bathe in it!"

Despite his body tremoring in fear, he nodded. "Do what you gotta do."

With a gruesome smile, she produced a sharp, military-grade knife. Grabbing his hair to pull his head back and expose his neck, she put the blade to his artery. He closed his eyes and mentally said his I-love-you-forevers to Daisy, Mario, Uncle Joe, and the rest of his loved ones. Preparing for the end, he started to inhale deeply when he heard the Russian man bark at Polina to stop. He heard the woman argue with him before yanking his head forward and stepping back. "It is … interesting, Luigi Mariovich, that you come now. Why?" the man suddenly inquired in English.

Slowly opening his blue eyes, Luigi took several deep breaths to remain calm. "I … I know Jackie and Tommy are dead. I haven't a clue about the others. But … I don't want this war between the Italians and Russians to harm my family. If my death stops that, well, it's a price I'm willing to pay."

"Where your boss, Pete Morello?" demanded the mobster.

He shook his head. "I don't know. Last I heard, he disappeared while I was in Germany."

Unsatisfied with the young man's answer, he tilted his head at Alek and the two other Russians, who were observing quietly behind him. One of them moved toward the plumber, pushed up his shirt and ripped off his shoes and socks to expose his torso and feet. Another man took a bucket of water and splashed it onto his skin. Alek came up to him with a black rod in hand and touched the end to his chest. The first shock caused Luigi to shriek and bend unnaturally against and off the chair seat. "Pete Morello!" commanded the man once more.

"I don't know!"

Alek shocked him again, this time on his feet; the electricity seemed to travel up his legs, into his sensitive areas, and exit through his eyeballs. Polina watched the sight with a chilly satisfaction. "Don't fuck around, boy!" yelled Sergei. "Pete Morello!"

"I don't know! He disappeared!"

Luigi swore the third and fourth shocks stopped his heart. After the fifth time, he no longer felt excruciating pain; instead, he found himself sitting in Daisy's Park Slope studio, the smells of delivery pizza and red wine permeating the air. His barely-clothed lioness entered his line of vision and leapt into his lap. Sharing a passionate kiss, she laid her forehead against his and purred, "Kerido, I'll always be with you." He grinned, uncaring in that moment that he had died; he was now in heaven.

The ice-cold water brought him back to Russian hell. Stunned at the interruption and angered at being torn from his lover, he growled, "F-f-fuck! I don't know where the fuck … Pete Morello is! And even if I knew, I sure as hell wouldn't tell you!" He began to laugh hysterically, which made the Russians blink in surprise. "See, I'm okay with being a martyr. Let's see how New York handles the murder of an innocent! The son of a FDNY lieutenant who died on 9/11! Huh?! You, Pete Morello, Carlo Morano took away my life, even before I was born! I was born to die. So go ahead! If I can't live as I want, then go fuck yourselves on my last screw-you train!"

The Russian men, stupefied, froze, unsure of how to react to the American's invective. Polina, however, bit her lip in ire. "I'm sure we can persuade you. Daisy may be more accommodating," she spat.

Luigi's blue eyes immediately morphed into black, serpent-like points that crackled electricity. "G'head and try it, honey. See, I can tell you're a brainless bitch – like your bigamist, psycho husband! Daisy Abravanel is the only daughter of a high-powered Manhattan and San Francisco lawyer! See, I know that may not scare youse – you've probably gotten away with killing more important people in Russia. However …" Chuckling, he leaned his shoulders toward the red-faced woman as if to tell her a secret, "She's Israeli. Her stepmother's IDF. At least on the surface, if you know what I mean." Sergei and Alek looked at each other, and Luigi inwardly snickered in triumph as a flicker of hesitancy passed between them. Winking for effect, he went on, "Oh, do fucking check. Not to mention the little other thing about her mother's family. Hong Kong shipping magnates. At least, that's what they call themselves. I believe – or what my old friend Mark used to tell me – even the Bratva and LCN won't fuck with those two groups. But пожалуйста: if you want some pissed off Israeli commandos or, uh, triads to visit you in the middle of night, well, fuck around and find out."

"You're bullshitting!" she accused.

"Am I?" the captive asked evenly. Facing Sergei and Alek, he shrugged as much as was possible in his restraints and spoke in Russian, "Eh, fuck this bitch. You can continue."

An irate Polina grabbed the electric baton from the gangster's hand. Delivering the ninth shock to his sternum, she was about to jam the tenth into the grunting man's lap when one of the men disarmed her, then stepped aside to allow his boss to slap her across the face. "Woman, do not forget your place!" Sergei bellowed. She stood immobile, clutching her cheek. Certain that the woman would not interfere further, he calmly turned to the heaving plumber. "Luigi Mariovich, how did you learn Russian?"

Summoning his last bit of strength, he rasped, "I … I studied it in high school. Staten Island Technical High. It's a Russian magnet school. I wasn't very good; all I … learned was … how to order food."

"I know this school. It's a very good academy. One of the elite schools, no?"

"Yeah."

He nodded, mulling it over in his mind. After a few moments of silence, he resumed the conversation in English, "You intelligent. Not like Kariolis or Tony Morano. You're also man to face us. I heard you make deal to do engineering project. Is that true?"

"Yeah, it's true."

"You good at maths, I understand."

He shrugged again. "I'm a plumber. I … can't be too good at it."

"On the contrary," he refuted in Russian while glancing at Polina. "It has been suggested that you're weak. But I think this is not true. Not even Carlo Morano has invited his esteemed Russian colleagues for tea." Alek pushed the hostile blonde aside and, taking his men and the baton with him, retreated to his former position. "I can see why he values you. But that poses a problem for us."

"So kill me already," responded Luigi in English, not knowing the Russian words to express himself.

"That the problem," said Sergei. "You powerful but …" Slightly annoyed with his inability to communicate in English, he snapped at Polina to translate his phrasing precisely.

"You're intelligent and full of potential, but you are just an associate. And an unwilling one at that," interpreted the woman, who huffed her reluctance. "And we don't want trouble for killing an innocent American boy." The mafiosi gave a satisfied nod. He spoke again in fluent Russian for several seconds and waited for her to render the equivalent in English. "You're more useful to us alive. On one hand, you're Carlo Morano's great-nephew; he'll give up Morello and whomever else for you. Like us, he does not want the trouble of having to explain your death. On the other hand, you have potential – strength. Unlike the Italians, we reward loyalty and intelligence. For now, you'll remain our guest."

"How kind," the plumber deadpanned.

Leaving their prisoner tied to the chair, the gangsters quietly left the basement. As Alek and his men stayed at the door to stand guard, Polina and Sergei ascended the staircase; instead of taking the door to the outside, they climbed another, shorter flight of stairs to a small kitchen. The woman went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bag of ice to put on her face. Sergei gave her a brief, yet concerned look. "Are you alright, Polya?" he inquired in Russian.

"I'll need extra makeup for a few days, but no matter; it served a purpose." Still holding the ice to her face, she sat across from the older man. "That skinny prick clearly underestimated his puppy dog. Once his father retrieves him, I want to teach him a proper lesson in humility."

Reaching for a couple glasses and the bottle of cucumber-flavored vodka, he nodded in agreement. "Take this; it'll help to dull the sting. На здоровье." He poured them each a glass, which she gratefully took and rejoiced in the burn. He swallowed the clear liquid in kind.

"As for the puppy dog, we'll use him to lure Morello out of hiding. Then take the rest out. After that, we'll see."

Sergei shrugged a little. "He could be useful to us. Our contact has verified his mathematical and engineering talents. Lucas has even confirmed them. The Vor appreciates genius; he regularly recruits from Moscow State University. If the boy is truthful about having little interest in the Italians, then perhaps we can foster his true potential."

She stared at a point on the wall, reflecting on the previous hour's events. "Perhaps. He has changed since my husband was hired to kill him as a child. He's not hiding behind his pissant brother anymore. That said, I'm not convinced that he's completely apathetic. He's the son of Jumpman, after all. Right now, though, he's good bait for a large fish. We can always kill him if he proves disappointing."

The Russian mobster smiled a little. "You have done the family proud. Pity that you're a woman."

Even though Polina smirked, her blue orbs turned icy and resentful at the reminder of what she could never be. Both her gender and imperfect heritage excluded her from membership in both the Cosa Nostra and the Bratva. For the Americans, she was the illicit product of an extramarital affair between one of their capos, who never acknowledged parentage, and a Belarusian ballet dancer. For the Bratva, aside from being a strictly male institution, once inducted, mobsters could no longer associate with their family of origin. Despite descending from an illustrious line of Minsk-based criminals, Irina Lepeshinskaya, née Shereshevskya, had been effectively orphaned by her father, uncles, cousins, and brothers – save one. Her older brother, Sergei Moiseyevich Shereshevsky, nicknamed "The Turtle," kept a low-key presence in his sister's life. Following Irina's murder in 1985, he intervened and used a proxy to raise his niece. Having instructed her in the arts of seduction, extortion, fraud, and even assassination, they put into place a decades-long scheme to exact revenge on the Moranos: first, by marrying the psychopathic Marco Bowser, whom Polina had serendipitously grown to love; second, by gaining the trust of their insider within the Morano crew via a series of unsolved murders; third, by seducing and killing the daughter of the Signore Venier for money; fourth, by enlisting the assistance of George Kariolis, which took eight solid years of business deals and, in her case, sexual trysts. Pleased with her money-laundering and other illegal investments via the Greek arms dealer, the Vor approved the Shereshevskys' vendetta against the Moranos, so long as he collected the spoils of the war.

Pouring a second glass of the vodka for each of them, she finally answered, "Now, we should contact our people on the street to get those Morano cowards out of their rathole."


Mario, closely followed by Pete Morello and Salvatore Rigassi, filed into the Koopa Bar. On a weekday in the mid-afternoon, the bar was typically empty, save one or two regular drunks who needed a quick fix. At the counter was Bowser's eldest son, Ryan, who was stocking a few bottles on the dimly-lit rear shelves. Once he had completed his task, he directed his attention to the floor, doing a double-take at Mario and the two older gentlemen who taking a seat in one of the central booths. His respiration becoming shallower in fright, Ryan walked up to the serious-looking plumber and two guests, one of whom he recognized as Father Rigassi. "Uh, hi, uh, Mario," he started sheepishly. "D-Dad's not in. I guess he hurt his back from, well in his words, 'occupational hazards.' C-Could I get you something?"

Both Salvatore and Pete bit their lips and lowered their gaze to keep from laughing at the young man's words. Mario, however, was nonplussed. "Yo, Junior, your fuckin' piece of shit father kept you from school to run his dive? You're not even twenty-one!"

Ryan narrowed his eyes. "Hey! I'm in college! Unlike my peers who're having trouble finding a job, I can at least work without begging for financial aid!"

"Whatever, kid. See, here's the thing," the plumber leaned in menacingly, "I got these guys with me. Father Rigassi, you know. But may I introduce you, to uh," he looked over to the still pink-faced Denverite who gestured his consent, "Pete Morello. I'm sure you've heard that name around."

The younger redhead's face blanched. "Uh, yeah, I've, uh, I've heard of him."

"Bene. Well, first, I'd like you to serve these men some lunch. Burger, some shit, I dunno. While we eat, you call your boss's boss and tell him to get his fat ass over here."

Trembling, Ryan stuttered, "I-I-I c-c-can tell the c-cook to get you each a p-plate, but I don't know w-who you're t-t-talking about."

"Cut the shit, kid!" growled Mario. "If you wanna work in this shithole, then you gotta learn the rules. If your poor, sweet Papa's nursin' his fuckin' 'occupational hazards,' then you gotta man up and do it. It ain't gonna affect you, aight?"

Inhaling deeply to man up, the young Bowser gave a single, faint nod. "Alright. I'll, uh, call you-know-who. Burgers and fries should be out in about fifteen or twenty."

"Thank you."

As Ryan jogged away from their table to put in the order with the cook and to phone the co-owner of the Koopa Bar, Pete and Salvatore exchanged a glance before bursting into harsh snickers and laughs. "Occupational hazard? God, what a prick!" snorted Pete as he wiped a tear from his right eye.

The plumber shook his head. "Jesus, do I even want to know?"

Sal mouthed a no between giggle fits. "It might be an occupational hazard!" He and Pete descended into a fresh round of glee.

"Jesus fuckin' …" Mario left the exclamation unfinished. "I didn't know wiseguys acted like high-school ragazze!"

Pete threw him a crooked smile. "Occupational hazard." His cousin succumbed to another giggle fit. Rolling his eyes, the portly man grumbled in Italian about old guys in the Mafia. "Poor kid," the Denver capo uttered a few minutes afterward, breaking the silence, "probably shit himself."

"Eh, don't be too hard on him, Pete," replied Sal. "He's going to college and is trying not to be like his dad. His mother isn't exactly a role model, either. But we all fall short in the eyes of the Lord."

At around the fifteen-minute mark, the timid Ryan carefully balanced two hot plates of cheeseburgers and thick-cut French fries. Mario directed the plates to Pete and Sal; Ryan quickly went back to the kitchen and returned with the third, setting the last plate in front of him. The plumber looked at him expectantly, to which the young redhead stuttered, "Uh, is there a-a-anything else I can get?"

"Yeah. Three things. First, uh," he turned to the Sicilians, "what do youse want to drink?"

"You got an IPA?" asked Pete. Sal shook his head to indicate that he did not want anything special.

"Aight, your best IPA for Pete here, water for Sal, and I'll have a coke. Second, where's the fuckin' ketchup? And third, when's that fuck getting here?"

"Uh … I'll, um, bring out your drinks and the Heinz. As for the boss, he said he'd be here. He didn't say when." Before Mario could inquire further, Bowser Junior scampered to the bar, unwilling to engage him at that moment. Waiting somewhat patiently, the plumber watched as the young man fetched a bottle of locally-brewed IPA from one of the small coolers, carefully opened it, and set it on the counter; next, he filled two glasses with ice, one with water and the other with Coca-Cola; he picked them up and carried the drinks to his guests. After asking Pete if he wanted a glass, to which he politely declined, he made a third trip for Mario's ketchup bottle. "Uh, I'll be at the bar if you need anything else," mumbled Ryan.

Pete dropped his cloth napkin in his lap as Salvatore crossed himself to pray over his food and Mario tapped out a pond of ketchup on his plate. The Denverite wrinkled his nose at the vinegary smell and proffered, "Uh, malt vinegar or barbeque sauce with French fries is actually pretty tasty."

The Brooklyn plumber, licking excess ketchup from his fingers, stared at his elder cousin. "That's disgusting. Why the fuck would you do that to perfectly decent fries? Do all you fuckin' people in Denver live in a barn?"

He was about to retort when the glass door swung open to reveal three men in dark business suits. Mario twisted his head over his shoulder to see who was entering: the first two men – the Hammer Brothers – in black suits and silver dress shirts, followed by Fat Tony in a black suit and mustard-colored shirt. Pete's eyes became glacial at the sight of Tony Morano; Salvatore and Mario waited patiently for them to approach their booth.

"Mario, I heard you was looking for me," began Fat Tony. "Initially, I was a little annoyed, given that I'm helping Ma plan a funeral." Glaring at Pete who was sipping his beer and looking straight ahead, he then added, "But when I heard you, uh, were having a little family dinner, it brightened my day."

The Hammer Brothers loomed over the Denverite when, taking another sip, the latter growled, "Touch me, and your balls will be in pieces."

From the bar, Ryan observed the scene nervously, eyeing his iPhone and debating on whether to call the cops.

"'Ey! Take it easy, huh? Let's sit down and talk about this, aight? I think you might want to hear what Cousin Pete has to say," Mario said in an attempt to de-escalate the situation. "Hey, Ryan – it's on me. Get these gentlemen somethin'. Whatya want, Tony?"

Tony eyed Pete heatedly for a moment before replying, "Get me a bottle of black-label whisky and a plate like Mario's. Glass, too." Ryan mumbled a yessir while one of the brothers brought a chair for Tony to sit at the makeshift head of the table. They waited to resume eating until the young bartender set out the whisky bottle and poured a little into the glass. The corpulent mafioso picked it up, studying the contents. "I thought it appropriate; it was my father's favorite." Without taking his burning brown orbs from the collected Morello, he downed it in one go. "So, what the fuck do I need to hear?"

"Aight, Tony," started his second cousin, "we got a bad situation all around here. And it ain't what it looks like. Now, I don't know the extent of the bad blood between you and Pete. Frankly, it isn't my business. However, he didn't kill your father and uncle."

Slipping out a Cuban cigar from his pocket and lighting it, he casually responded, "Oh?"

Mario turned to Pete, who stated matter-of-factly, "Tony, it's no secret that your father and I didn't get along. It's also no secret that … I was making a run for the administration. So was he. But I didn't take that money and I didn't kill your father. I swear on my oath and my son's life."

The obese wiseguy poured another glassful of whisky. "Hmm. And, of course, you come to me … after I put a million bucks on your Rocky Mountain faggot ass. Thanks for saving me denaro – I'll happily kill you right here, right now."

Stevie, the second of the Hammer Brothers, whipped out his Sig Sauer and pointed it at Pete Morello's head.

"Woah, woah, take it easy!" shouted Mario. "Are you really gonna kill him with us – Salvatore and I – as witnesses?! Or Ryan?!"

"You motherfuckers hid him!" bellowed Tony. "That's treason!"

"Antonio, I hid him!" interjected Sal. "I hid him because I believed Pete to be innocent! Because you – we – are getting played!" The corpulent man in mustard yellow puffed a plume of smoke in Sal's direction, waiting for him to elaborate. "Do you know Polina Lepeshinski?" He regarded the priest passively, betraying no flicker of emotion or recognition. "Polina Lepeshinski is … Marco Bowser's first wife. He married Cristina bigamously. That part, you probably know. But I don't know … if you know this next part. As a priest, I'm … reluctant to speak ill of the dead," he whispered, crossing himself, "but this is pertinent to why I believe Pete is innocent. She – Polina – is your half-sister. Your father had a mistress, back when Pete, Joe, and I … ran with Jackie. Her name was Irina Lepeshinski. At the time, neither Pete nor I knew about Polina's existence. Not until … John got threatened by her this summer. And then we, uh, ran across some very disturbing evidence that she's been working with Lucas Kariolis."

Tony puffed some more on the cigar, then laughed harshly. "Yeah, I know who that slut Nina Lepeshinski was. Ma and Papa used to go nine fuckin' rounds at home about that woman. But that bitch died in '85, I think. No kids. So you're full of shit. No offense, Padre."

"It's true, Tony," echoed the plumber. "Remember what Sam said about the proof? At our sit-down with your nonno?"

"Yeah, and?"

"We got a recording of her talkin' with your fuckin' associate, Lucas Kariolis, about killing my brother and his girlfriend! Killing them in Dubai! So yeah, asshole, she fuckin' exists!" Tony's eyes grew as rotund as his body, and he poured himself another shot. "Now, I don't know what the fuck youse were doing, but we got Luigi and Daisy home!" Mario watched his cousin choke on the alcohol.

"Wait, what the fuck?!" demanded the mafioso. "Your kid brother and the broad made it back? When?!"

Sal, Pete, and Mario exchanged a now worried look. "You didn't know that Luigi had returned, did you, Antonio?" inquired the priest.

"No! I … The Padrino sent a few guys to the Middle East last Thursday. But … we lost contact with 'em. We were gonna send another team, find out what the fuck happened, when …"

"Someone whacked Jackie and Tommy," finished Pete.

Tony nodded. "Yeah. We thought it was you."

"It wasn't," denied the Denverite. "I'll admit, I thought about whacking him. Several times. But I didn't do it."

Taking a gulp of whisky, Mario swore he heard the fat man mutter under his breath, "You're not the only one." Silence fell upon the group for several seconds. The plumber took the opportunity to bite into his cheeseburger as Tony snatched a few fries off his plate. "Let me hear the recording, Mario."

Taking out his iPhone from his red hoodie pocket, he set it on the tabletop near his second cousin and played it from start to finish. The mafioso smoked his cigar, remaining impassive throughout the conversation between Polina and Lucas Kariolis, even during their explicit intention to kill Pete Morello and humiliate the Moranos.

"Tony, Weegie's missing again," rasped the plumber. "If he ain't with you, then …"

Chewing more of Mario's fries with his mouth open, much to Pete's and Sal's disgust, the wiseguy questioned, "I thought you said he'd made it back?"

"He did. Only he took off from Peach's place. Left us a note not to follow him. We thought … maybe he went to you, to see Carlo."

Ryan gently muttered an excuse-me, setting Tony's burger and fries in front of him. Waving a thank-you to his bartender's son, he set the cigar down and dipped one of his fries into the puddle of ketchup on Mario's plate. "Not even I know where the fuck Junior and Carlo are."

"And what about that Greek motherfucker, George Kariolis?" enjoined Pete. "We think he's Polina's moneybags."

He shook his head. "He's an arrogant fuck – Papa's idea, not mine. Papa also told me to associate with that fuckin' skinny cocksucker." Grimacing between bites, Tony hissed, "Somehow, I'm not surprised that he's a backstabbing cock. Whole family of Greek asshole cocksuckers." Taking in a mouthful of the meat and cheese, he chewed his snack in unvoiced wrath.

"Look, Tony," Pete spoke quietly, "all I want now is Luigi's safety. He didn't screw us over. He went to Saudi Arabia both to protect Daisy and to gain the trust of some very important contacts over there. Seven figures. He got 'em. He did what Carlo asked him to do, what I hoped he'd be capable of doing. It was Lucas who tried to prevent that!"

Tony did not acknowledge the capo's words. He continued to scarf down his burger, even as Mario and Salvatore glared at him.

"You fuckin' sn…"

"Basta, you fat Abruzzese fuck. I heard him," he retorted while swallowing his food. "And where's Luigi's broad?"

"She's with her father, Antonio."

Wiping his mouth with his thousand-dollar sleeve, the wiseguy nodded. "Well, I need to look into going to the Middle East for a few." At the men's frowns of confusion, he clarified with a snicker, "Whatever they put in the water over there makes a guy's coglioni grow as big as pompelmi." Mario managed a weak smile. "I don't know where Nonno and Junior are. I would hope Lou's with them. 'Cause if he's not," he glanced hesitantly at his second cousin, "the Russians are … notorious." Smoking the last bit of the cigar, he asked, "How far are youse willing to go?"

Without hesitation, Pete responded, "All the fucking way."

He nodded again. "Bene." He put the stump out on the table. "What about you, Padre? Pete and Mario got a reason. You ain't in the life anymore. Like a ghost, you've moved between worlds whenever you want."

Salvatore fixed his dark brown eyes upon his cousin. "I'm in. Luigi is my nephew, the youngest child of my sister and Jumpman."

"He's also the adopted son of your childhood friend, Giuseppe." Tony met his gaze. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes, that's true."

Tony poured himself a final shot of whisky. "The funeral's on Saturday morning. Massapequa. I'd like Salvatore and Giuseppe to be there – if he's well enough. Pete, I'll keep the hit out on you as a pretense, otherwise, they'll know something's up. Those Russky fucks will contact us if they've got Luigi. They're gonna want to trade him for you."

The capo shrugged. "I'm game. Fuck 'em."

"Bene. If we do hear somethin', Mario, be prepared." Rising from his chair and taking his plate with him, he tottered toward the exit. "Buonasera. We'll be in touch." His henchmen followed their boss soon after.

"Perfect execution, gentlemen," congratulated Salvatore, who nibbled on his now tepid burger. "Come il cacio sui maccheroni."

Pete raised his beer bottle to his cousins and sipped the alcohol. "Hmm. For being East Coast shit, this IPA isn't so bad."

"Okay, what the fuck just happened?" the plumber inquired, drinking a little of his watered-down cola.

The former mafioso wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin. "We got a little information out of him. He got something from us. Pete's gonna play the time-honored game of bait-and-switch while Tony does his thing. He's also lying about Carlo and Junior's whereabouts. Hence why he's telling you to be prepared. He already knew that Luigi wasn't with them, which means …"

Mario's skin blanched and his lips parted in horror. "He's with the Russians."

Pete gave a single, tremoring nod. "Yeah."

Pushing his plate away from him, he then demanded, "Then why the fuck are we eating? And why the motherfuck did Weegie not go to Carlo?!"

"Easy, niputi, easy," soothed the priest. "The last thing we need is to lose our heads. It's interesting that … Tony didn't ask about Polina's insider. Like us, he had to have known that someone was working with her. My guess is that Tony's hoping that Joe's and my presence at the funeral will rattle the old players enough to … get a confession."

"What about Lucia?"

Salvatore shrugged. "Joe's call. But to save Luigi, I'd wager that even she would agree."

The plumber wiped his mustache and, cursing in Italian, gazed toward the bar, though not directly at Ryan. He felt the cool metal and plastic of his weapon tucked in his jeans. Fighting every cell in his body that clamored for him to drive right into Brighton Beach and order the Vor himself to release his fratellino, he acquiesced. "Aight. But …sto impazzendo, Zio. If he …"

His uncle reached over to put a calming hand upon his. "Niputi, trust us. We won't wait long for 'em. Okay? They won't kill him right now. Even if they're after revenge, he's too valuable as a bargaining chip. They want Pete and Carlo first."

"We'll get your brother back, Mario," promised Pete as he guzzled his beer.

"And what do I do in the meantime?" he voiced in barely a whisper.

Pete and Sal observed the younger Abruzzese's broken posture, looking down at the table and ignoring his meal. The soldier without a mission is the most dangerous of all. The capo gently pushed the half-eaten burger and fries toward him. "Eat, coscinu. It does no one any good if the Special Forces guy isn't prepared. That's an order."

Unenthusiastically, he took a few bites of the cold cheeseburger.


The man with the grayish-blond hair circled the block for the fifth time in order not to appear too interested in the police station. Since the police's personal escort of the haughty man a little over thirty-six hours ago, Lucas Kariolis had yet to appear. It suited Piotr; in that time, he and local associates – certain members of the Russian expatriate community who owed him a favor or two – managed to provide the fat mafiosi with their very last fruit basket and sink their corpulent bodies and suitcases in the middle of the Persian Gulf. He hoped not to do that again in the near future. Whenever he carried out an execution, he preferred to do it himself; yet in spite of being in peak physical performance, carrying two hundred fifty kilograms of Italian-American lard was too much effort and time. Having cleaned the room to expunge any evidence of the poisoned fruit as well as the last of the American brat's luggage, he was now ready to eliminate the remaining pain in the ass as soon as he was released or, alternatively, on the way to one of the jails for further questioning. Piotr did not give a flying fuck if Lucas decided to sing like a canary; it was not as though he could say much without the Emiratis or Saudis censoring him as a favor to the CIA, NSA, FSB, whatever-fucking-three-letters in Greece, or his organization. His orders were to clean up the mess in Dubai and retrieve the USB.

In the midst of visualizing a Plan C, according to which he would risk breaking into the police station to strangle the tall man, he noticed a group of Emirati police officers exit the building; in their custody was a rattled and handcuffed Lucas. Slowly, he reached for his Glock that was obscured by the nighttime shadows and made ready to disembark from the car to shoot the man and any police officers who unwisely opted to return fire. He put his hand to release the door handle when, from the opposite direction, a black SUV rushed toward the police and Lucas. Within a second's time, Piotr heard automatic gunfire and shouting in Arabic. Unwilling to reveal his presence, he ducked down, occasionally peaking at the sight: after they had gunned down the police officers, three masked men were dragging a chortling, though still handcuffed Lucas away. Muttering a litany of true-blue Russian cusswords – блять, мудак, пиздец, хуй – he let the other SUV speed past him before making a U-turn to pursue them. Over the next twenty minutes, Piotr carefully followed the vehicle through several side streets until they arrived at one of the marinas. As he watched from a discreet distance, the men pulled the smug Manhattanite out of the rear passenger side, unlocked his handcuffs, and led him to a waiting yacht – Cronos's Sickle. After the tall man and two of the masked individuals had boarded, the boat zoomed away from the dock to the open water. Knowing that the Dubai police would soon be on a manhunt, he mentally weighed his bad options, opting for the third; taking out his phone, he dialed a number. "Yes," he spoke in Russian. "Daddy gave the son a gift. Yes, I will need to bring presents to our friends in New York." He then ended the call and put the SUV into drive. The soonest nonstop flight to New York-Kennedy would depart in a few hours.


A couple hours after his interrogation in the basement, Alek and his men had thrown the black hood over Luigi's face once more and tossed him into the back of a SUV. This time, however, they drove for almost two hours. Although his senses were confounded, he knew they had been on the BQE at some point, given the sounds of car horns and lack of stopping for traffic lights. They hauled his limp body from the automobile and carried it into an interior room inside a house. Having removed the restraints and locked the door from the outside, the plumber pulled off the hood and looked around in disappointment at the accommodations: a simple twin bed with an adjoining toilet and sink; no television, telephone, or windows. Though they had tossed his green hoodie on the bed next to him, they had confiscated his iPhone, much to his chagrin. He weakly made his way to the toilet and sink to relieve himself and wash his face, then laid down on the lumpy bed to wait for his captors' next move.

Several hours passed in eerie silence; trying to distract himself from the growing anticipation and hopelessness over his predicament, he stared at the white ceiling and let his imagination take control. No longer was he in some unknown bedroom, awaiting his next torture session and death. He was at home in a beautiful, Carroll Gardens brownstone, sitting at his Jarvis desk, espresso cup next to his computer, in a study with blue and white accent walls. He leaned back in his executive chair, examining his latest improvement of the thermal device, when the front doors opened and shut. A moment later, a smiling, yet exhausted Daisy came in to greet him with a kiss. Luigi noted her – their – sparkling wedding rings with satisfaction. Suddenly leaping into his lap, he momentarily groaned at the extra weight, especially from her bookbag, whose zipper barely closed over the numerous law textbooks. Nuzzling his lioness's neck, he inquired about her day at school and whether she had heard back regarding the clerkship. She shook her head and made a face of utter impatience, to which he chuckled in mirth as well as sympathy. The plumber pecked her on the lips again as she grinded against him suggestively. His heart as well as another organ began to respond to her desire for physical contact. After having stripped each other's outer layers, he gazed into her amber orbs and, running a hand through her auburn strands, softly sang, "Looking out my window an angel in robe appeared and nearly pulled me apart. A million miles of freedom." Daisy flashed him a bright, toothy grin.

As she captured his lips, the door unlocked and opened. Luigi found himself in the spartan room instead of his elegant brownstone; feeling a rise in adrenaline, he sat up and backed up from Alek, who was striding toward him. "Dinner time," he barked, and took him by the wrist down a flight of stairs and into a dimly-lit parlor with crimson walls and worn brown couches where the Russian gangsters, plus one extra, were gathered around a flat screen television. One of Alek's men, Evgeniy, carried in three large pizza boxes with Cyrillic writing; placing them on the coffee table, he flipped open each lid. The Italian scrutinized each type; aside from the American-style cheese and meat pizzas, he recognized the last, as it had been Mark's favorite post-coitus snack – the Moskva, a Russian cold flatbread topped with sardines, tuna, mackerel, salmon, raw onions, spices, and cheese. Gesturing at him to choose a slice, he plucked one from the meat pizza and sat down next to Evgeniy who used the clicker to play a bootleg copy of the second season of The Kitchen. Without subtitles, Luigi could only follow about fifty percent of it, though the comedic interactions between the characters and context clues helped him understand the rest.

"Is Viktoria going to fuck Max or not?" one of them interjected in Russian, to which the others shushed him harshly.

In a mixture of wonder and self-loathing, the plumber snickered at his torturer's commentary, which was disconcertingly reminiscent of Mario's tendency to kibitz during every show and movie. By the fourth episode, Alek brought out the obligatory vodka – Beluga and Absolut. To his amazement, he was also handed a glass of the clear liquid. Knowing fully well that he could be killed for refusing a gesture of hospitality, he drank it whole with his captors. Over the next couple of hours, they polished off eight bottles between the six of them, toasting to Maxim's lack of balls, Chef Viktor Petrovich's balls, Alek, the Vor, Luigi being a man, and Luigi's girlfriend's big tits, which they had apparently seen from the uploaded video of her beating up some American pussy. By the fifth shot, he felt hot and lightheaded, earning him a round of backslapping and sniggering from the Russians.

The next morning, he moaned in pain, both due to the electric baton and the vodka hangover. Sometime after the seventh shot, he had passed out on the couch; they had left him there, though Evgeniy, who had fallen asleep an hour or two afterward and was supposed to make sure he did not to escape, used him as a pillow. Gently extracting himself from the large, snoring man, he staggered toward the nearby bathroom to piss out the alcohol and sip some water from the sink. Flushing the toilet, he was met by Alek, who studied him curiously, yet did not speak. Instead, he went to the refrigerator, took out a jar of pickles, shut the door, and grabbed another glass from the cabinet. He opened the jar and poured a quarter of the liquid into the smaller container. Handing it to Luigi, he commanded, "Drink."

Muttering a спасибо, he gingerly sipped the pickle juice and winced at its tart saltiness. Alek handed him a pickle and told him to eat it to help with the stomach. As the other gangsters were slowly rising from their alcohol-induced slumber, the leader's phone rang, which he promptly answered in Russian. A moment later, he ended the call and rapidly fired off commands to his subordinates. One asked about breakfast, earning a slight rebuke from his superior. The latter turned to Luigi and told him to finish the pickled breakfast and be ready to leave within five minutes. His heart racing, the young man obeyed; during the commotion of cleaning up the glasses, bottles, and empty pizza boxes, one of the Russians placed their unlocked phone on the coffee table. The plumber shifted his eyes in all directions for observers; when they were distracted, he noted the time – 7:53 a.m. – and pressed the map app for a central location: a residential area in Hackensack, New Jersey. He quickly exited out of the app and prepared to depart with his captors. Once the SUV was started, Alek handcuffed him once more. Expecting to be hooded and walked out, he relaxed as much as he could. Conversely, the man mumbled an извините before slugging him with moderate force, knocking him to the ground. Luigi rasped a loud fuck, feeling his left eye pop in its socket. Roughly sitting him up, he put the black hood over his face and lugged the hurting man into the back of the vehicle.

Trying not to cry audibly, the green-hoodied captive heaved with discomfort and fear. He swallowed against their waves and focused on the sounds and speed around and below him. Shortly into the drive, the car decelerated and made a few turns prior to parking; he heard one get out of the car, then return five minutes later, the smell of sugar and spice turning his stomach. The SUV resumed its course, merging onto a series of highways which Luigi assumed was I-95. Were they taking him back to New York? Although they continued on the highway for what he estimated to be thirty minutes, the vehicle curved sharply to the left and then subsequently came to a stop, which told him, as they were leading him out into cool, rainy air, that they had not reached Staten Island or the city. Jersey City, probably, he thought. Plunking him into a wooden chair and re-adjusting his handcuffs so that he was secured, they unhooded him. Unable to see through his swollen left eye, he weakly surveyed his new surroundings with his right: they were in an abandoned warehouse facing a projector screen that was connected to a small computer atop a plastic folding table. A younger gangster, Dima, went to the computer and typed a few commands. The screen displayed the entire room; the plumber could see Alek standing next to him and his men a few feet to their rear. Several minutes passed, with Evgeniy complaining that those stupid wops are too fucking decrepit to know what a computer is. Finally, there was a flicker for a couple seconds, following which a brightly-lit, more comfortable-looking room with high-ranking members of the LCN appeared in their view: Junior, Vinny DiScala, a couple wiseguys whom Luigi did not recognize, Fat Tony, and a furious Mario.

"Good morning," greeted Alek in heavily-accented English. "I see your boss not here. Why?"

The sixties-something Junior, who was dressed in black slacks, a white dress shirt, and a sweater, rasped, "The boss is aware of the situation. I'm speaking for him. I'm Michele Romano. What do we call you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Aleksandr Davidovich."

"Aight. Aleksandr Davidovich. I see you've … recovered my boss's great-nephew. We're grateful for that. How can we repay you for your trouble?"

Alek patiently crossed his arms. "My boss thanks you for your kind offer of gifts. However, the boy is not simply great-nephew, is he? He's not simply your boss's boy."

Junior asked in a cool tone, "What do you mean? He's a family member of the Moranos and Mario Masciarelli here."

"Precisely." He let his answer as well as the subsequent silence on both ends act as a provocation before resuming the conversation. "Americans too much tend to beat around bush; wastes everyone's time. I prefer Russian style – be up front. Luigi Masciarelli is son of famous fireman. He also belongs to Rigassi and Morano family. But I'm Russian from USSR – I don't give shit about little princes."

Nodding at the implicit threat, Junior replied, "Aight. You want to cut the shit? Fine. Let's cut the shit. We'll be glad to pay you. But if you harm an innocent, you commie pricks will have the fucking Commission come down on your asses like a ton of bricks."

"We much better understand each other. I lied a little – I do care about princes when they bring a good price. Fifty million dollars."

The entire room looked at each other in disbelief while the underboss laughed. "Fifty mil? What the fuck you think we are, a bank?"

"Fifty million not so much for boss and underboss of Morano family. You bring in ten to thirty million every week. It's one month's pay. We may be Russians, but we understand economics of New York."

Glancing at his subordinates, Junior sucked on his lip for a moment. "Aight. But we'll need time to get the money ready. I assume you want it unmarked?"

Alek rolled his eyes, growing exasperated at their obvious tentative to stall. "You can do crypto! It takes two days maximum, and I know you have ability! As token of friendship, I give you two days from now. If, however, you fuck with us," he took out a knife and brought it to Luigi's throat, "I will gut the little prince."

The underboss held his hands up in a placating gesture, "Aight, aight. Take it easy, Aleksandr Davidovich. We get the message. It's agreed – fifty million in crypto by Saturday morning at, let's say, 8 a.m."

Lowering the knife from Luigi's throat, the Russian nodded in satisfaction. "Good. Once we have crypto, then we return Luigi Masciarelli without harm. I will give instructions on Saturday. One last thing: Pete Morello comes to drop-off to get little prince – alone."

Several pairs of eyes enlarged in shock and outrage. As the Italian delegation whispered and groused amongst themselves, Luigi took his one and only opportunity to make contact with his older brother. With his good eye, he started to blink – one long, one short; one short, four long. Then he started another pattern: four short; one short, one long, one long, one short; one long, one short; one long, one short, one long. Mario frowned briefly, unable to figure out what his fratellino was doing. Quickly checking to see if any Russians were watching, he repeated the message, this time slower. The angry plumber's eyes widened, and he tapped the pattern back on his chest to make sure that he had understood. The younger plumber relaxed, blinking one long, one short, and two long. Subtly, Mario gave the faintest of nods.

"Why do you want Pete Morello to do it?" the underboss finally inquired.

"Morello's Luigi Masciarelli's trainer. It's only appropriate that he comes."

He and Vinny exchanged a look. "Well," interjected the latter, "there's a problem. We don't know where he is. Word on the street's that he's dead." Mario's expression became carefully neutral, eyeing Fat Tony who remained pokerfaced.

Alek shrugged. "Not problem for me. Nor do I believe he's dead. No body."

"Rumor has it that he was whacked for takin' money," insisted Vinny.

Stepping closer to Luigi, the Russian chuckled incredulously. "That so? Well, that's too bad. Time for this goat to die!" As he brought the knife to cut his wide-eyed captive's throat, Mario screamed and begged the man to stop.

"Basta!" shouted Junior. "Aight, aight! We'll see if Morello's still alive. If he is … we'll do as you ask."

Gripping a fistful of Luigi's hair in his left hand, Alek relaxed the sharp edge from the man's throat with his right. "That better. More business-like. You have forty-eight hours, Underboss. Don't fuck with us."

Mario leapt out of the chair, his heart slamming against his chest, as the computer video feed ended. Utilizing all of his Special Forces training to avoid screaming aloud and breaking the bones of every wiseguy there, he focused on his quietening his breath and sank back into his seat. Remember Luigi's message.

"What the fuck is that slimy shit up to?" demanded one of the capos, Joey-B, who was known in Staten Island both for his pizza and heroin. "How do we know that Luigi didn't go to the Russians per Petey's request? Fucker stole one-fifty from us and whacked Jackie!"

"He didn't do shit!" yelled the plumber, pointing his finger at the man. "Luigi's been trying to get away from youse! And that includes fuckin' Pete Morello!"

"Aight, basta, Masciarelli," rasped Junior. "Joey, Petey was Luigi's rabbi, but I've seen enough to know that he's not workin' with him on this one. He just got back from Germany and the fuckin' desert. Apparently, the Kariolises tried to set him and his ragazza up. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would ya?"

Joey's face turned ashen. "What? No, Junior. Of course not. I didn't even know that he went overseas."

"Yeah. And that skinny motherfucker set him up. Now he comes back and gets abducted again?! Nah, it's too much of a coincidence. Vinny, what do you think?"

He shrugged leisurely. "Junior, this is an obvious fuckin' trap. You know that. We don't even know for certain that Pete's alive. And even if he were, do we really want to lose such a resource? He never took that fuckin' money, and we all know it."

Joey glared at DiScala. "Still his fuck buddy after all those years? Why don't you remove his dick from your mouth?"

Vinny yelled, "Hey, keep talkin', you worthless piece of shit!" The younger man flashed him a sickly grin, though he declined to continue his insults. "All's I'm sayin' is that the Russians may execute his," pointing to Mario, "brother before we even get to him!" He took a quick breath. "Let's wait until the very last second to pay the money. Very last. If we pay it too soon, they'll waste him. Give us a chance to find out where he is. If we're sure of his location, then we send a few guys in."

Mario scoffed. "Yeah, in the Army, we call that a FUBAR! High risk, low yield. Meanwhile, my brother ends up dead!"

"You got a better plan? 'Cause I'm tellin' ya right now, they'll take the crypto and kill him on Saturday!"

Before he could fire off a response to the capo, Junior put up his hands. "Basta, the two a' youse. Frankly, you're both right." The underboss fell quiet to mull over his options while the mafiosi waited respectfully for their superior and elder to speak again. Mario continued to glare at Vinny and Junior, dissatisfied with the Mafia amateur bullshit. "Aight, we'll do both. We'll wait until the very last second to pay the money. In the meantime, Vinny, put out feelers on the street – discreetly. See if anyone knows anything about this." Finally, he turned to Mario. "I appreciate that you're Special Forces. Cream of the crop. But right now, you need to go home to your ragazza and your uncle. Family comes first. We will be in touch."

At his final pronouncement, everyone rose from their chairs and made their way, via different doors, out of the safehouse in Forest Hill. Uncaring of any eavesdroppers from the NYPD or FBI, Mario ambled toward the front door. As he unlatched the outer entrance to see himself out, Fat Tony roughly bumped into him, earning a what-the-fuck look from his cousin, and dropped a piece of paper inside his hoodie pocket. The plumber quickly crossed the street to hop into his Honda. Inside the cab, he took out the scrap and read it: 67 Michigan Ave, Massapequa. 1 hour. Sliding his iPhone into the holder on the dashboard, he dialed a number and maneuvered his car away from the curb. "Yo, did you hear that shit?" he inquired.

"Yep, it came through loud and clear, Mario," echoed Pete's voice from the speaker. "Joey's always been such a sniveling little shit. I assume Tony gave you further instructions?"

"Yeah. We're supposed to head to 67 Michigan Ave in Massapequa."

He heard Salvatore murmur something in Sicilian, after which Pete replied, "Okay. We should get there in about forty-five."


About an hour later, Mario pulled up behind an identical Honda and alongside a white and green duplex. "Jesus, Sal," he called out as he locked his car, "it's a miracle that the cops didn't pull youse over for speeding!"

The Sicilian laughed as he and Pete exited the rental car. "I go right at the speed limit. Occasionally, I may go a few miles per hour faster."

Pete shook his head. "I remember – what was it – back in '79, you had that Mustang. Jackie bet you couldn't drive backwards down the street in that thing. And," he burst into giggles, "cigarette in mouth, you drove that fuckin' thing from Flatbush to Bensonhurst not only in reverse, but right past the local precinct."

Raising his shoulders, the priest mildly retorted, "Hey, no one can ever say that I don't have a sense of humor."

"The two a' youse," grumbled the plumber. "Whose fuckin' house is this, anyway?"

"Don't know," answered Pete. "Let's go find out." He and Salvatore cautiously strolled up to the front door on the right while the younger man followed, his hand near the gun tucked into his jeans. The Denverite extended his arm to knock when the door opened to reveal Fat Tony, cigar in his mouth.

"About fuckin' time," he growled. "Get in 'ere before someone sees youse."

The three men hurriedly entered the house. Tony waved them to the living room, where they spied an older man in his eighties sitting in one of the armchairs. Pete and Salvatore halted in their tracks, waiting for the elder to recognize them. The man's cold eyes swept over the caporegime and former mafioso, then glanced behind them to the suspicious plumber. "Must be my fuckin' lucky day," he hissed. "Two ghosts have come to visit me. Three, if you count the uncanny resemblance to your nonno, Masciarelli. My niputi tells me that the man who put a contract out on me and my son somehow didn't kill him. I hope, for all of your sakes, that's true."

Pete looked upon his boss with an unreadable face. "I did not kill Jackie nor did I steal the one fifty."

"So who the fuck did?" demanded the Padrino angrily.

"Zio," began Salvatore, "it's been a long time. Almost thirty-five years, in fact. I stayed out of the way, did what you asked of me. I hid Pete because … Jackie created this problem. He invited the Kariolises, whom we are certain stole the money. He also fathered a child out of wedlock, whom we are also certain is behind this. Now, Luigi has been abducted. You may feel that we betrayed you. And maybe we did." Inhaling to keep calm despite his uncle's piercing gaze, he went on, "But Luigi's an innocent. Pete and I … are willing to offer our blood to protect him."

Carlo looked away, refusing to utter a single word. Fat Tony came into the living room carrying a silver coffee pot, a plate of biscotti, and cups atop a silver tray. Setting it down on the table, he poured a cup and proffered it respectfully to his nonno, who took it wordlessly. He waited for the next command from the paterfamilias.

"You fuckin' knew," concluded Mario. Stunned that he would address an elder in such a manner, the three mafiosi pivoted their heads to glower at him. However, the plumber, undaunted, took a step forward. "You fuckin' knew about Polina, didn't you?"

Without facing him directly, the boss answered, "Of course, I fuckin' knew, Masciarelli. Jackie never could keep it in his pants. He swore to me that it was over, back in '80. Angela had come to me, begging me for help. She's a good wife: respectful, honest, keeps a good home. That fucking fat fuck didn't deserve her. But divorce's out of the question. When I found out that he was still with that Russian bitch, when I found out that he lied to his father and boss, and when I found out that he was playin' house with her, I took care of it."

"You killed Nina …" breathed Salvatore.

The Padrino raised a dark eyebrow. "I took care of a family problem." He then swallowed and shook his head. "I didn't know that the troia's daughter was Marco Bowser's wife. Not until Tony told me." Sipping his coffee, he muttered, "The fuckin' bigamist."

Mario crossed his arms, regarding the old man in pure disgust. "Yeah. Once again, you have caused problems for my family. You stupid, greedy, evil motherfuckers! I wanna know who ordered the hit on a goddamned nine-year-old back in '95! Now! Because the time's runnin' out for my fratellino. And mark my words, Carlo, I ain't afraid of providing you a one-way ticket to hell!"

Lifting his brown eyes to icy, murderous blue ones, he sized up his opponent, engaging him in a silent battle of wills. The plumber, however, neither blinked nor flinched. "I don't know who ordered the hit on your brother," he finally responded. "Truth is …" he bit his lip and turned away, "I never wanted to examine that too closely because … I always feared my sons were behind it. It was no secret that I considered Luigi our last hope for the family. Jackie was a fuck-up, in more ways than one. And he wasn't going to be replaced by a child."

"But you reconsidered that?" Pete uttered in a mixed question-statement.

Carlo nodded a little. "The Slaughter Affair. When Jackie didn't know about it, I knew he hadn't been responsible. On one hand, I was relieved. He is, was, after all, my son. On the other hand, it meant he opened the door for someone else. Either way, he was a liability. Had … whomever not whacked him, I would've." Taking a small sip of the coffee, he added very softly, "In the past, I never had the nerve, and that cost us all."

Failing to disagree with him, the men quietened to process what they had just heard. Tony handed each man a cup of coffee, interjecting, "I ain't sorry that homewrecking bitch is dead. Let's just get that shit out of the way. And I know my father didn't try to kill Luigi. The entire Bowser family's a bunch of Irish trash. But someone in that room today did. Especially if Aleksandr Baranov is askin' for ransom." To the plumber's and Salvatore's blank looks, he explained between open-mouthed bites of chocolate biscotti, "Baranov's a Russian thief-in-law. Equivalent of soldier. If they bring him out, the Vor means business."

"So how the fuck did the Vor get involved with the Bowser Bitch?" inquired Mario.

He shook his head. "Not a fuckin' clue. But if you're right that this is a joint effort by Polina Lepeshinski, the Kariolises, and the Russians, then someone on our side is a traitor."

"Agreed," nodded Pete.

"Well, what do you want to do? Weegie thought that he was somewhere in Hackensack."

Four mouths gaped at him. "How the fuck …? Luigi didn't speak!" exclaimed Tony.

Smirking, the man in the red hoodie replied, "That's true. But that didn't mean he wasn't communicating. He told me … Morse Code."

Salvatore grinned brightly. "Ah, that little sly cervellone!" A moment later, his smile disappeared. "They'll probably move him around. He could be in Brighton Beach or, hell, somewhere here on Long Island."

Pete set the coffee cup down on the table, reflecting upon that new piece of information. "Why hide him in New Jersey? Why not in some crack house in Bushwick? Or, shit, in Tottenville? No one would think to look there."

"'Cause Jersey's a toxic shithole?" retorted the fat mafioso, whose mouth was releasing half-masticated chocolate crumbs.

"Tactical advantage," said Mario. "Back in Afghanistan, the Taliban used to hide hostages in the mountains. Caves. Easy to defend; it's hard to sneak up on someone with a bird's eye view. The more valuable the hostage, the deeper in enemy territory they'd stick 'em."

The priest's skin changed pallor. "But … if the New Jersey crews are willing to play along with the Russians, then they're willing to risk a war with the Commission." Facing his uncle, he asked, "Zio, would they be that stupid?"

Carlo took a final sip of his tepid drink. Handing his cup to Tony for a refill, he gazed meaningfully at each of them. "The Commission's a fucking joke. I know because I sit on that fuckin' bag of soggy cocks. Whatever power and prestige it had in Luciano's time, it's been gone for twenty years. Thank that fuckin' prima donna Gotti! And with more old school guys going to prison or dying of cancer or old age, the proper way of doing things is disappearing. Whoever this is, they know it, too."

"Another tactical advantage, to borrow Mario's term," affirmed the Denverite. "Whack Jackie and Tommy, then go for the kill when the crew's weakest. Hence why they want my blood so badly." Addressing the Padrino directly, he murmured, "You're in danger, too."

He scoffed. "Petey, I'm eighty-four fucking years old. I've lived my life. And frankly, I don't got much to live for. God rest her soul, my wife's been dead for three years; now both my sons. Angie will be taken care of; I've made sure of that. Junior will take over the family."

"Zio," whispered Salvatore, "Junior's got dealings in New Jersey. As do Joey-B and Vinny DiScala. How can you turn over the crew to Junior if you don't know if he is the traitor? It's no longer my concern, but … this affects Luigi. He'll never be safe if we don't find out. Brooklyn won't be safe, for that matter!"

"And what are you gonna do about it, priest?" the old man challenged. "You gave up the right thirty years ago."

"As far as I'm concerned, he's still part of the family," interrupted Pete.

"Good for you," he snapped.

Slamming his espresso cup down on the table, startling Pete, Sal, and even Tony, Mario loomed over the old man, who peered up at him neutrally. "You chickenshit. You … forced my father to make you the padrino for my little brother. You … roped Lucas Kariolis into his life – twice. And finally, you, your asshole son, and even Pete here indemnified him into becoming the manager of the shop. He may be a pawn to you, but he's my family. He never wanted that! And now he may die, all because of your greed and weakness." Turning his head toward the youngest mafioso, he growled, "I'm done listenin' to this bullshit, Tony. Arrivederci."

Twisting on his heel, he stomped out of the house. Reaching the driver's side door, he was about to slide in and take off when Pete and Sal ran up to the front of the car, blocking his escape. "Mario, stop! Wait a second!" yelled Pete, who did not seem to care about potential spies.

"Get the hell outta my way, Morello!" he hissed.

Instead, Sal climbed into the front passenger seat and Pete entered the rear, both shutting the doors. "Just hear me out, alright?" spoke the latter. Though the plumber started the engine, he did not put it in drive. "Carlo's a fucking weakling. He's absented himself from responsibility for years. He's all but admitted it in there. Sal's also right that each of the senior crew members – Junior especially – have interests in Jersey. If we don't know where in Hackensack he is, and we miscalculate, they'll kill him. We'll have to do this ourselves."

Salvatore raised an eyebrow. "You want to do this without the support of the Padrino? The Commission? Are you insane, Pete?"

"You got a better idea, Sal?" He smirked a little. "I've been the King of the Rockies for some time now. Trust me; in the past, I got my ass slapped a few times from the Commission because they thought I was getting a little too tall for my breeches. Carlo was right about one thing: they're useless without the guys directly below them. This time, though? I think I'll really enjoy going around those slimy fucks."

The priest huffed in exasperation. "And even if you do, they'll kill you for it. They may even kill Luigi."

Pete leaned back, sniffling. "Sal, look … You're a priest. What's the Bible say about retribution?" Before he could answer, the Denverite continued, "I know I could die. That burning saint that we held in our hands serves as a reminder. That's the life. Luigi never made that vow, so it's not his place to die in mine."

Mario sniffed, staring blankly through the windshield. "No offense, but … if you're gonna go ronin on these fucks, you're gonna need atypical warfare."

As Pete smiled and nodded, Sal crossed his arms to consider his bad to worse options. "Alright, I'm in, too," he finally relented.

The three men's eyes abruptly caught a waddling figure moving toward them. By the time Sal and Pete tried to leave the car, Fat Tony had arrived at the driver's side window. Knocking on it with a meaty hand, he waited until Mario lowered it. "The coffee not good or somethin'?" The plumber glared at him, yet refrained from giving into the overwhelming temptation to speed over his second cousin's foot. Tony leaned against the cab. "Y'know, sometimes, coscinu, being in the life can be interesting. You get to encounter all kinds of people – funny guys, stupid guys, pricks, and cocksuckers. And then, on rare occasion, you get the crazy motherfuckers. Guys who just don't give a fuck 'cause the rest of the world don't. Guys who say fuck it all in spite of the rest of the world." Straightening up, he walked away from Mario's Honda.

Watching him disappear into the house, he slowly rolled up the window. "You trust this shit?"

Salvatore and Pete exchanged a brief look. "Nope," they both responded in unison.

From a corner roughly two hundred feet away, a large Italian man in a purple tracksuit observed Pete and Salvatore get out of the plumber's vehicle and head toward their identical car. Pushing a few buttons on his flip phone, he put it to his ear. "Yo, boss. Yeah, I did as you asked and followed Masciarelli to Massapequa. He's been buddy-buddy with Morello this whole fuckin' time. Yeah. They just saw the Padrino – him, Morello, and the priest. I think he runs the parish on 62nd Street. You - ? You fuckin' tellin' me that's il Mietitore?! Fuck … Yeah, okay. Aight. Sure, boss."

Mario was the first to pull away from the curb, followed by Salvatore thirty seconds later. The wiseguy obscured himself as they did a three-point turn to go in the opposite direction, waited as the second car passed by, and proceeded to tail them at a safe distance. Though they were driving the same make and model of Honda, he kept watch for the number of people inside each cab – two versus one. Whereas the plumber merged to take the Grand Central Parkway, the priest continued on the Southern State Parkway and the Belt. Ensuring that he was hidden behind several cars, though not completely out of sight, the big man in the purple tracksuit stayed the course, following Morello and the former mafioso.


Outside of Peach's front door, the soldier steeled himself for the unpleasant conversation that he would need to have with the waiting group of his fratellino's closest family and friends. He had briefly thought about going to some dive in Queens and drowning his sorrows with a bottle of Jack Daniels, but, for Weegie's sake, he could not afford to be less than at peak performance. Having made sure that the shop was running as it should, he had completed the ninety-minute trajectory to the Upper East Side. Mumbling a prayer that the news would not worsen his paternal uncle's already fragile health, he slid the key into the lock and walked inside to a crowded living room: Giuseppe, Lucia, Rospo, Peach, Yoshi, Miles, Daisy, and, to his surprise, Harry Abravanel and a black woman, whom he assumed was Daisy's stepmother.

Peach's smile immediately disappeared. "Where's your brother?"

Mario tried to speak, yet nothing came out – no words, no vocal cues.

"Nipote, where is Luigi?!" demanded Lucia, who struggled to keep the now alarmed Giuseppe on the couch. Harry moved toward his daughter who stared emotionlessly at the elder brother.

"Where the fuck did Carlo and Tony take him?!" yelled the frightened Yoshi. Miles put a tremoring hand on his shoulder.

"I …" he began. "I went to see Carlo and Tony. They … don't have him." Closing his eyes and swallowing back the anger, fear, and tears, he whispered, "Zio, mi dispiace. Luigi's … been taken by the Russians. They've asked fifty million for him from the Moranos."

A loud sound akin to a howl and a scream ripped from Giuseppe's throat, and he slipped onto the floor. Lucia sank onto her knees next to him, wrapping her arms around the shattered man. Mario opened his eyes to witness the fallout of his message: Rospo comforting Peach, who had covered her nose and mouth with both hands; Yoshi painfully gripped his black hair; a blank Miles gazed at the floor; Lucia rocking his still howling uncle; Harry and Yael wrapping their arms around the flushed Daisy, whose fists balled at her sides.

Among the commotion, Rospo was the first to talk. "So the Moranos will not pay it?"

"Rospo, perhaps we should take this …"

"No!" screamed Joe brokenly. "I need to hear all of this, nipote! All of it!"

"Agreed," said Daisy. "I think we all do. No matter … No matter how bad it is, Mario."

Nodding, he replied, "Aight." He swallowed harshly once more, and Peach left Rospo's side to console her partner. "The Moranos are a bunch of fuckin' squirrels. Worse, at least one of them is workin' with the Bowser Bitch." Peach ran a gently hand through his curls, which he leaned into, grateful for the human touch. "Turns out Carlo knew about Polina the entire fuckin' time. The motherfucker killed her mother, though, and I'm sure as shit that's part of the reason for her little revenge tour. Anyway … we can't trust 'em. So Pete, Sal, and I are gonna get him ourselves. I'm gonna get youse to safety before I go with 'em to Jersey."

"Are you out of your mind?" exclaimed Harry. "Enough of this! Call the FBI or the NYPD!"

Indignantly, Mario glowered at him. "That might work in California or Boston for the rich folks, but this is Bensonhurst, Brooklyn! Luigi's not rich or important enough for them to give a shit! And if the Russians or, hell, the Moranos see the cops sniffing around, they'll kill him!"

"Goddamnit, they'll kill him, anyway!" insisted the lawyer, his Boston accent suddenly becoming more noticeable. "They're not asking fifty mil for shits and giggles, kid! They know the Moranos won't pay it!"

Ignoring the multiple pleas from Peach, Daisy, and Lucia to stop, he took a step toward the tall, thin Brazilian and jabbed his index finger at him. "What the fuck do you care, huh? You've been an asshole to Weegie from minute-fucking-one! You treated him like he was trash! And no matter how many times we told ya that he wasn't Mafia, you kept at him! He felt he had to prove something to ya! Happy now?! So kish meir in tuchas, fuckhead!"

The room fell silent as Rospo and Yael blocked the seething plumber from further accosting Daisy's father. Harry stood motionless in front of them. Daisy came up to flank him, though from his quick glance at her, it was apparent that she did not entirely disagree with the portly man's harsh words. Finally twisting to Lucia and Giuseppe, who cast their heartbroken eyes at him in response, he rasped, "I … I never wanted that. I just … wanted to protect my daughter. I know what it's like to be … against the world." Even though they acknowledged him with a slight nod, they did not reply.

"Harry is correct; they will kill him anyway," stated Yael who took a step toward the fellow soldier. "We used to deal with terrorist demands all the time in the IDF. Even if the government decided to pay the money, they usually killed the hostages shortly before or after the drop. And that's assuming you know where he is."

"Luigi was able to communicate a little. He got a message across that he was being held in Hackensack. Or thereabouts."

Miles ran to his terminals and began typing rapidly. "That actually makes sense. Or Jersey City!" At the group's quizzical looks, he elaborated, "I was looking through the plumbing union's financials. I couldn't find shit on George Kariolis – at least, not directly. But I started looking through Scott Pichler's crap, and I found a few properties in Jersey City. He's a vendor of theirs, so initially, I thought it was some warehouse or something. I, uh, broke into their ERP. All of the financials are fake, as in invented. Then I checked his bank account – he's nearly broke. I think he was a front for Kariolis."

"Yeah," Mario affirmed in a more animated voice, "it looked like Weegie was bein' held in some sort of abandoned warehouse. Hey, could you look up a name? Aleksandr Davidovich Baranov?" The hacker nodded, typing at his computers once more. "Crazy fuckin' thing is that the bitch wasn't there. She's still hiding."

"What if they moved him?" inquired Rospo. "Russians and Chechens don't like keeping their prize fish in one place."

Shrugging, the plumber responded, "Yeah, Sal thought that, too." A high-pitched ringtone started to play from his pocket; muttering a few Sicilian curses, he saw that the caller ID was displaying 'Unknown.' After debating for a few seconds on whether to answer it, he finally pressed the green telephone key and brought it to his ear. "Yeah, who is this? Yeah? So what the fuck – ? Yeah, when? Fine by me." Lowering the phone once the call disconnected, he blinked a few times in confusion, then announced, "That was Vinny DiScala. He wants to meet me in an hour."