Author's notes: Thanks to everyone who's commented, favorited, and passed around the story. As always, please review.
Chapter 55: Hell's Comin' With Him
Like a princess trapped in a high and impermeable tower, Daisy paced along the large windows and partial view of West 55th Street. Subsequent to Mario's text as well as the NYPD police band radio transmissions, she, the two Colorado mafiosi, Miles, and Yoshi had surmised that there had been a coordinated attack on Peach's apartment; while two people – a man and a woman – had been taken to nearby New York-Presbyterian and two additional victims were treated for superficial wounds on-site, one person was still missing. Despite the group's pleas as well as admonishments against rash behavior, she argued that they needed to do something before they all were victimized. About the same time, junior detectives from Major Case arrived at Harry's law office and announced they would be responsible for taking the Abravanels to an undisclosed location in the city. Although Yoshi, Sam, Harry, and Yael tried to persuade her to see reason, the lioness initially refused, angry that the NYPD and her own family were fretting over her safety while her beloved plumber was being held by the criminal underworld.
Continuing to stalk the perimeter of the room and ignoring the raised voices in Judeo-Spanish and Hebrew demanding that she accompany them, Daisy mentally focused on the teasing grin that her lover and best friend gave her in bed or as he stole food off her plate. I want to save you, Luigi. I don't care about anything else, not even Harvard, if it means losing you. Luigi was right; she was uncannily cat-like in her approach and dislike for the words no and impermissible. Preparing to defy her father and stepmother, she pivoted her foot to the door when Miles intercepted her, begging with his eyes to stay with him, as he needed someone's reassurance – similar to what Luigi would have done. Daisy relented, although on the condition that Miles be permitted to come with them.
Much to his friend's dismay, Yoshi had asked the detectives to allow him to leave, under the guise of needing to check on Birdo in Queens. In reality, he, Matt, and Sam planned to crash the Mafia party in Bensonhurst.
Obtaining an encrypted method of contact with the blond hacker when the detectives were not looking and assuring themselves that they had not been tailed into the parking garage, the physicist and Colorado Mafia climbed into the blue SUV that the cowboy had rented and headed toward the FDR and Brooklyn. No one said a word throughout the nearly hour trip to the old neighborhood; Yoshi texted Birdo, guaranteeing everyone was safe, willfully omitting the unaccounted individual from the home invasion. When they turned off the BQE to Bensonhurst and Borough Park, Yoshi guided Sam on the quickest route to 18th Avenue and the Koopa Bar. To their mutual surprise, there was a spot right in front of the establishment, into which Sam parallel-parked the behemoth vehicle. They exited the SUV; arming himself with a concealed Glock G30S, Sam motioned for his cousin and Yoshi to stay behind him as they entered single-file into the moderately busy bar. Sam and Yoshi scanned the booths for Bowser and Fat Tony, only to find two low-level wiseguys in the back who, engrossed in their burgers, drinks, and conversation, had not noticed them. Wordlessly, they agreed to take seats at the bar and wait for the bartender on duty. Several minutes had passed before an overwhelmed Ryan, carrying several plates of food, came out from the kitchen and took them to varying booths. He then walked behind the bar and inquired, "Hey, what I can get you guys?"
"Yo, Bowser," began Yoshi, "where's your father? We need to talk to him and Fat Tony."
Ryan looked at the Japanese tiredly. "Something happened earlier. At Wendy and Louie's school. Dad took off like a bat outta hell, and I haven't heard anything since. So I'm stuck running the bar tonight. And my professors are probably going to tell me to go fuck myself on rescheduling my midterms tomorrow. As for Fat Tony, I'd rather not ask him here tonight."
Sam, Matt, and Yoshi exchanged a worried look. "Look, Ryan, I get it. But something happened to us, too." Glancing right, then left suspiciously, all of a sudden cognizant that someone might be listening to their discussion, the latter leaned over to him, "Mario and Peach were attacked today. We don't know much, but … since Wendy and Louie are, uh, your uncle Marco's and aunt Polina's children, we think they're linked. That's why we need to talk to them."
The young bartender's eyes widened. "Holy shit …" he breathed in disbelief. Then he shook his head. "No way. Even if I knew where Dad went, and even if you're right, Yoshi, that guy …" Repeating his peer's gesture from a moment ago, he also whisper-hissed, "Something's going down. They're looking for Pete Morello and Father Rigassi. Morello, I get, but why a priest? Last confession? I dunno. Yoshi, man, just stay clear of this shit."
Without perceptibly looking in their direction, he asked Ryan, "Who the hell are those two fat assholes in the track suits?"
"Order something before you get us all in the shit," instructed the junior Bowser to the group.
"Uh," Sam and Matt glanced at each other, then the former said, "two club sodas with a squeeze of lime, please."
"Same," echoed Yoshi.
Ryan nodded. While he prepared the drinks and a small bowl of cashews for each person, he murmured, "They're Joey-B's guys. I think. I've only seen 'em once. Dad's more at ease around Tony and the Hammer Brothers; anytime he has to serve Joey-B's guys, though, his ass gets really tight. It's not often, thankfully." Setting the drinks and bowls on the bar, he gazed over the dimly-lit bar toward the wiseguys' location in the back, where they seemed none the wiser with respect to the newcomers.
Matt sipped the soda and lime. "Joey-B's a drug-dealing douchecanoe. Unfortunately for us, he's also smarter than Jackie. I wonder why he's got guys here."
"Looking for Pete and possibly Father Sal, no doubt," mumbled Miyamoto, who was munching on the nuts from his bowl. "What do youse wanna do?"
Sam leaned back for a final look-see, then very casually, he picked up his club soda and started to walk over to the wiseguys while the his companions watched in horror. A moment later, Matt followed, gulping his non-alcoholic drink like liquid courage. Yoshi shook his head, flashed Ryan an I'm a dead man look, and reluctantly trailed behind the other two. One of the fat men, who had a French fry in one hand and an unobstructed view of incoming traffic, halted his conversation to observe the three youths approaching their table. "What the fuck?" Leo lightly exclaimed.
"Evenin,'" greeted Sam. "Fancy meeting you all in this bar."
Wiping his fingers with his napkin, Markie spun around to see whom his companion had sworn at; his brown eyes broadened upon seeing the Colorado cousins. "Well, well, well … if it ain't the fuckin' Rocky Mountain Rednecks. I think the mountains and sheep are a bit west a' here, huh?"
As Joey-B's wiseguys laughed loudly at their own joke, the cowboy shrugged and took a sip of his club soda. "Yeah, coming to New York every so often is good for me. My brain and I need an occasional ego boost." Matt coughed to hide a chuckle at his cousin's quip.
Leo stood up to confront the nonchalant man when Markie held up a hand. "Aight, enough of the fuckin' pleasantries. So what the fuck do youse want?" Gesturing to his burger, he added, "Can youse see that we're eatin' here?"
Undaunted, Sam took Leo's chair to sit in front of Markie. "Yeah, I just wanted to ask you a fucking question. Where the hell do your Russians have my cousin?"
The two New York wiseguys exchanged an incredulous stare. As the standing man reached into the inside of his jacket, Markie's eyes focused on the end of Sam's handgun that had appeared within a split second. "Take a good fucking look, asshole!" he groused. "I didn't bother to unclick the safety because it was already off. Don't give me any crap about putting hands on a made man. I'm also made. So's my uncle, but that didn't stop you Bensonhurst bullshitters. Now answer my goddamned question: where is Luigi?"
Without shifting his gaze, the wiseguy responded, "Ey, put down the piece. Let's discuss this, huh? Not in public." He then gave a head tilt to Leo, who, biting his lip, pulled his hand out of his jacket and moved so that he was facing the angry blond. Sam concealed his weapon once more. "Aight," Markie resumed, munching on a few fries, "truth is, I don't know where the fuck the kid is. Apparently, and I wasn't there, the Russians kicked the shit outta him and are holding him for ransom. Cinquanta milioni. Your zio's gotta go get him on Saturday."
"Yeah, I know that part," the cowboy bit out, rapidly losing patience with his counterpart. "I also know Junior's not going to pay it. So why the hell would Uncle Pete even show up?"
He shrugged as he took a bite of his cheeseburger. "Good point. But orders are orders – youse know that."
Sam twisted to face a stunned Matt and slightly confused Yoshi. As his lips parted in a yet unvoiced question, the New Yorkers' eyes moved to his right, tracking an imminent threat that was approaching their table. Before he realized what was happening, the Coloradan felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and he unexpectedly spied an olive-skinned man loom over Markie's cheeseburger. The small group of six as well as the nervous Ryan, who was observing from the safety of the bar, felt a strange dark energy emanating from the slender figure. Markie let out an involuntary shiver when connecting with the other man's black orbs.
"Ah, Markie, Leo," Pete greeted in a deceptively light tone. "Buon appetito and buonasera." Unable to shift his gaze from the powerful and irate Sicilian, the fat Brooklynite mumbled a "thanks" to the caporegime. Leo did not respond, confused at the unfolding scene as well as his colleague's pallid complexion upon seeing the priest. Pretending to forget, the Denverite made a small gesture at his silent companion. "Oh, sorry, where are my manners? You know my son, Matt, and my nephew, Sam. But you don't know him. I mean, you've undoubtedly seen him at St. Rosalia's." Leo waited blankly while Markie did not dare move. "Leo, I know you don't him. He was a little, shall we say, before your time. But Markie? He was an associate back in the early '80s – a snot-nosed teeny-bopper breaking into cars and selling crack, but nonetheless working for us. Right, Markie?" After a moment of receiving no visible or audible confirmation from the latter, Pete went on, "It's alright; you don't need to say anything. May I formally present to you … Eh, it's no use saying it aloud," he leaned into Leo's ear and whispered a name.
His skin blanched.
Nodding in satisfaction, the capo resumed his introductions, "I trust you understand when I say that it wouldn't be wise to fuck around. Now," he momentarily paused to grab a chair from one of the empty tables, placing it directly in front of the men, and enjoined Salvatore to sit, "he has two requests. First, call your boss and tell him that we want to see him. Subito. Second, you will tell us just what the hell is really going on. Not only has his nephew been taken, but also il fratellino dello Jumpman – another member of his family."
Suddenly unfrozen from the ghoul's piercing glower, Markie stammered, "Y-y-you know the rules, Petey; the boss summons us."
Pete's brown eyes narrowed, and the wiseguy felt a cool hand wrap around his wrist, tightening to a vice grip. "Did I stutter?" demanded the former.
Trying not to yelp in pain, the man shook his head. "Aight, aight! I'll call Joey!" A terrified Leo handed a burner phone to his older colleague, which he accepted, dialed a number one-handed, and put to his ear. Following a short, though terse interchange between him and his boss, Markie ended the call and set the phone down next to his plate. "He's coming."
"Excuse me, gentlemen?" spoke the faltering voice of the young bartender. "Um, house rules: you've got to order something. It's, also, uh, to avoid scaring the other, uh, unaffiliated patrons away."
An amused Pete pivoted toward the redhead. "That's fair. I'm a restaurant owner, too, son, so I'd have said the same thing. Put this on," he snickered a little, "Joey-B's tab. He'll presumably be joining us. I'll have a beer – IPA. Salvatore here will have, uh, a club soda with lime. Maybe a few snacks for the table, too? Whatever's the special. We'll add more once Joey-B gets here." Ryan gave a slight nod and returned to the bar to put in the orders.
Sam stood up. "Take my chair, Zio." Patting him on the shoulder in thanks, he sat down next to a stern-looking Salvatore.
"Now, why don't we enjoy the wait? Joey-B wants my blood? Well, let's see if he's man enough to get it himself."
Luigi rested atop his bed in the darkened safehouse. Even though the sun had set an hour prior, he had not turned on the overhead light in the hope of avoiding unwanted attention from his Russian captors. For the twentieth time since lunch, he flexed his reddened hand; punching Lucas in the face felt surprisingly satisfying, and, being held ransom aside, he wished that Daisy had been there to witness the skinny man's post-assault complaining.
Daisy.
Since his mid-afternoon stroll outside of the safehouse, which had been supervised by two English-speaking Russians, he let his mind wander to both her name and image several times as a source of comfort. He hoped that Mario and the others could do something with his potential location. He hoped his older brother had stopped being a macho asshole and called the police or FBI. He hoped Daisy's parents took her, even kicking and screaming, back to San Francisco. As long as she and the rest of his family were safe, he could face certain death. Until then, he visualized a series of snapshots of his and Daisy's life together: her getting accepted into Harvard Law and his easy decision to go with her to Cambridge; spending a wintry Boston night in their warmed bed; arguing over baseball at Fenway; their graduation a few years later – hers in intellectual property law and his from the University of Massachusetts – him following her to California and finding a position in an engineering firm; a few years after that, their wedding in Brooklyn, with all of their family members in attendance; the birth of their firstborn daughter. He noted with some amusement that his future-fantasies involving the beautiful lioness had oscillated between West Coast and East Coast, perhaps in line with his uncertainty as to where she was going.
What if he did survive – what then? his mind prodded.
Laying back on the worn pillows, he considered the albeit unlikely possibility. Would he want to stay in New York or would he take Daisy as far away as possible? Answering honestly to his mental inquisition, if he survived, Luigi intended to follow her, wherever she decided to go.
The door's rattling brought him out of his blissful fantasy life with Daisy. As he winced at the crack of light in his eyes, he heard Alek command him to prepare to leave. Slowly, he complied, slipping on his sneakers and coat; descending the stairs toward the front door, the plumber expected to be cuffed and manhandled when the Russian merely pointed to the waiting black town car. He climbed inside to a blasé Polina; her men suddenly shut the doors and locked the tinted windows. Resigned that they were relocating him once again, he buckled his seat belt and avoided her gaze.
Dimming the cab lights, Polina reached into her mini-fridge for two small bottles of water and handed one to him. "I'm a firm believer in proper hydration, kid," she said in English. "We're going to a dinner party tonight. Since it's an hour's drive one-way, we'll be staying there overnight."
Luigi set the water bottle in the beverage holder. "Why am I going? I mean, wouldn't be risky for me to be in public?"
Lady Bowser sipped her water, then replied, "You won't be in public. And it's best not to complain; your accommodations will be a distinct upgrade."
Neither spoke again during the seventy-minute drive. He tried to anticipate her next move as well as to ascertain just where they were; the windows were obscured so completely that it was impossible for him to know their location. Furthermore, the car's shocks and cruise control were perfectly attuned, making highway and country road driving imperceptible. Compared to the uncertainty of where and what his next jail would be, he preferred being hooded and tied up in the back of a Russian SUV. Having studied the content woman's demeanor, Luigi concluded that she had done this on purpose, to keep him off-balance, psychologically hypersensitive, and malleable. Eventually, the car slowed and turned into what he had surmised was a driveway. It stopped temporarily before continuing at a speed safe for parking. The doors unlocked, and a footman opened the door for the woman to exit first. Cautiously, Luigi followed her out of the car's interior, revealing an ivory, château-like mansion surrounded by precisely-maintained English gardens and shrubs. Two Russian-speaking servants stood at each side of the French doors, beckoning them to enter; the plumber persisted in looking around his new jail: a large crystal and gold chandelier; black and white marble flooring with antique Venetian-style furniture; a large ivory staircase leading to the master bedrooms; several Vermeer and Rembrandt paintings on the walls; Greek statues decorating the vast hallways; a oak-paneled den; and a house-sized kitchen and dining room. Alek, who had already arrived at some point, escorted him to one of the upstairs rooms.
Walking into one of the medium-sized bedrooms with a tall queen bed and navy-blue comforter, he ordered Luigi in Russian to remain there. After the gangster shut the door to his new prison, he examined the handmade furniture, opening the drawers to reveal sets of men's clothing that were a size too large for him. Next, he entered the adjoining jacuzzi bathroom; thankfully, he discovered brand-new toiletries. Unwrapping one of the toothbrushes, a package each of toothpaste and dental floss, a razor, and metal scissors, he took care of his teeth, shaved the nearly two-day-old scruff from his face, and trimmed his mustache. Finally, he inspected his bruised eye which had healed just enough that he could see out of it, although streaks of red, purple, and brown remained. Re-entering the bedroom area, Luigi flinched as he heard a commotion and new voices outside of his room; despite his growing trepidation, he crept to the door and listened through the barrier – children's whimpers and pleas in English, uncomprehending the instructions in Russian. The stern man barked at them; Luigi heard his footsteps march down the stairs. He waited a minute to hear any additional footsteps; when the hallway fell silent, he turned the handle and, to his amazement and dread, found himself free to leave his room. Shutting his own door and walking to the one next to his, he entered a very large room to find a tremoring Wendy and Louie in front of two queen beds.
"Luigi?" she asked uncertainly.
Closing the door behind him, he nodded. "Yeah, it's me," he whispered. "What are youse doing here?"
The children quickly approached the familiar face and, to his shock, embraced him. Wendy began to sob and ramble, "Some masked men grabbed us and threw us in a car. We were taken here, we don't know where we are, Uncle John …"
He moved away to face the terrified youths. "Hey, hey, hey, slow down, aight?" Placing his hands reassuringly on their shoulders, he murmured, "I know. I'm being held here, too. But we gotta keep a cool head. Help's coming, I promise you." Reluctantly, they ceased crying and gave a faint nod.
Wendy reached out to touch the plumber's bruised face, and he was unable to stifle a wince at the sting. "Did they do that?" she asked softly.
"Yeah, kid. It's alright, though. It won't happen to you. I won't let it."
The bedroom door abruptly opened. Spinning around, Luigi immediately stepped in front of the frightened preteens, putting his arms out to force them behind him. Sergei raised his eyebrow, though he did not question the young man's presence in Wendy and Louie's room. "The children will stay," he spoke in Russian. "You, Luigi Mariovich, will come with me."
As he vigilantly started toward the hallway, Wendy grabbed onto him, wordlessly pleading for him to stay. Requesting Sergei to wait a moment, he faced her and her older brother; making sure that Louie could read his lips, he soothed, "I will be back. But if I don't go with him, they may do something to me. Understand? Don't panic. I don't think they'll harm you." Squeezing their hands, he then let go and exited the room. The portly Sergei moved down the large upstairs corridor to another compartment of bedrooms, where two of his men were standing guard. After giving a brusque order in their native language, they unlocked the door for their boss and Luigi. The latter gasped audibly as his eyes zeroed in on the ailing man lying in the king-sized bed. Rushing to his bedside and taking his cold hand, Luigi yelled in English, "What the hell did you do to him?! Zio?!"
Joe moaned in pain. Blinking awake, without his glasses, he rasped, "Luigi?"
The guards hurried inside to reprimand their captive, but their captain held up a hand. "It's an insurance policy," he said in Russian.
Angrily, the young man glared at the Russians. "You didn't need to do this! You have me! He has cancer! Even if you get Pete Morello, my uncle could die anyway!"
"Yes, that is true." With those two cryptic statements, he and the two guards withdrew, leaving the two plumbers alone.
The older man grumbled, "Fuckers broke my glasses. Can't see shit."
"Zio, what happened? Where is Zia? Where is everyone?"
"Crazy Russian bitch sent … men to attack Peach's apartment. Mario was out when it happened. I … don't know …"
Still clasping his hand, a now terrified Luigi pursed his lips to keep from shrieking. Are they going to kill his entire family? Similar to what Wendy had done a few minutes prior, he felt a rough hand touch his bruised face. Although he was careful to keep silent, the older man felt the involuntary spasm of pain pass through his cheek.
"Did they hurt you?" Giuseppe demanded.
Knowing that he would detect an obvious lie, Luigi responded, "Yeah, I got smacked around a bit. But that's all."
"Figli di puttana!" he rasped. "I hate … bein' so fuckin' weak, figlio mio."
A sob escaped his throat as the younger plumber sank to his knees, his hand curled protectively in his adoptive father's. "That's how I feel, Zio. I'm not Mario! I'm sorry I don't know how to fight. You were right; if I hadn't been so obstinate in learning ballet, I could've …"
"Done what?" interrupted the older plumber in an eerily calm voice. "I'll only say this once. Your father was right. Fightin' never amounted to much. These ain't street kids; they're professional killers. Back then, I … I wanted to protect you. I was talkin' outta my ass 'cause I was afraid." Swallowing harshly, he pivoted his head so that his unfocused blue eyes met Luigi's. "Right now, you need to figure out how to stay calm and alive. Don't … let them use me against you. Don't let 'em manipulate you. I've lived my life. You still got yours – decades of it! It doesn't matter what they do to me."
Luigi shook his head violently. "No! No, we'll make it out together, Zio!"
"Figlio!" he barked, cutting him off. "I … I took a nasty blow to the head. I'm no fuckin' doctor, but … it can't be good for my already weakened system. I'm tryin' to stay awake. But I may … not be successful. I can't help ya. If you want to do something, then … do that for me."
The young man's blue eyes became resolutely dark. "No, I won't give up and neither will you! Do you fucking hear me, you stubborn stronzo?!"
Giuseppe snickered in spite of his growing fatigue and ever-present pain. "There are … were … only three other people who call me that: your zia, Uncle Sal, and … your father." A teary smile passed over Luigi's face, and he too started to laugh with his elder when the door opened a second time to reveal Sergei, an unknown, middle-aged man of Indian or Pakistani descent carrying a brown leather bag, and a tall, bruised man. As Luigi interposed his body between them and Giuseppe, the tall man held up a hand. "Weeg, he's my father's doctor. He's here to treat Joe the Plumber." He glared at the three men, refusing to budge.
"I am Doctor Vijay Chandrasekar. I'm here to look over your father," the physician introduced himself in a faint British-Indian accent. When the plumber failed to react, he reached into his khaki pants pocket to take out his business card and, handing it to the hostile man, spoke once more, "Please. I am licensed in New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts. I graduated from Harvard Medical School in Internal Medicine and Neurology." Scrutinizing the card, Luigi eventually moved aside to allow the man passage. Chandrasekar set his medical kit down and gently examined the pale Giuseppe, steadily requesting basic information and evaluating his memory. A few minutes later, he announced, "He does not seem to have any ICHs or spinal injuries, but I can't be absolutely certain without a CT." Helping the skinny man to a sitting position, he supported his frail body with pillows. "You can give him an ice pack to reduce the swelling. Tylenol only. No ibuprofen or aspirin."
"Excuse me, sir?" whispered the young plumber. "He has lung cancer. Stage II or III, I think. He's been treated recently with chemo and radiation therapy."
The physician's face fell a little. Glancing at Lucas, he asked in an almost sarcastic tone, "I don't suppose you'll allow me to take him to be scanned?" At the man's shaking head, he turned his attention to the worried Brooklynite. "Optimally, we'd need to have him CT scanned. I can't guarantee that there's no bleeding. If there is … it could be particularly worrisome for him. If he begins to lose consciousness, vomits, or develops an extremely painful headache, you will absolutely need to telephone 911." He sighed forlornly. "In his case, absolutely no aspirin. If he's able, he may eat a light dinner. Clear fluids as much as possible. No external stimuli or bright lights." Standing up and repacking his medical equipment, Doctor Chandrasekar put a reassuring hand upon Luigi's shoulder. "If his condition changes, my telephone number is on the card." Then he took his leave, with Lucas escorting him out of the bedroom and house.
Once they were gone, the plumber inquired in Russian, "Thank you, but why? The doctor's seen me. Do you … plan to kill him, as well?"
Sergei crossed his arms. "That depends on you, Luigi Mariovich."
"I don't have fifty million," he responded in Russian. Switching to English, as he did not have the adequate vocabulary, he added, "And we both know Junior won't pay the ransom."
Tilting his head, the middle-aged man answered, "True."
"Then what do you want from me?"
After analyzing the Italian plumber for a moment, the notoriously unreadable Sergei, without uttering a single word, left the room. Giuseppe's moan interrupted his internal exploration over what the gangster and his crew could possibly want; he returned to the man's bedside and mumbled, "What is it?"
"What … did you ask that Russian fuck?"
Luigi sighed a little and responded, "I asked him why they brought the doctor. Not that I'm ungrateful; I just wonder why a bunch of hardened Russian criminals would care."
"Did he answer you?"
He shook his head. "Nah, Zio."
Joe swallowed and opened his unfocused eyes weakly in his adopted son's direction. "Well, whatever their bullshit reason is … If they wanted to pick a fight with Hell himself, they'll soon get their wish, figlio."
The younger man frowned in confusion; for a brief moment, he wondered if his paternal uncle was losing lucidity from the head injury. "Zio?"
For the third time, the door unlocked; Luigi turned to a neutral-appearing Lucas, who was carrying a medical ice pack, a bottle of Tylenol, and a glass of water. Accepting the medicine and compress, the plumber gently put the ice-blue, bag-like pack between the satin-covered pillow and Giuseppe's head. Then he took two pills out of the bottle and held them up to his uncle. "I got the water. Just eat 'em." With an obligatory eyeroll, Joe nibbled the medicine from his nephew's hand and readied himself for the tepid water as the glass touched his dry lips. He drank until he could no longer taste the sour powder in his mouth. Setting the glass on the night table, Luigi muttered a thank-you to his former friend.
Placing a hand on his friend's right shoulder, he said, "Weeg, we'll make it out of this. Once they get their money on Saturday morning, we'll be home free. We can get out of New York. We'll go to Tahiti or Fiji – somewhere warm."
Giuseppe scoffed; rotating his head to stare at Lucas's blurry figure, he glowered, "You really think so? Before now, Lucas, I thought you were just a spoiled moccioso. Now? I'm wondering what fuckin' planet you live on. These friends of yours? They'd soon as kill ya for being an annoying little stronzo. See, money isn't what they're after – it's blood, vendetta. And it's not your blood they care about."
Lucas petulantly crossed his arms, glaring at the older man. "Yeah, the Rigassi blood line. I'm well aware. Thank Pete Morello for that one. Speaking of friends, Joe the Plumber, isn't a bit of pot meet kettle?"
Much to Luigi's and Lucas's dismay and building anger, Joe began to laugh, wincing occasionally at his pulsing head. "Oh, you arrogant piece of shit. I hope … you enjoy … the event horizon. Watch … your fucked up planet fall inside. No escape."
The man in purple shifted his regard to Luigi, who also frowned uncomprehendingly at the bedridden man. "The hell's he talking about, Weeg?" Waiting for several seconds for a response that never came, he retorted, "I think that bump on your head knocked a few screws loose, old man. Anyway, my bestie here's coming with me. My father's hosting a nice dinner for our Russian colleagues. Once this bullshit whatever is done, and Pete Morello's bloody head ends up on Crazy Lady's wall, Luigi's coming with me. Permanently. He'll make something of his life and leave you in the sewer where you belong." Flashing a sickly smile, Lucas then winked at him. "Assuming, of course, your black lung doesn't kill you first."
Seizing his irritated friend's arm, he began leading him out of the bedroom when they heard another few chuckles. "That might be true, kid. But it ain't me you should be worried about."
The aggravated Manhattanite marched his friend out into the marble hallway, even as the latter broke his grip. "What the hell are you up to?" Luigi hissed.
He shrugged carelessly. "I thought I was getting you out of a bad situation. You're welcome?"
"Oh, fuck you!" Spinning on his heel, the plumber marched down the hall to the children's room. Ignoring Lucas's footsteps behind him, he knocked on the door and entered. Wendy and Louie, who had been sitting uneasily on their beds, stood up to greet their ally. Their smiles soon disappeared upon sighting the tall man in purple. "Ignore him," Luigi spoke, taking a few steps forward, "he's the Russian villa's idiot."
Lucas crossed his arms. "How rude!"
The children slowly approached the Italian, each interlacing his or her hand with the adult's. In response, the plumber reassuringly squeezed their clasped hands and guided them past the taller man and the doorframe. Lucas watched this with a mixture of amusement and alarm. Ever since his best friend had started screwing the Amazon Queen, he had become increasingly domestic, from ensuring that she was served the proper rabbit food, in spite of the irritation caused to everyone else, to leaving her satisfied in other ways. The Manhattanite had originally attributed this to Luigi's inherent, whipped-bitch nature; it was now apparent to him that his friend was considering … He shuddered, refusing to even think of that word. Worse, he was acting like a caretaker, a parent, to the Bowser brats. And why? That family had been nothing but trouble to Luigi and him! As he shadowed them down the staircase, he summoned all of his minimal self-control to refrain from expressing his crossness. Once they had descended the last step, he moved in front of Luigi, Wendy, and Louie and showed them to an exquisitely-decorated living room: against the backdrop of ivory walls and large windows rested seventeenth-century Flemish paintings, cream, brown, and reddish-colored Persian rugs, handcrafted Italian furniture, and two large gold and blue sofas facing each other. Wendy and Louie sat down on the sofa closest to the entrance while Luigi remained standing, albeit protectively, next to the arm.
A few minutes of silence passed in the living room. Growing bored of his friend's rebuff in favor of the quaking Bowser Brats, Lucas glided from the other sofa to the mahogany grand piano in the corner. While arranging himself on the bench to play, he heard the Brooklynite ask, "What is this place, Lucas? And why are we here?"
He shrugged as he began the first few chords of Debussy's Rêverie. "A Greek diplomat friend of my father's owns this house; the FBI and cops can't search it without causing an international incident." Glancing at his angry friend and continuing to move his long fingers across the keys, Lucas added, "My father's here, Weeg. We are both his prisoners."
Evgeniy entered the room. "Dinner has been made," he announced in English for Lucas's and the children's benefit. Lucas reluctantly stopped mid-chord, and Luigi enjoined the bambini to take his hands. The group of four entered the mammoth kitchen and dining room where George Kariolis, Polina, Sergei, and Alek were settled. From the head of the table, George barked at his only son in Greek, to which the latter rolled his eyes and directed the kids to chairs next to Polina and Sergei and Luigi to his father's right. Once everyone was in their designated seat, the Greek staff commenced with serving the main and side dishes: bean salad, lamb, seafood, dolmas, black caviar, pita, feta, beets, and roasted potatoes.
"Please," he gestured in English, "I had all of these flown in from Greece. The vegetables in New Jersey pale in comparison, even in the fall." As Sergei and Alek reached straightaway for the beets, black caviar, and dolmas, George hummed, then crooked a finger to his butler for a selection of wines. "I'll also have something sent upstairs. It's a pity that the Masciarelli uncle cannot join us. Cancer is quite … painful, from what I understand. Makes life rather unbearable, between the treatments and poor prognosis."
Despite feeling an inner spark of rage, Luigi, who was serving himself potatoes and lemon-baked salmon, did not rise to the elder Kariolis's obvious attempt at baiting him. Although he did not comment, Sergei gave the man an unreadable look.
Between bites of his lamb and salad, George went on, this time directing his attention to the Russians. "I also compliment your family, Madame Polina. These are your children from Marco?"
Wendy and Louie froze when the woman smiled like a malevolent Mona Lisa. "Yes, they are."
Nodding, Georgie grinned. "Family is first in any civilized culture. And your family is rather … unique. Jackie's daughter, making you the cousin of Luigi here. A Campisi. Then Mister Sergei here as head of the house." Blotting his mouth and line-thin mustache, he added, "And on the subject of family, I must, Mister Sergei, apologize to you on behalf of my fucking incompetent son. I trust that you have received the payment?"
"We have," replied Sergei in English.
"Excellent. You will, of course, receive the second on Saturday."
"George," interrupted Polina, "what of my … grandfather?"
He lifted his shoulders. "He's ineffectual as usual. It's expected that he won't make a fuss, not even over his sons' deaths. That leaves us with two problems which will be dealt with on Saturday morning."
"Three." The Athenian raised his eyebrows at the woman who gave him an indecipherable, tight smile. "We have three problems. The Colorado Turd, his red plunger, and his shit-covered rosary."
Alek choked on his bread in an attempt not to laugh while Sergei merely raised an eyebrow at his niece's coarse imagery. Though Luigi affixed a deceptively uncomprehending visage, he was inwardly horrified at witnessing the likely plan to kill Pete, Mario, and Salvatore. Still unsure of whom the third person could be, the Athenian chewed on a piece of flatbread. Seconds passed in muteness; Polina watched incredulously at the slow man, waiting for any sign of recognition, when Lucas tossed his napkin on the table and exclaimed, "She's talking about Father Rigassi! The neighborhood-do-gooder-Mafia priest of Bensonhurst?! Jesus Fucking Christ!"
George's face flushed in embarrassment and anger. Slamming his fist on the tabletop, which caused both Luigi and the preteens to flinch, he yelled in Greek, "Boy, do not forget who is the head of the house! Disrespect me again, and I'll have these Russian peasants put a bullet in you!" Lucas did not lower his gaze; his brown eyes narrowed just as irately in defiance. Polina whispered to the children to calm themselves, passing them a bit of fruit to distract them. Assured that his son was subdued, the Greek resumed in English, "My apologies, Madame. Now, to your point. This … Father Rigassi … He is a priest?"
She chuckled, then took a sip of wine. "That's what he claims."
"How do you mean?" Putting his right hand, which was adorned with a thick, gold pinky ring, on his chest, he said, "Forgive me; I am a humble Greek man, raised to respect men of the church. I am Greek Orthodox, but we do honor Roman Catholic priests."
Lucas put his napkin over his mouth and mumbled, "What a crock of shit …"
Polina replied, "So are we – Russian Orthodox." Sergei and Alek gave faint, almost apologetic nods of agreement. She quickly turned to her now inquisitive children. "Perhaps after dessert and tea, I'll tell you the story of how I conned your father into getting you baptized as Russian Orthodox instead of Catholics." Facing George once more, she amended, "Anyway. Priests don't concern us; Mafia captains, however, do. You've had quite a few conversations with my late father, yes?" He nodded while eating a forkful of potato and meat. "Did he ever mention a man called Il Mietitore?"
George's fork clattered to his plate. He stared intently at the blonde who continued to eat for a moment. Once she had his full attention, Lady Bowser spoke again, "I take it you have. Honestly, the man's reputation … Well, it's not dinner conversation and certainly not appropriate for an eleven- and a thirteen-year-old. Let's say something occurred in '82, and he left to join the priesthood. He's been out for thirty years. Suffice to say that he's returned. Word on the street is that he's been hiding Pete Morello out of some misplaced sense of family."
Folding his hands in thought, he nodded slowly. "Jackie did not tell me much, only that this man … was essentially a serial killer. Like that Roy DeMeo and his band of murderers – no one knows just how many he's killed." Whereas Luigi winced in shame at his maternal uncle's past, Lucas listened attentively. "He disappeared; I always thought that it was either urban legend or Carlo killed him."
"Carlo did not kill him. Honestly, it's too bad – it would have made things easier for us all. He survived as Father Salvatore Rigassi."
"Then why did he not … kill us back in '95?" asked the Athenian who seemed unconcerned with his admission of guilt in Luigi's attempted murder. Having understood the reference, the Brooklynite's eyes widened, and he threw daggers at the squirming, almost guilt-ridden Lucas.
The woman sipped her wine. "According to credible sources, which neither my husband nor I knew at the time, Father Rosetti kept him from a permanent position in Bensonhurst. He was … an ally of sorts. Even though Father Rigassi had been ordained a few years prior, and had received permission from the Brooklyn Diocese to serve as a junior – uh – priest, I guess, Rosetti said no until after 1995."
Luigi froze mid-bite, suddenly sick to his stomach. The gentle, grandfather-like Monsignor Rosetti, who had always indulged his curious mind, had not only kept his maternal uncle from protecting him, but had moreover been a potential co-conspirator in Marco Bowser's attempt on his and Yoshi's lives.
"That's what he was hiding," growled George, tossing his napkin down on the table.
She smirked. "Hence three problems."
Nodding seriously, George summoned his staff. "We should send the kids upstairs. I'll have baklava, soumada, and coffee sent up to them." He gave the corresponding order in Greek, to which they obeyed. Moving to Luigi's, Lucas's, Wendy's, and Louie's chairs, they conducted them upstairs when the elder Greek called out, "Take Lucas to the den, please. I don't want him near the Masciarelli kid at the moment." Despite the tall man's protests, he was separated from his friend and the children.
The Greek and Russian servants allowed the children to stay with Luigi as they entered Giuseppe's guarded room. Wendy covered her mouth at the pale man in the bed. "Zio?" rasped Luigi.
"Yeah, kid."
"What's wrong with him?" inquired Louie, who was as horrified as his sister.
Taking the thin man's hand, Luigi answered, "He has cancer. It's okay; he's not contagious."
Wendy slowly approached them. "Why's he here and not a hospital?"
Evgeniy and several Greek servers re-entered with a tray of fresh baklava, glasses of soumada, a cup of coffee for Luigi, and a bowl of lemon rice soup for Giuseppe. "Eat. Stay where you are. You will be checked," warned the Russian before leaving dim lights on and closing the door.
Carefully taking the soup in hand to spoon-feed it to his uncle, Luigi whispered, "Go ahead and eat, bambini. It's fresh baklava, after all."
The preteen siblings did not need to be told twice; they eat grabbed two or three pieces of sticky baklava and a glass of the sweetened orange-almond juice. Blowing on each spoonful, he slowly fed the soup to his paternal uncle who, per his usual stubbornness, rolled his eyes and mumbled that he was aight for now. Luigi did not accept his no and insisted that he eat. Much to their surprise and delight, the sour liquid did not seem to upset the older plumber's stomach or warped tastebuds. As he cared for his adopted father, he mulled over what he had heard at the dinner table: Pete, Mario, and Uncle Sal were still alive and considered significant threats to their plans; George Kariolis was involved in the attempts on his life; Father Rosetti kept Sal from arriving months, if not years earlier.
"What is it, figlio?" asked Giuseppe in Italian, wanting to keep the children unaware of any disturbing news.
Luigi checked over his shoulder to see Wendy and Louie engrossed in a sign-language conversation, their moods having improved from the pastry and soft drink. "Lucas's father admitted to being part of the plot to kill Yoshi and I in '95. They also … think Mario, Pete, and Uncle Sal are still alive. I'm not surprised at any of that. But …" Joe waited expectantly. "Zio, Father Rosetti … kept Sal from coming back … before."
He bit his lip in visible anger. "That sadistic son of a bitch. I never … understood the politics, even as Sal was allowed to intervene with Mario after Gabby died in 1990. Rosetti also sent him to San Francisco in 2000. He wouldn't even let him come back when your father went … missing and during those months when I was at the Pile."
"Zio, George didn't know that Sal was … made."
Joe's blue eyes tried to focus on the blurry form of Luigi. "Now, that's interesting. You'd think he'd know."
Pausing their conversation when the Russians came in to check on the adults and children, they resumed in Italian once they had gone. "Zio, the kids … They're Polina's. I get why she'd take them. But why did she take you?"
Giuseppe shook his head prior to swallowing another spoonful of soup. "Figlio, I'm not sure I was the target. I'm sure she was aiming for Peach or …"
"Cut the crap," interrupted Luigi in a calm tone. "They got you a doctor; taking a man with moderate to advanced cancer is a risky move, more than abducting, say, Peach or even me. Sergei told me that you are an insurance policy." Exhaling, he forced himself to stare down his notoriously hardheaded uncle. "When I was in Colorado last month, Pete's sister, Laura, told me a rumor involving Uncle Sal, that he was … different." He watched as Giuseppe became stone-faced. "And this rumor, I believe, is true. Because it runs in the family." The older plumber first frowned in confusion, then his blue eyes widened in shock. "Before Daisy and after Éclair at Brooklyn City, there was … Mark."
"I remember," replied Joe. "He was that Russian kid who you always hung out with at Staten Island Tech. He was a vast improvement over Lucas, but … your zia and I never liked him much. He was always such a cocky prick. I always wondered … if that was why you started investing in Russian when you had been so resistant before. But Lu and your cousin Maria … knew, I think, before I did."
"Yeah," he chuckled in reminiscence. "That was part of it. As I once said to Daisy, who knows about both Mark and Éclair, I like … variety and excitement. Anyway, the real question is, Zio, who else knows about Sal and … you?"
The young man braced himself for an angry reply or outright refusal to answer. Instead, Joe sighed in defeat. "I don't know – and that's the truth, figlio. Your Zia … knows a little bit. I never used her!" He nodded in understanding. "Your father and Pete … knew. That was one reason why Sal left for the West. He couldn't be … in the Mafia. It's possible that someone in the crew knew. I doubt Carlo or Junior did, 'cause if they had, they'd have killed him."
"Has to be the mole that Sal was taking about. Because, somehow, that woman knows." Luigi fed him a last spoonful of soup. "This is going to get ugly, isn't it?"
Giuseppe closed his eyes. "Yeah, kid. That's why … you need to keep your head on straight. Don't let 'em … use me against ya. Because they will. And with your … abilities, it's like givin' the A-Bomb to the Nazis. I'm a sick old man; I'm almost useless to them."
The Russians and Greeks entered a fourth time; the servants cleared away the finished dishes, leaving another plate of baklava and pitchers of soumada and coffee.
Once the door closed, Luigi regarded his fatigued uncle with a resolute expression. "Zio, I'm not without agency here. I'm … no longer the scared kid who got picked on by the other, bigger kids. The problem is … if I don't act, then we all die. They won't spare me, just as they won't spare you. They're keeping us alive until they eliminate three people: Mario, Sal, and Pete. Depending on what that USB does, they may even attempt to kill Daisy. We're the bait."
"Figlio, what can you do? Huh? You're a prisoner!" Shaking his head angrily, he moaned, "Please … don't put yourself in harm's way."
Even though she could not understand the Italian words, the harshness of the sick man's tone drew Wendy's attention, with Louie reading his sister's body language. "Is he okay?" she whispered.
"Yeah," Luigi immediately responded. "He's just upset at the situation. Go get another piece of that baklava, huh?"
Louie shook his head. "You're not eating."
"Oh, I'm not that hungry, kid."
Pouring some of the coffee and snatching a piece of pastry, Wendy shoved them at him. "You're the only non-psycho here. What are we left with if you croak?"
He laughed, unable to argue with the preteen girl's logic. "Aight, ragazza." Joe looked curiously at the silver coffee pot. As he noshed on the syrupy baklava, he followed those familiar blue eyes to its goal. "Ah, Jesus," he lamented in English, "If Zia knew I gave you coffee this late in the evening and after a head injury, she'd kill me!"
The older man glanced optimistically in his direction. "I'm currently being held prisoner by Russian mafiosi. What's she gonna do?"
Huffing, Luigi relented, poured a little of the coffee in the cup, and held it to him. "You're not getting a full cup, so don't even ask!"
Giuseppe gratefully sipped the drink. "Ah. I hate to admit it, but those Greek and Russian assholes know how to make decent coffee."
A metallic gray-suited and gold-chained Joey Bernacchi strolled inside the Koopa Bar, accompanied by one of his soldiers. Making his way to the back where the patrons had cleared out to leave the large Mafia party, he scanned the attendees, noting the presence of Pete Morello, his boy-soldiers, some little Asian prick, and … him. Markie and Leo soundlessly cleared a spot for their boss, who positioned himself directly across from Pete and Salvatore. The bodyguard stood to the captain's right against the wall. Ryan, who gulped at serving eight made guys, at least two of whom were captains, walked apprehensively to the newcomer and his soldier to take their order. Joey-B flashed a couple Ben Franklins at him, calling it a pre-service tip, and asked for a bottle of his best red wine. As the bartender went to prepare the drink, the Staten Island capo studied the poker-faced Pete Morello and the unreadable Salvatore Rigassi. A minute later, Ryan returned with a bottle of 2005 Petrus and presented it to Joey who, impressed that the Koopa of all places would carry a fine-labeled Merlot, motioned to pour a glass for everyone at the table.
"Life's too short to drink piss wine," he began, raising his glass. Once everyone had a bit of the wine, he murmured, "Salute!" Repeating it back to him, Joey sipped the wine and hummed his approval. "Now, what are two dead men and a bunch of kids doing talkin' to me?"
Pete smirked. "Oh, we're very much alive, Joey. Alive and pissed off."
"Oh?"
Leaning back in his chair, Pete crossed his arms and pretended to think vigorously. "Yeah, see, I can see why the extremely chickenshit would want to play Game of Thrones and try to whack me. Emphasis on the try part. Must not be Star Wars fans." Salvatore coughed to stifle a snigger. "Anyway," he carried on, "the aforementioned chickenshits decided to take my late cousin's brother-in-law and her youngest son. Hence why my other cousin is here. I don't think I need to introduce you, do I?"
Joey calmly sipped more of the wine. "I was at the meeting with respect to Gabriella's youngest. You're his rabbi, so that's your problem. As for the rest? I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
"The Russians attacked Mario's apartment earlier," hissed Salvatore. "They assaulted Mario's ragazza, her servant, Giuseppe's wife, and took Giuseppe." Leaning into Joey's personal space, he flashed a predatory grin. "If I find you were responsible, Joey, I'll use my authority from Uncle Carlo. Capisci? You know what the rules are involving bystanders."
The capo burst out laughing. "Carlo? He's fucking milquetoast! Your authority means shit, Sal. Assuming, of course, you've been welcomed back into the family." Salvatore's eyes turned pitch black and, like a wolf eyeing a particularly tasty-looking sheep, bore into him. Once more, Bernacchi cast his eyes upon Pete, who retained the same posture as before – crossed arms and a bored visage.
"What makes you think he hasn't been in the family this whole time, Joey?" the Denverite finally asked. "And what makes you think I was Luigi's rabbi?"
"Wait, what?" gasped the New York capo, unable to keep the words from coming out of his mouth. Likewise, Yoshi's mouth fell open.
Pete rolled his eyes. "You stupid sonofabitch! Actually, all of you New York capos are stupid assholes. Hence why you either end up in the can or dead. Personally, that suits me just fine. However, I – we," he glanced at the dark-eyed Salvatore, "have bigger problems. Now, I couldn't give less of a shit about your little coke-and-free-pizza concessions stand. What I do care about are two names: Luigi and Giuseppe Masciarelli. So where the fuck are they, you shit-sniffing motherfucker? Because if you don't tell me, Joey," he chuckled dramatically, "well, it won't be me who will deal with you."
Joey glanced once more at the man in black, to which Pete raised his eyebrows. "Bullshit. He's a priest. He'll not only be defrocked, but end up in Hell with the rest of us."
"You think that scares me?" deadpanned the Sicilian. "I don't honestly care if I bring or send you to Hell. Frankly, I think the good people of Bensonhurst, not to mention the Almighty, would write it off as an exorcism."
Markie, Leo, and Joey's bodyguard exchanged a frightful look. As the latter slowly reached inside his jacket, Salvatore, without taking his eyes off Joey-B, slid one of the clean burger knives toward him and tossed it so that the sharp edge nicked the soldier's right cheek prior to sticking into the wall. With panicked eyes and gaping mouths, the wiseguys, Yoshi, and Ryan observed the scene; whereas Pete remained emotionless, Joey allowed two droplets of sweat to roll down his forehead and cheek. Nodding at Il Mietitore, he mumbled, "Aight. I don't know where they are. It wasn't my idea."
"Well, whose fucking idea was it, Joey?" demanded the Colorado caporegime.
"I don't know. Like youse, I was kept out of the loop. I don't mind selling smack to whores and lowlifes. But I don't abduct and kill kids. And as for Giuseppe and his late brother … neither of 'em ever bothered me. I got no beef with him."
"And who wants us dead?"
Joey shook his head. "If he were still alive, I'd have said Jackie. Maybe that fat fuck Tony. Especially as you stole that fuckin' money, Petey."
"I didn't steal the one-fifty! I got set up by Jackie's little buddy, Lucas Kariolis. He and his father have been playing us all."
Crossing his arms to copy Pete's body language, the Staten Island wiseguy scoffed. "Yeah, right. Tell me another one, you slimy Denver fuck."
"It's true, Joey," interjected Salvatore. "Lucas and George Kariolis are terrorists. They're working with the Hezbollah and the Russians. And they've got someone on the inside."
His eyes expanded and he made a stern gesture with his index finger. "Nah, nah – youse ain't pinning this shit on me. I am not a rat – not for the fuckin' Feds, the cops, and especially not for those commie fucks! The Vor muscled in on my territory – I was takin' in ten big ones a week in Port Richmond! Carlo and Junior asked me to drop it to avoid a war. I got a share in Elizabeth instead, which was a cut in my pocket. There's no fuckin' way I'd ever willingly help them!"
The table fell quiet with the realization that they had all been played. A seething Salvatore rose to his feet and stormed toward the exit, hands balled up at his sides. As Yoshi, Matt, and Ryan quickly filed after him, Joey poured and downed the last of the Merlot.
Dashing out of the glass door, the former mafioso, breathing heavily against his heart's burn and mind's rageful ebb, raked his thin hands through his dampened dark hair. "Salvatore!" shouted Yoshi from a few feet away. He ignored the young man's pleas to recognize them, instead letting out the mixture of an aggrieved man and betrayed soldier. Two minutes later, Pete exited the bar, Sam directly behind him; he warily approached the hunched figure, whispering easy, Sal, easy, until he was inches from him.
"What the hell happened?" inquired Matt. "If the mole's not Joey-B …?"
As Pete was about to reply, a familiar, portly figure and a taller man in a dark suit and matching trench coat advanced on them from a parked SUV further down 18th Avenue. "Mario?!" cried Yoshi.
"Yeah, this one's a real pain in the ass. Cristina pleaded with me to go with this crazy Italian asshole." Both the older mafiosi's eyes enlarged at DK's presence. "It's been a long time, Petey, Sal."
The Denverite's brown eyes became misty at several unvoiced memories from thirty-some years past. "Yeah."
Mario crossed his arms over his trademark red hoodie and broad chest, wincing at his injuries. "So, what the fuck did we miss?"
Sam, Pete, and Matt looked away from Mario and DK, whose gold lieutenant's badge glinted in the street and car lights; Salvatore, still upset from the sit-down, likewise remained silent. Ryan stammered, "W-w-we're on a street corner in front of a Mafia bar. Joey-B's inside."
DK nodded. "Alright. Send Mario a text."
Without a word, Pete escorted the suffering Salvatore to their SUV while the youths trailed after Sam. Mario and DK returned to their vehicle and waited as the others drove off into the night. Five minutes afterward, the plumber's phone buzzed with the address of a motel located near Woodbridge Township. DK drove around Mapleton and Flatbush for an additional half-hour before heading westward on I-278 to New Jersey.
As DK's vehicle pulled into the largely empty lot of the low-budget, though not quite seedy motel off the interchange of US-1 and US-9. Mario received a final text from Yoshi containing Pete's room number. Parking opposite a few eighteen wheelers, the lieutenant and his passenger disembarked the SUV, entered the unlocked rear door where the physicist was waiting, and they collectively took the stairs to room 257. Upon seeing the recently arrived, Sam opened the door and motioned them inside. Pete was sitting on the bed next to a pale Salvatore, whose right fist angrily gripped his rosary.
"Alright, Petey, so what's with the impromptu drive to Jersey?" commanded DK, who sat down in the swivel chair at the standard-issue motel desk.
He cleared his throat. "I can't be seen talking to NYPD, DK. You know that. And no offense; normally, I'd tell you to go fuck yourself." Managing a smile, he added, "Even though it's good to see you."
DK raised an eyebrow. "Still doing the Mafia shit? It's a miracle that you haven't been caught." Rubbing his eyes tiredly and exhaling, he shrugged. "Anyway, that's not why we're here. What the hell's going on? Why did Chechen contract killers attack Mario and Cristina's apartment? And where the hell are Joe and Luigi?"
"Russian Mafia has 'em, DK," spoke Mario who was standing nearby. "I attended a sit-down between them and the Moranos. They've ransomed Luigi for fifty mil."
"Which they will almost certainly not pay," he concluded coolly. Eyeing Pete suspiciously, he inquired in a sarcastic tone, "And do I want to know why they even picked Luigi?"
Pete nodded while pinching his nose. "Yeah, that one's on me, DK. Just know that … Luigi's actions have all been legal."
"Yeah, well, I truly hope that you encounter Jumpman's angry ghost on your way to Hell," the lieutenant growled. "And Joe? Why him? Or was he a crime of opportunity?"
Mario and DK both noticed Salvatore become even paler at the question, to which Pete intervened, "We went to the Koopa Bar to talk to Joey-B. Someone put a hit on me."
DK rolled his eyes. "Yeah, so I've heard. Word on the street is that you stole one-fifty from a little scam that you, your little group of misfits, Fat Tony, and one Lucas Kariolis were running. Instead of splitting that money with the late Jackie Morano, you hid it. Then Carlo and Junior put a hit on your ass. Hence why I said you were lucky. So cut the shit, Petey – why were you really at the Koopa?"
"Because there's a goddamned mole!" Pete shouted at his former friend. The unmoved police officer cocked his eyebrow once more, wordlessly encouraging him to continue. "Jackie's fucking around produced a child. Polina Lepeshinski Bowser! Not only that, but that bitch tried to kill Luigi and Yoshi. Remember that – '95?!" The lieutenant's lips parted in shock, and he unconsciously shifted his body weight toward the capo. "Polina's also associated with the Russian Mafia. That's who has Luigi! This is war. So no fucking shit they won't pay it! Because they're using someone in my organization to take over Brooklyn! They know fifty's a fucking pittance!"
"Shit …" swore DK absently. "We've been tracking several suspicious meetings between agents of the Vor with the LCN. A few months back, we … definitively linked them to the plumber's union. Scott Pichler and John Slaughter, to be specific. Despite our shared reconnaissance with the FBI, which is always questionable, we never saw any woman."
"Yo, DK, do you know Aleksandr Davidovich Baranov?" inquired Mario.
His dark-skinned face blanched. "How the fuck do you know that name?!" he exclaimed in alarm. "Is that who has Luigi?" Mario nodded. "Fuck!" he leapt out of his chair and began to pace. "Baranov's bad, bad news. He's a soldier of the Vor's. Just in the past year alone, we think the guy's committed fifteen murders. And the reason why I say 'we think' is because we've never found the bodies. His boss is Sergei Shereshevsky, the equivalent of caporegime. He's a favorite of the Vor's and particularly feared in Brighton Beach." He looked at Pete. "How the hell did you not know this? I thought your thing was blackmail?"
"We've heard of Shereshevsky and the Vor. But unless they've muscled into our … areas, we have an agreement with other organizations not to interfere. And frankly," he shook his head at his own stupidity and greed, "I was too blinded by my longstanding rivalry with Jackie to notice. That's, again, on me."
DK scoffed. "Well, at least you admit it. So why Joe, and what did you get out of a gutter-bug like Joey-B? Baranov and Shereshevsky wouldn't have even entertained using Chechens unless they were after specific people. They have no problem getting their hands dirty. You hear what I'm saying? Joe was the target! Our friend, you fuck! Him and possibly Cristina."
Pete's expression became unreadable. "As I said, DK, there's a mole. They're after me. And as for Cristina, it's to draw out Mario."
"Yeah? Then why's Sal here?" challenged the man as he closed the distance to the capo.
"Woah, woah, woah! Easy!" cried Mario, moving between the glaring men. "Let's not get carried away here, aight? Easy!"
"Joey-B's not the mole," interjected Yoshi. "He's one of three major … uh … Mafia guys with the knowledge and presence in Jersey. But he was stopped by Junior and Carlo from whacking some Russian assholes who were, uh, trespassing? I don't know Mafia lingo, sorry."
Stepping away from each other, DK spat, "Yeah, your new buddy, Baranov!" Taking several deep breaths to keep his legendary temper in check, he went on in a more even tone, "I doubt Joey-B would be … amenable to working with the guy who cost him thousands, if not a couple million a month."
"Which means … Junior's the mole," rasped Matt. "Joey-B said that Junior and Carlo asked him to back down from ordering a hit."
"There's more than one." The entire group turned to the previously uncommunicative Salvatore. Raising his head to expose his tortured blackish-brown orbs, he spoke in a harsh voice, "Junior wouldn't have bothered with Joe – he was always a civilian. The Russians … took him to get to me. I … stand in the way of their takeover, more so than even Pete."
Mario shook his head. "Why you, Uncle Sal? You gave that shit up thirty years ago!"
He nodded. "I did. Mostly." At his nephew's and DK's unspoken question, he snickered a little. "Once you're made, you can never leave the family. Not entirely. It's true that I haven't committed any crimes since '82. But that doesn't mean my knowledge ended there. And I'm the head of the … Rigassi family. Luigi is my niputellinu. And Joe is … also my family."
"So who's the second mole?" enjoined Sam uncertainly.
Sal sighed and unfolded his hands to look into his palms. "Junior's the underboss; however, he needs the backing of the capos, or the strongest capos left standing, to make his run for boss work. He will kill Carlo eventually. With Pete out of the way, that only leaves two possibilities. Joey-B, who's got a beef with the Russians, and …"
"Vinny!" hissed Mario, now enraged, while Pete's eyes narrowed in comprehension, ire, and culpability. "That motherfucker got me out of the house just so they could go after Peaches and Joe! Him and that rat-fuck José!"
The former mafioso ignored his eldest nephew's outburst; peering into his left palm, he traced a decades-old diagonal scar with his right index finger.
Hell's coming with me.
Daisy stared out of the twenty-second-floor windows of the Midtown four-star hotel. Peach was able to call her and Miles from another location to let them know that she and Mario were safe, and Rospo and Lucia had been taken to New York-Presbyterian for various injuries. As of six o'clock in the evening, the Libyan was still in surgery and the Masciarelli matriarch was in recovery from a mild concussion and several deep bruises, albeit under heavy guard by both the NYPD and a few off-duty volunteers from her brother-in-law's old firehouse who had heard about the assault. There was, however, no news about Luigi's whereabouts. Harry and Yael tried to keep her mind occupied with law school applications and interviews, for which she received invitations from Columbia and Chicago, her Master's project, and the latest in American football. Although she was responsive, her normal enthusiasm was blighted to a few pointed comments about her father's beloved New England Patriots. They even ordered several of her favorite dishes – hummus, falafel, ma'amoul, and dairy-free ice cream – only to receive a forced, thin-lipped smile from her.
She wanted her lion.
Miles's eyes followed the line that she was making in the floor; with every step, she was growing more and more irascible. "Y-You know, pacing probably won't change –" He was cutoff mid-sentence from the annoyed lioness's piercing glare.
"I have half a mind to go to New Jersey and confront the Russians myself!"
The hacker gaped at her in disbelief. "D-D-Daisy, I think that would be a big mistake. I mean, aside from your parents and Mario, who'd make sure that I'd die a slow, painful death upstate in a thunderstorm, they have guns, they're dangerous, and …"
"And they have Luigi!" she growled, her amber orbs contracting like a cat's eyes on a hunt.
He chewed on his lip. Daisy's computer skills were, unfortunately, not good enough to help him on the Dark Web. Like Mario, she was a skilled martial artist, though he had his doubts whether she could defend herself, in the words of Mr. X, with terminal intensity. Furthermore, her unlicensed legal knowledge was useless in matters of national and international criminal jurisprudence. He coughed, attempting to search for a suitable, non-violent kitty-toy with which to distract her from her more self-destructive tendencies.
Her thoughts of escape and his tabulation of potentially useful tasks for her to do were interrupted by the unexpected ring of her phone. Running to the night table next to the king-sized bed, her hopeful expression changed to confusion as the ID showed Unknown. "Miles," she called out, holding up the incoming call screen to him. Logging into his admin account of the tracer program that he had installed on her phone, he then gave her a perfunctory nod to accept it. She pressed the green key and brought the speaker to her ear. "Hello?"
"Ah, Daisy, o meu amor! I think that's how you say it in Portuguese. Close enough to French, am I right?"
Her brown eyes flared like a Bunsen burner. "Lucas! What the hell are you doing calling me? And what the fuck have you done with Luigi?!" Miles's eyes widened in shock.
"Oh, come on, now. I haven't done anything to Weegie. Why would I harm my bestie?"
"Like I'd fucking believe you, you worthless, spineless, slithery piece of terrorist dogshit!"
"Man, you do have a big mouth … almost as big as your ample titties …"
Growling, she jabbed the end key, much to the hacker's visible displeasure. "Don't worry; the disgusting pig will call back." Patiently eyeing her iPhone, the device rang approximately thirty seconds later. Pressing the green key again, she wordlessly put it to her ear.
"Okay, okay! I was going to read you a poem – an ode, if you will – that I composed a few nights ago about your Brazilian melons. But fine, I guess we can skip that part."
"Get to the point, asshole!" Daisy barked.
"Jesus, you're impatient, too! I'll have you know, Daisy Abravanel, that I've had a bad night! First, I get the shit kicked out of me by a bunch of Russian scum. Second, I had to attend the dinner party from hell – Greek-style – which I thought couldn't possibly be worse than the Russian version, but hey, you learn something new every day!" She rolled her eyes. "Third, I had to drop my fine, skinny ass out of a second-floor window and run for about three, no, four, no, five miles to catch an Uber to the city from some shitty-ass county road in equally shitty-ass Jersey! Fourth, I only had twenty bucks in my pocket, so I had to subsist on some asshole's taco stand for dinner."
"Poor baby," she deadpanned. "First-world problems. So why call me?"
"Because Crazy Lady's going to kill Weegie. I saw Joe the Plumber, too, and he's not looking well. He has a concussion."
Daisy halted her pacing in the middle of the room. "You've … seen them?"
"I have, yeah. And I know where they are. Look, I'll won't spare details. But only if I can see you in person. A familiar face, if you will."
She glanced over to Miles who vigorously shook his head. "I'm not in Brooklyn, Lucas. So I can't just see you. If you've seen both Luigi and Giuseppe, then you know what occurred earlier."
"I do. That's why, at least in my humble estimation, you'd take me up on my offer. I'm your best lead to finding Luigi and Joe the Plumber alive. Obviously, I can't go to the police or Mario. And I'm equally sure that Crazy Lady and her Russian goons will move them once they discover I've escaped."
"How do I know this isn't one of your games, Lucas? Last time I was in your … sphere of influence, I nearly ended up in an Arab jail! And by the time we meet, it's possible that they'd have moved them. So how does this benefit me?"
The Manhattanite chuckled lowly. "Well, ma belle, I guess you don't. But I'll come halfway with you: pick a place five blocks from your location and meet me in fifteen. Unless it's, of course, Queens or Staten Island, in which case we're both fucked."
Daisy's whiskey-colored eyes glinted in the dim light, even as Miles mouthed no and don't do it repeatedly. "Alright, shithead. Let's meet at Bar 45."
"Oh, baby, I love your style! It's such a shame that you're wasting it on Weegie. A bientôt, chérie!"
As she lowered the phone, the blond engineer exclaimed from his workstation, "What the hell …? You know he's lying!"
Inhaling deeply, she gave a faint tilt of her head. "I know, Miles, but … my gut is telling me that he's being partly truthful about the Russians. I've learned that Lucas often provides a nugget of truth in an immense and steaming pile of bullshit. And it's also notable that he's calling me of all people. I think he's on the run and needs a bargaining chip with the feds or even Fat Tony. And … if our shadow from Russian intelligence is around, it'll be irresistible for him. I think my ass is covered, especially if I get valuable information."
"Daisy, this is insane!" Stepping into her path, he spread his arms like a bird. "No, nope, no way. I won't let you do it!"
She raised her eyebrow at him. "You don't need to do anything. Run interference for me. But I'm going!" She moved diagonally, yet was met with Miles's narrow chest. Grinning evilly, she jumped from one foot to another, as if dribbling her soccer ball, and swiftly evaded the uncoordinated engineer who let out a frustrated, meow-like grumble.
"Okay, fine! Only if I go with you!" he yelled, trailing behind her.
"Fine," she conceded lightly. Cracking open her bedroom door, she examined the living room space which was empty of her parents or the NYPD. As she had done during her high-school days, when she used to sneak out of the house at night to skateboard, she seized Miles by his coat sleeve, tiptoed to the front door, and quietly pulled him across the threshold to the hotel hallway and elevators.
