Author's notes: Yes, yes, yes, I know it's been a while. But things have been crazy in real life, from moving to getting a new job. This month and the next will be extremely busy, so I ask your patience in publishing the final four or five chapters. I HOPE to complete the story by December, but I may run into January 2024, depending on how things go in the next few weeks. Updates will come every 3-4 weeks right now.
For readers on FF dot net: the site is, I think, kaput. I will post the remaining chapters for this story and then publish only on AO3 for the sequel. I'm losing stats and other data, which is annoying, and I'm tired of it. PM me on AO3 if you have any questions; I'm not sure if I am getting reviews, etc., on Fanfiction anymore, so I don't want to miss any questions or concerns.
And now, without further ado ... As always, reviews and comments welcome!
Chapter 61: 3-7-77
A groggy Salvatore Rigassi twisted over in his lumpy twin bed to slap the snooze button of his digital alarm clock whose devilish red numbers flashed 5:25 a.m. Muttering a few low-level obscenities in Sicilian, he pulled himself off the mattress, knelt at its foot, crossed himself, and whispered in Italian, "My God, I adore you and love you with all my heart. I thank you for having created me, made me a Christian and preserved me this night. I offer you the actions of the day: let them all be according to your holy will and for your glory. Preserve me from sin and all evil. May your grace always be with me and with all my loved ones. Convert the sinners, console the sick, the afflicted, the prisoners in their tribulations. Give the gift of Paradise to the dying people who die today. Grant eternal rest to the faithful departed. Amen." Crossing himself a second time, he then rose from his stooped position to greet the silver-framed photographs on his night table: the first was a black and white picture, circa 1957 or 1958, of a well-dressed Italian couple in their late-twenties; the second was of a young couple – a thin, baby-faced man and a curly-haired woman – just after their wedding in 1977; the third and final photograph, over which he brushed his fingers, was of a curly-haired, spectacled man standing with a muscular teenager, whose blue eyes twinkled a smartass rejoinder, and his scrawny, though taller kid brother who had just graduated from eighth grade. Smiling at the familial shrine, he made his way to the ensuite to shower, shave, and dress for eight o'clock mass.
Twenty-five minutes later, Salvatore descended the staircase of the old Victorian house that had been turned into a priests' rectory. Three priests in their thirties and forties – Fathers Nolan, Sánchez, and Levesque – were sitting on a worn blue sofa and matching armchair in front of the television, cups of black coffee in hand. "Hey, Father Sleepyhead, did you finally get up?" teased Nolan. The other two snickered as the Brooklynite rolled his eyes. "You'd think, being from New Yawk, that five o'clock would be a piece of cake."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, saputelli," he retorted lowly. "Did you leave the coffee pot?"
"Of course, Sal. Bread's been sliced, too."
"Grazie," he replied, still rubbing his eyes while making his way into the small kitchen and ignoring the continued snickers of the three priests. He opened the refrigerator to locate his container of blood orange marmalade, which he labeled with a traditional Sicilian curse to anyone – namely Father Levesque – who raided the jar without his express permission. Dressing the sourdough with the jam and pouring himself a cup of the hot drink, the New York priest was about to make a wiseass comment about his tasty blood orange jam when he overheard Sánchez cry, "Dios mio!"
"My God, what ... what happened? Sal, get over here, quick!" exclaimed Father Nolan.
Cup of coffee in one hand and bread in the other, Salvatore walked out of the kitchen to the living room where the normal drone of Good Morning, America had cut to a hole inside a skyscraper. He blinked, as if he were moving in slow motion. "That ... Wait, what? That's the World Trade Center," he managed to say.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, Father Levesque nodded. "Yes, they are saying some ... plane hit it."
He twisted to face the other three. "You ever been to the Twin Towers, been inside them?" They shook their heads. "I have ... Each one of those buildings? One hundred ten stories and twenty-five thousand people. That hole? Well, that wasn't caused by a small plane." Having lost his appetite, he set his piece of bread and coffee down on the small wooden table and, for the third time that morning, crossed himself.
The piece of bread would remain forever uneaten.
November 9, 2014
Mount Sinai-St. Luke's Hospital
Manhattan, New York
4:17 a.m.
Daisy slumped in the chair, napping, next to Giuseppe's bed. Maria sat opposite her; Harry, Yael, Matt, and Peach having retreated somewhere in the waiting room to obtain any information on Salvatore's status as well as the whereabouts of the Wrecking Crew. Despite Maria's alternating pleas and demands for Joe to sleep, the older man steadfastly refused. The plumber huffed her objections to her father, who only cracked a half-smile at his eldest. "Bambina mia, I'll sleep once your mother gets here. But I can't ... pretend I ain't worried about Luigi and Mario. That bitch has nearly killed 'em twice over. To say nothin' of the others and ... Sal. And you know what they say about threes." He swallowed harshly, sipping water out of a paper cup. "Maybe ... youse should move to a hotel in the Upper West. She ... ain't gonna find youse there. You, Daisy, and Peach."
"We're not going," growled Maria lowly, eyeing Daisy to monitor any stir by the slumbering woman. "Do you think you, the Abravanels, and Morello Junior are safer than we are? Do you really, Papà? Because è molto sciocca, questa idea! Not to mention Lucy, Addy, and Mamma coming!"
Giuseppe harumphed in an equally low tone. "Probably not. Still ... it doesn't stop a ragazzo, albeit stuck in a goddamned hospital bed, from protectin' his family, bambina." His eyes shifted toward the auburn-haired woman in the chair. "We gotta watch that one. She's gonna try to join the others. And ... if Luigi's got any hope of makin' good with the Abravanels, she can't go." Two identical blue eyes focused on her unconscious muscle twitches, as if she were attempting to leap out of the room.
She raised an eyebrow. "Mamma and I listened to you bitch about questa siriana for months."
Thin, blanched lips turned upward. "Luigi's ... never been able to hide his emotions. She's the one he wants. And ... Sal was right; they can't get ya if your soul's protected."
The younger plumber took a deep, shaking breath, preparing to voice the unspoken question which had enmeshed with her innermost fears. "Papà," she began, suddenly looking down at her thumbs, "I know it's none of my business, and even Mamma had a life before she married you, but ... what is this thing with Father Rigassi? Mamma knows some ..."
"You're right, bambina; it ain't your business," he abruptly interrupted. Sighing a moment later, he went on, "But you're owed an explanation for tonight. Sal and I ... made our own choices – freely. I didn't want to be a part of that life. About six or seven months before your mother and I got married, your uncle Mario helped Sal leave the life. I don't know precisely what happened; of the three people who knew, two are with God. The third ... Pete Morello ... probably won't say much to either of us."
She chewed on her lip angrily. "Yeah, I spoke to him. I sensed that the bastard was holding back something."
He nodded. "He's Mafia, bambina mia; they take an oath never to speak secrets to outsiders, let alone women." Sinking a little on the hospital bed, Joe appended his remark, "But if I had a guess, based on my idiot fratello's idealism, he made a deal with Pete to let Salvatore 'disappear.' Why, I don't know, but I'm guessing it had something to do with Vinny DiScala. Back when ... Luigi was just about to be born, Pete showed up, wanting to see your Zia Gabby. I think that's when Carlo demanded that the so-called 'debt' be repaid. And, interestingly, that's when Sal graduated with his degree. When he decided to enter the priesthood."
Maria's eyes darted up to her father's. "I'd never thought about it like that. Maybe Carlo thought Sal would return. And when he didn't ..."
"Carlo blamed Mario, who took the hit to save ... both of us."
"Papà, I know you and Zio Mario often didn't see eye to eye. And yeah, he could be a selfish sonofabitch. I know I've often thought it, especially in the year or two after his death, when Luigi came to live with us." Joe's eyes became a stormy blue, which occurred upon any mention of his late older brother, though he stayed quiet, waiting for his daughter's next words. "But he never did anything without a plan. All these years, I could never quite believe he'd leave Luigi high and dry, even though that's the way it turned out."
"Yeah, I know," he agreed, visibly surprising her. "Harry's going to work on that. He got a copy of the will and read it. He didn't buy it, either."
She stared at her father squarely. "Do you trust him?"
"Strangely, yeah. He seems to know that ... his figlia wants Luigi, too. And now that he's assured that Luigi ain't Mafia, I think he'll do what he thinks is right."
Nodding a little, Maria dropped the subject of the Abravanels, though she continued to fidget. "Papà, Morello said something odd." Joe crossed his arms loosely and glanced at her. "He said you were ... more involved – 'affiliated' was the term he used – with the Rigassis and possibly the Mafia than we – your family – were led to believe. Normally, I'd say he's full of shit. But given what happened tonight ..."
Joe huffed and rolled his eyes. "Pete would say that. Probably because he found out about ... Sal and I. And yeah, Audenzia had kept us under her roof. You know that part. But she never did it to send us to Carlo Morano! She did it because ... she got the family that she had always wanted with Luigi Rigassi – her husband and Luigi's grandfather. We knew of him, but she never talked about Sicily. About him. Her silence ... always led me to believe that Luigi was a made man." Wiping a tear from his eye, he went on, "At her wake, I saw the picture of him as a young man clutched in her hands ... Imagine my surprise when his grandson – my adopted son and your brother – ended up looking just like him. History repeats itself, bambina, especially when there's a lesson to be learned, and we didn't bother learnin' it the first fuckin' time." His fingers brushed away a second tear. "Maria, I just want you to know somethin'. I want you to understand this ... Nowadays, people, TV make shit up about marriages and relationships. It's either Disney shit or one or both parties are usin' and abusin' the other. The truth is that you never know until you're in it. The first year's all fun and games. For your generation, it might last another year or two. After that, that's when you cut bait. You either sink or swim; you decide you're in it for a common reason or reasons, or you aren't. It ain't about sunshine and rainbows, bambina mia. Your mother and I made our choice, and we've never regretted it. You understand?"
Following a full-minute pause, she nodded. "I think so."
"Bene. Now, Pete's always stretched the truth. It's a part of the life. I was ... associated insofar as I grew up partly under the same roof as Sal. Then I was associated because he and I were inseparable for a time. And I learned shit that I wish I hadn't." Exhaling a ragged sigh, his voice dropped to a near whisper, "Your Zio Mario tried to protect Sal, Gabby, and me. As a fireman, as an honest ragazzo,it was a part of his life. You know that, for decades in Bensonhurst, you either went straight or to the Cosa Nostra. I suppose I ... walked the line for a bit. Going to parties and clubs with him, Sal, and Pete. Not ... openly, but when it came down to it, I ... never had the stomach for the life."
"D-did you want Sal?"
Joe opened his left hand to study the scar along his palm. "It's like any ... first relationship, bambina mia," he finally answered. "You don't necessarily want it to end, but inevitably, it does. It has to. It's the way of things."
Maria observed her father carefully, noting that his silhouette had shifted from a fluorescent hue to an ombre twinkle. She remained quiet, observing him as he gazed at his left hand, like a mystic reading his own fortune. Like her peers, like her, her parents had once been young, having dated and experienced a love life prior to marrying each other. She could find no fault in his actions, particularly as, even according to Lucia, the thick-headed, yet loyal Giuseppe Masciarelli would never and never did commit adultery. Nonetheless, discovering her father's history was shocking, to say the least. She had always suspected that it was limited, given his ultra-conservativism concerning relationships and marriage. Her mother, on the other hand, was far more open-minded; much to her husband's horror, Lucia had the talk with each of her children – Luigi included – ensuring that it was more in-depth than the abstinence-until-marriage, Candyland platitudes proffered by Staten Island Tech and the daughters' Catholic middle and high schools. Each time resulted in a loud discussion, during which the opinionated woman called Giuseppe "a fucking prude," concluding with a snicker, "The stork must've missed our house three times, Joe, because I vividly remember each of our daughters' conceptions and births. And like it or not, guys use ignorance as a pretense!" Maria's father, with no further rejoinder to his wife, retreated to his shed to grumble for hours afterward.
She laughed inwardly; her mother's openness had a fifty-percent success rate, though she would circumstantially increase it to seventy percent, as Luigi had been sexually active prior to moving in with them. Her middle sister was – and perhaps too much – like their Zia Antonella, whereas Lucy was bookish and shy. As for her, she simply had no interest, too motivated by plumbing school and, at one point, fire school. Her injuries ended her dreams of the latter and almost the former. Having endured too many male observers' looks alternating between pity and contempt at her months-long use of a cane and permanent limp in her gait, Maria eschewed dating and marriage in favor of a stable career and hobbies. The eldest daughter of the Masciarellis was often compared to her father, from their facial appearance to their stubbornness and plumbing aptitude; in that moment, she was grateful to less like him, reassured that she was not simply his carbon copy.
Rising from her chair, she gave her father a slight, yet supportive nod. "Makes sense. Your history, your life, is your own, Papà. Everyone has a story. I'm going to check on the others."
He did not reply; lifting his head to meet her identical eyes, Joe smiled a little and watched his eldest daughter leave his room.
A large black van pulled up alongside the curb a few streets from the intersection of West 58th Street and 6th Avenue. In the passenger compartment sat Mario and Luigi in the first row, Bowser and Pete in the second, and Miles and Yoshi in the backseat. Piotr put the vehicle into park and announced, "George Kariolis thinks he's smart by hiding this apartment building from IRS. I appreciate tax dodge, but it is unfortunate for him, it is known to us. Tracker on the son's phone leads to here – eighth floor of 1 Central Park South. I cannot guarantee that Polina Yakovna or the children are present, but it is likely."
Mario nodded. "Aight, so what's the plan?"
Turning in the driver's seat to face them, the Russian agent shrugged. "We will need a distraction. Penthouse apartment is owned by Kariolis, but there are other apartments. Perhaps plumbers are required to fix emergency leak?"
Luigi, who was covering his mouth to resist the renewed urge for a cigarette, shook his head violently. "You want us to somehow manufacture an emergency leak at the fucking Plaza? Piotr, they got staff for that shit! The doorman won't buzz us inside without a pre-authorized work order!"
The middle-aged Russian shrugged again. "And you Americans call us Russians bureaucratic! Improvisation can always be useful."
"Goddamn, I need a cigarette! Stupid fucking Manhattan," muttered the younger plumber.
Mario placed a re-assuring hand on his shoulder, then twisted his head to look just past the annoyed Bowser and relatively calm Pete. "Yo, Dipshits, can you manufacture a work order from the building? Get it into their system?"
"Yeah, I think I should be able to do it. Give me two minutes," replied Miles as he opened his laptop, ran his usual secured connections, and began hacking the Plaza's internal access to file a ghost ticket for a plumbing leak. The cab fell silent for several minutes, save for John's impatient huffing, eager to break into the structure and its eighth floor.
"What the fuck's taking so long?" he growled. "We fuckin' wait any longer, and Kariolis disappears with his piece of shit son, the Crazy Bitch, and my niece and nephew! Let's go – now!"
Pete crossed his arms and stretched his legs to block the man's potential exit. "Bowser, let's not give the aforementioned Crazy Bitch a metaphorical white flag that we're coming. Plan first."
"Okay, I think I got the order in," declared the hacker from their rear. "We'll need to wait, I'd say, forty-five minutes, to make this seem credible. If we just enter now, the staff will become suspicious that this is a set-up of some sort."
John rolled his eyes and threw up his hands dramatically. "Fuck me!"
"'Ey, you already got shot once tonight, you stupid fuck!" hissed Mario. "So, unless you want a matching shot in the ass, you're gonna wait." Then he cast his blue eyes to their amused driver. "Will that work?"
"It should."
"Aight. Here's what I propose: Weegie and I will go in as the plumbers. No doubt the staff at the Plaza are gonna want to see ID ..."
"Wait a sec," interrupted Yoshi. "I don't think that'll work. I'm going to assume that Kariolis and the Bowser Bitch have probably told them to watch out for youse. My guess is, from that asshole with the drones, they know youse survived." He turned to Miles and inquired, "I would guess you manufactured a dummy company, right?"
The blond nodded. "Of course. Mario and Luigi could be deep shit if it came apparent that a work order was, uh, invented solely for the purpose of trespassing."
"Yeah, shit," muttered Pete while rubbing a hand across his chin. "Good point. They'll know Mario, Luigi, John, me ..." The caporegime glanced at the Russian. "They won't know you or," he pivoted to Yoshi, "Yoshi here. They might know Miles due to his new buddy."
"Hey, that guy isn't my buddy!" exclaimed the young man. "He's some fucking fat Ferengi troll hiding underneath an undisclosed bridge!"
Piotr raised an eyebrow, ignoring the blond engineer's rant. "I can play handyman. The mission is the most important task."
"Yoshi?" voiced Luigi uncertainly.
He nodded. "Yeah, sure, why not? I've watched youse enough that I could try bullshitting 'em for a few minutes. Lucas could've told them about me, too, but I don't think we have any options at this point."
Bowser crossed his arms and glared at the others. "Yeah, okay; now that you've settled on Halloween costumes, how the fuck are the rest of us getting inside?"
"Well," interjected Mario tiredly, "too many of us will set off alarms, both figuratively and literally. Bowser and I will head upstairs. It'll be easier to sneak two people past security than five. Pete, Weegie, and Miles, you stay outside to watch for goons coming and going."
Luigi shook his head. "I don't like this, fratello. We've got two, potentially three problems: first, Polina; second, Lucas and his father; third, we don't know where the hell the kids are. If you go up there, and we're down here ..."
"Weegie, we got Piotr. And a penthouse ain't an entire building. We'll find 'em," reasoned the elder plumber.
Pete reached over to put a hand on his younger cousin's right shoulder. "Luigi, son, he's right. George Kariolis's probably got people upstairs as well as downstairs. And as DK made it quite clear, we're on our own. And there's no telling where Miles's Troll is lying in wait, to say nothing of that slimy shit."
Chewing on his lip a final time, he gave a curt, yet acquiescing nod. Piotr started the van engine, insisting that they should prepare a distance from their target, as it would be more believable to have the doorman or security see them pull up several minutes after they were initially expected. As they armed Pete, Mario, and Bowser with a Sig Sauer and four clips each, Luigi switched shirts with Yoshi and provided his toolbelt so that the latter would appear to be a journeyman plumber, and Miles initiated a scan of the area for any lurkers, Piotr negotiated the narrow streets of Midtown, occasionally eyeing the activity in his rearview mirror. Shortly before six in the morning, the Russian signaled that it was time. Halting along West 57th Street, Pete, Luigi, and Miles exited the vehicle, Mario and Bowser hid in the back, and Yoshi, carrying both Mario's and Luigi's toolkits, hopped into the front seat. Ten minutes later, they curb-parked alongside the hotel entrance of the Plaza, the darkness of Central Park to their left, and the faint glow of sunrise ahead of them. One of the doormen came to open the rear passenger door, thinking that they were a car service for a guest or resident, when Yoshi rolled down the window and announced in his best south Brooklyn accent, "Yo, we're here to fix a leak for, uh," he looked down, checking Miles's counterfeit 'paperwork,' "Number 912. Where can we park?"
The doorman frowned. "You boys must have the wrong address. No one ordered an emergency fix at the Plaza, and we got guys for that."
Yoshi affixed his best facial impression of Joe Masciarelli. "Nah, see, Mr. Regan called my boss personally. Then my boss called me and my junior 'ere to get our fuckin' asses to the Plaza, from Brooklyn, on a fuckin' Sunday morning. So, could youse do us a favor and check upstairs? My boss's one irritable Italian and will fire my ass if I fuck up."
"Aight, just wait a moment." The burly man returned to his podium in the corner, reached into his pocket, and dialed a number. Piotr and Yoshi watched as the man spoke a few inaudible sentences, nodding ever so often. Hanging up, he returned to the black van. "Aight, I have no clue why he called you, but he's a VIP, so we'll let this slide. Drive around the corner, and there's a service entrance that you can use." Muttering a thanks, Piotr followed the man's directions, making two right turns until encountering the opened service entrance. Carefully maneuvering the van into a space near the access to the hotel and apartments, the Russian came to a gentle park and switched off the engine. He scanned the ceilings and sides for security cameras; there were two. Unobtrusively, he gestured to Yoshi who sighted them. "Shit." Putting his hand over his mouth, he whispered to the hidden men, "Guys, there are two security cameras at the door. I don't think there's much we can do about it." Fishing into his pocket, he quickly texted Miles. "I'm gonna let Miles deal with this shit. Hopefully, he can create a distraction." Nodding at Piotr, they exited the van, tools and paperwork in hand, and ambled inside the five-star residence.
At the same time, Pete, Miles, and Luigi had skidded to a stop across from the Plaza's service entrances on West 58th Street. Miles began typing a series of commands. "Fortunately or unfortunately, the Plaza's security isn't total shit. Tell Mario I'm working on it. Plus, I'm being extra cautious in case that thing's out there."
"Miles, I'd love to tell ya that time's on your side, but sunrise's coming up soon," mumbled Pete, his fingers brushing the Sig Sauer tucked into the waistband of his black trousers.
"Just ... one more ... Yeah, got 'em. Okay, Lou, tell Mario and Bowser to go ahead. They have twenty seconds."
Having already typed out the text, Luigi pressed the send button immediately after receiving the hacker's green light. "Message sent. Now what? Guys, I don't like this. Not at all. I ... I just got a bad feeling."
The Coloradan nodded. "Yeah, me, too, cuscinu. None of this feels right." In the twilight, he looked over his shoulder to the other young man, who had crouched down against the building to work on his laptop.
"Yeah, I agree," Miles answered, still focused on his task. "Aside from the surprise appearance of a real black hat, which Lucas is not, it just seems too ... convenient."
Luigi checked his iPhone clock. "We give them ten minutes. Miles, can you get into contact with Matt? Something tells me ..."
"Already done, Lou. I'm waiting for a reply. I've also requested a status check from Yoshi."
Inside the chateau-like structure, two pairs walked quickly through the large, gold- and ivory-colored lobby, crystal chandeliers and marble pillars accentuating its French-style motif. Locating the gold-plated elevators, Piotr, Yoshi, Mario, and Bowser slipped inside one of them, only for the latter to groan at the keycard request. Unbothered, the Russian took out a white card from the inside of his black leather jacket, waved it in front of the reader, then pressed the "8." The elevator doors gently closed, and they felt the device begin its ascent. Bowser and Mario gave the Russian an impressed look while he remained indifferent.
"Dipshit, I want you to ride the elevator back down, go back to the van, and wait for us to come out," rasped Mario. "You're unarmed, and this will get intense."
Yoshi hotly turned to Mario, who continued to look down to obscure his face from any cameras, then put up his hand to keep his words hidden. "I'm involved. So arm me."
"Not a fuckin' chance. It's too dangerous. We need you to keep in contact with Weegie, Pete, and Dipshit Two."
The elevator bell dinged, and the doors opened. The smaller Asian tried to follow the three other men; Mario shoved him back into the corner with his left hand, slamming his right over the "Lobby" and close doors buttons before managing to slip out of the lift. Yoshi growled several obscenities in Japanese as he felt it descend to the ground floor. Kicking the golden-colored metal of the doors, he had half a mind to stop and change the direction of the elevator; much to his chagrin, he realized two insurmountable difficulties: first, he had no weapon with which to protect himself; second, he did not have a keycard to re-access the residential floors. Although part of him wanted to return upstairs, he started having a feeling about the impending confrontation; unlike the assault inside the Columbia tunnels, where he felt jubilation and limitless confidence, Yoshi sensed something cold and dreadful, like the world was about to upend itself. Seconds seemed like minutes when the elevator signaled that it had arrived at its destination. Facing forward, his brown eyes widened as a familiar figure appeared from the other side.
"Lieutenant Kendricks?" he asked, eyeing the man with three subordinates behind him.
"You guys don't listen, do ya?" deadpanned the policeman. "Where are Mario and Luigi? Petey?"
Yoshi gulped, having decided to spill his guts to avoid a potential bloodbath upstairs. "Mario and Bowser are on the eighth floor. To, uh, confront you-know-who. Pete and Luigi are outside. Look, man, I ..."
DK raised his hand. "Save it. I know why. Go outside to Pete and Luigi. Whatever you do, do not enter until I come get youse, alright?!" He nodded at one of his detectives. "Detective Nielsen will go with you."
"Okay. What about Mario and Luigi's friend – Hernández?" he demanded while disembarking into the edge of the lobby.
"I sent him to the hospital. Now, go on, kid!" barked the lieutenant, rushing with his men into the open elevator and slapping the "8" and close buttons.
Watching them disappear upstairs, the physicist distantly heard Nielsen's tenor echo, "Let's head outside, kid. Show me where Morello and Luigi are at."
All of a sudden, he felt like his feet had glued themselves to the carpeting; the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and his heart began pumping wildly against his chest. Attempting to keep his voice steady, he managed to utter, "Yeah, sure." The sandy blond-haired Nielsen flashed a tight smile, allowing his smaller charge to cross the lobby and lead him toward the service entrance. Yoshi furtively slipped a hand inside his green hoodie pocket to access his phone to send a pre-programmed SOS to Miles, Luigi, and Pete. Then he focused on his breathing to keep a calm, inconspicuous exterior. They walked in silence out to the van; the pretend plumber steadied his eyes straight ahead, hoping that the detective had not noticed the security cameras. He had. Yoshi groaned inwardly as Nielsen flanked him to a position near the van's rear that would obscure any subsequent events. Abruptly dropping to his knee to pretend-tie his shoe, the Japanese saw the detective's feet halt and the latter's hand speedily reach into his holster. His breath quickened to anticipate the incoming bullet; while taking a deep breath, he heard two loud bangs, saw a spray of blood and brain matter, and a body slump behind him. Lifting his eyes toward the gunshots' origin, Yoshi glimpsed Pete holding a Sig Sauer, with a terrified Luigi and Miles three steps to his rear.
"You alright, Yoshi?" the caporegime called out to him.
Gulping and laughing a little, he nodded. "Yeah. I got a bad feeling about psycho cop here. He's ... He's one of DK's."
Gun still drawn, Pete jogged up to the dead body and scanned for any sign of movement. "Leave his piece there and do not move or touch anything. It's a crime scene, so I don't want this shit coming back on you. I have a feeling we're being set up."
"By who?" inquired Luigi. "The NYPD?"
"God, I hope not. And you said DK's up there with Mario and Bowser?" queried the Denverite, a sense of alarm accentuating his normally cool demeanor.
"Yeah. I ran into him coming back down. Mario ... sent me back down. I didn't want to go, but he made it go before I could ..."
Luigi rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sounds like the scimmione. The problem is that DK and Jesus-knows-who-else are also up there with him."
Yoshi's eyes abruptly widened, even as he was still breathing harshly. "Luigi ... DK mentioned that he sent that guy Hernández to St. Luke's! What if he's ...?"
Miles shook his head. "Yosh, he saved my life as well as Sam's. If he had wanted to kill us, he'd have let the Triple-F kill us via drone."
"Triple-F?!"
"Fat Fucking Ferengi."
"Alright, alright," interjected the caporegime. "We have more pressing issues at hand. I'm going in after Mario and John. I don't like this – not at all. I ... I want to trust DK, but this looks bad. And I do mean, immeasurably. Either he," Pete looked down at the dead man, "is a mole for Polina or ... they all are. And I don't know about this guy Hernández."
"Pete, I can't believe that José would betray us. I'm with Miles," said Luigi who walked closer to him and Yoshi. He sighed, glancing at the deceased detective-hitman. "Then again, I didn't know he was a UC, either. I'm ... I'm gonna head back to the hospital. Daisy, Joe, Sal, Peach, Maria, Sam – they're all there!"
Chewing on his lip, the Denverite faltered for the first time that night, visibly unwilling to allow his young cousin's departure. "Luigi, the greatest chance of survival, for all of us, is to stay together. That's what she wants – divide and conquer. However ..." He rubbed his face of the renewed build-up of sweat and adrenaline, "we don't have a choice, do we? Alright. Take Yoshi ..."
"No!" hissed the plumber. "Yoshi has to stay here as a witness. If the NYPD is trying to set us up, then he needs to stay with Miles to protect us all. And Miles's your only hope of protecting yourself against whatever the hell's up there. He's your weapon against ..." he snickered softly at the name of the hacker's archnemesis, "the Triple-F if he returns. I can handle this."
Pete chewed on his lip once more while Yoshi shook his head vehemently, and an aghast Miles exclaimed, "You're out of your fucking mind, Lou! Triple-F could be at the hospital! No, your logic doesn't hold!"
"No offense to Cousin Pete here, but although Matt's not as proficient as you, he can hold his own for the amount of time necessary to evacuate whomever we need. I think Triple-F is going to be here as opposed to there. The greater need for protection is with Polina and the Kariolises."
As the blond opened his mouth to rebut his friend's arguments, Luigi started a jog out to West 58th Street and waiting cabs near the front of the hotel. Yoshi moved to chase him when Pete put an arm out to block him. "I hate the idea, too, boys, but he's right. Someone has to return to the hospital because ... I don't think Polina's first assassination attempt on either Joe or Sal was her last. And I don't think Luigi's gonna sit by while Daisy is in danger. And he's also right that I'll need help from both of you." Bending down, he retrieved Nielsen's shield and ID. "It's time to play bad cop."
Miles and Yoshi exchanged a quizzical stare before following Pete inside the hotel. Holstering his Sig Sauer, the Coloradan quickly made his way to the concierge desk. A young man in a grey and blue business suit stood behind the desk, immediately attentive at the approaching figure. "Good morning, sir. May I help you?"
"Yes," answered Pete. "I'm Detective Peter Nielsen, Major Case," he flashed his shield at the concierge, just long enough for the man to recognize it as real. "We have a situation brewing up on the eighth floor as well as in the service entrance. Please close both off to everyone and call NYPD for urgent assistance – 10-34. Anyone on the eighth floor should remain in their rooms for their safety until officers and firefighters arrive on scene. Also, I'm going to need a keycard. My, uh, colleague, Lieutenant Kendricks is already upstairs."
The concierge nodded. "Uh, certainly, Detective, though I'll need to have the specific room number. For privacy reasons, of course."
Pete squinted to recall whether the Russian had mentioned a room number. He had not. Deciding to choose one at random, as he would undoubtedly run into the Crazy Bitch's trap, he replied, "Room 807."
"Very well. One moment, please." He retrieved a white keycard and created the associated access privileges while the caporegime tried not to drum his fingers against the wood. "Here it is," the former announced. "I'll also telephone the police as instructed."
"Great, thanks." Pete and the Brobot Boys dashed toward the open elevator, darted inside, and closed the doors. He held the card against the reader, then pushed "8." They felt the lift start its ascent. "Miles, I kinda bullshitted the concierge. I doubt 807 is really Kariolis's number. Got any ideas?"
Miles shook his head. "No. I searched the resident list. He's using a different name, and nothing jumps out at me. How Piotr got it, I haven't a fucking clue."
Four seconds later, they heard the arrival ding. As the doors opened to a well-lit corridor of ivory-colored doors and rich carpeting, the faux-detective murmured, "Stay behind me. At the first sign of real trouble, take the fire escape down to the lobby, and stay with the cavalry. You got that?" Without waiting for their verbal agreement, he unholstered his gun, took the safety off, and assumed a defensive stance to scan for potential aggressors. The three men listened carefully for any gunfire or other signs of Mario's and Bowser's presence. There were none. "Goddamnit," he swore faintly. "We could really use Luigi's gadget!"
Suddenly, Yoshi held up his hand and, after a few seconds, gestured down the hall. Pete nodded; in a cross between a gallop and a jog, he moved toward Room 829. Standing a few inches from the door and wall, the armed man put his ear toward it to discern recognizable sounds; there was a muffled noise, like a gagged man desperately trying to communicate, several men's heavy breathing, and a beeping noise. He turned to the Brobot Boys and waved them further back. Slipping the keycard out, Pete positioned himself against the wall. Whereas the reader would reject the card's signature, it would no doubt alert the occupants of an 'intruder.' He presented the card to the magnetic reader: it flashed red. He did it a second time; another red light. The lock clicked, refusing to open.
"Leave now," called out DK from the other side.
"DK, it's Pete. What the hell's going on?" he responded, placing both hands on his Sig Sauer.
"Pete, trust me, get the fuck out of here."
"No way. One of your cops tried to kill Yoshi, and I haven't the slightest fucking clue where Mario and Bowser are! So unless you want me to start shooting the door and your ass with it, you better tell me!"
There was a pause and a few indiscernible murmurs. "Pete," spoke Mario's slightly unnerved, yet flat voice. "Do as DK says. Get Yoshi and Miles out of here. Get backup. Now."
Before the caporegime could argue, the blond hacker fearfully presented his console. Yoshi raised himself on the balls of his feet to peer over the men's shoulders. His brown eyes rounded into perfect circles at the result of Miles's scan of available Wi-Fi networks: MaRiOgTzBoMbdLoLz. "Shit!" he hissed. "This has to be Triple-F's doing! We got played!"
"DK, is there a bomb?" the Denverite asked softly, uncertain as to whether the bomb was sound-sensitive.
They heard the lieutenant sigh to keep calm. "Yep. Lucas's sitting on and tied to it." Another muffled, incomprehensibly panicked voice attempted to speak. "We can't leave, and no one can get in. Not without blowing up the top floor or floors of the Plaza. So get out of here."
"Where are the kids?" inquired Yoshi from behind Miles and Pete, briefly giving them a gaze of trepidation.
"Don't know. Now, I'm done talking. Get. Out. Of. Here."
An irritable Maria trailed after Daisy, who insisted on 'stretching her legs' after a two-hour-long nap. Disbelieving his adoptive son's girlfriend's motives, Giuseppe tiredly gestured to his eldest daughter that she should go with her. Predictably, the auburn-haired lioness did not head to the courtyard or waiting room of the ER; negotiating the hallways, she found the nurse's desk to request Salvatore's room number. After a bit of back and forth, with her insisting that she was the priest's nephew's significant other and had been tasked with watching him until Luigi's return, the cantankerous nurse relented, nonetheless explaining that he was still in critical condition and would be for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Pointing to the plastic chairs, the middle-aged woman ordered Daisy to sit and wait. Unenthusiastically, Daisy obeyed, sinking into the blue chair, and Maria sat in the available one to her right.
Observing the stream of nurses, doctors, and gurneys, even past six in the morning, the plumber removed her glasses to wipe her fatigued eyes and grumbled, "Daisy, what the hell are we doing?"
"I ... I can't explain it. I just ... feel the need to be here." She passively scanned the active hallways, adding, "I know he won't be able to fill in the gaps for at least a few days, but ... there's more. Especially about this guy Rosetti."
"Do you really want to know? Rosetti's dead. And it's probably good news for us that he is."
Daisy slowly pivoted her head to Luigi's cousin. "Yeah, Maria, I need to know. None of this adds up. Why worry about a guy who's presumably out of the Mafia? He's a priest. I mean ..." She shook her head, mentally evaluating the known facts. "I'm not Catholic. Rabbis aren't subject to the same ... limitations. Aside from the same legal privilege that comes from religious confession or counsel, they're allowed to marry, have children. Catholic priests aren't. So why the hell would Rosetti be worried about him? And let's say, for the sake of argument, that Salvatore was still in the, uh, life," she made finger quotes to emphasize her point to the confused brunette next to her, "he couldn't continue the family tradition, even if he had wanted to. And he can't reveal any secrets, especially if they were told to him in the confessional."
"Papà thought Rosetti was in the Mafia ... somehow," replied Maria slipping on her glasses. "Given that a lot of them are perverts, I wouldn't put that past 'em, either. But, uh, Salvatore's gay, so the whole marriage and children thing would be off the table. At least for a practicing Catholic, whatever that means."
She nodded. "Yeah, maybe. But that still doesn't explain Marco Bowser or George Kariolis."
"Maria, Daisy!" called a familiar feminine voice. The two seated women cast their blue and brown eyes to the approaching Peach, who was coming from the patient area of the ICU. "Salvatore's been released to a recovery room. He's still critical." She motioned for them to follow her down several halls. "Since I'm a pulmonologist and 'married' to his nephew, they're considering me next of kin. Maria, you may have to wait outside, as there are only two visitors permitted at a time."
The plumber shrugged, limping from a fresh bout of spinal arthritis. "That's not a problem. Father Rigassi's ... not one of my favorite people. I'm here to keep an eye on Daisy, per Papà's request, anyway."
Peach slowed down a few steps from a private room and beckoned for the shorter auburn-haired woman to enter. Maria nodded, halting just shy of the threshold, "I'll go get some coffee. Be back in ten." She mouthed an okay to the New Yorker before shadowing Daisy, who had taken a seat next to an unconscious, pale man in a hospital gown and bed. He was connected to an IV, EKG, and a ventilator. The physician tapped her lightly on the shoulder. "Daisy, would you mind pulling your chair a bit back? We want to limit transmission of viruses and the sort, especially as he is rather weak."
"Yeah, sure, sorry." She picked up the chair, moved it roughly two feet from Salvatore's bedside, and sat once more. In silence, they witnessed the machine breathe for the still figure, giving no impression of sentience or independence. "What are his chances, Peach?" she finally queried, uncertain in that moment if she wanted to know the truth.
She crossed her arms, whispering, "It's hard to say. As undoubtedly, you've been told, the next seventy-two hours are the most grave. The objective is to prevent infection or other complications. Gunshot wounds aren't like those on American television; the damage is usually ... extensive. And even if he manages to survive, we won't know the extent of potential disability for another few weeks, perhaps months." Turning to scrutinize Daisy's nonverbal cues, which were a mixture of shock and gloom, she asked, "You've only been dating Luigi since February, right?" Without facing Peach, Daisy gave a single nod. "Don't you feel overwhelmed by this? I've been with Mario properly since 2007. Seven years. And I feel like ... crawling out of my skin."
"At times," the other woman confessed. "It's like what I was telling Maria. I can't explain it, but ... I feel the need to be here. Yeah, I'm worried about Luigi, Mario, and the others. Maybe ... Maybe it's my need to do something." She exhaled sadly. "Plus, he ... saved my life. With the, uh, ring. Without it, I don't think Luigi would've been able to convince the Emiratis and Saudis that I was his wife. And then with my father ... What I was told is that ... he wasn't going to let Luigi back down. Not that I think Luigi would've."
The blonde's lips shifted into a shadowy smile. "When we were having dinner that night, at Mario and Luigi's, I noticed that he seemed to have a soft spot for you. I always thought it was because you were with Luigi. He never ... went out of his way to meet me. Not in these seven years. But with you? It was different."
Daisy raised her eyebrow at the slight edginess to her tone. "I think Salvatore likes you, too. I ... think it's wrong how the Masciarellis treated you, Peach. You weren't ready, and that's reason enough. I got the impression that ... Sal wanted to be in both nephews' lives, but because of who he was and is, he couldn't."
Peach placed a warm hand on her shoulder. "I know. I know I shouldn't ... feel jealous. I hadn't realized it until now. Part of it was my fault. I was just ..."
"Self-protective," concluded Daisy with a knowing beam. "It's not too late, you know?" Without verbalizing her thoughts, the Venetian merely gave a nod. "And ... I think you hold this family together, too."
A burly, brown-haired, Caucasian man in blue scrubs pulled the privacy curtain back to enter, interrupting the women's conversation. "Morning, ladies. I just need to check the patient's vitals."
The pulmonologist's eyes narrowed straightaway. Putting a hand on Daisy's shoulder for a third time, she retorted in her best physician's tone, "Excuse me, but his vitals were checked about fifteen minutes ago. Is there a problem?"
He shrugged lightly. "I just got my orders. It can't hurt to have 'em checked a second time. Don't worry; we're gonna take good care of Mr. Rigassi for youse."
Whereas Daisy lifted her head in confusion, Peach straightened her spine and focused on the man's movements. Initially, he checked and recorded his vitals; next, he put on rubber gloves and reached for a syringe, filling it with what appeared to be fluid. The physician's eyes widened, noticing that the man was allowing the possibility of air into the contraption. "Hey, stop!" she cried.
"What's the matter?" he asked irritably. "Don't worry; I'm just making sure his IV is dripping correctly."
"Not bloody like that!" the blonde shouted back. "You could allow air into the syringe. That could cause an embolism! Who's your supervisor?!"
"Lady, I don't answer to you! If you can't control yourself, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave!" he warned.
Peach crossed her arms, her blue eyes burning with ire. "That's Doctor to you! Doctor Venier. As in MD. Now, I'd like to see the supervising nurse or physician!" The man, rolling his brown orbs, slid out of her way as she rushed to press the call button. Just before her finger could connect, she felt her body being thrown against the opposite wall. Realizing what had occurred after a half-second, Daisy leapt out of the man's reach, yanking the chair now next to her, and slugging him over the head. She tried to seize the call button, but their attacker slapped it onto the immobile man's resting form.
"Come here, nice and easy!" he hissed, fetching the syringe and pointing it at her like a knife.
Still holding the chair, Daisy spat, "You first, motherfucker."
He shifted from one foot to the other, jabbing at her with the needle; the auburn-haired lioness held the chair's legs in his direction in an attempt to knock the syringe from his large hand. Tiring of the brief stalemate, the man rushed forward, using his brawny chest to bend or break the chair and close into her space. As Daisy slid to the left, she reached out and delivered a precise side kick to his kidney, causing him to yelp and curse in pain. Hurling the chair at his head, she failed to account for his newly found anger and adrenaline; he seized the piece of furniture mid-air and ripped it from her grasp. With a backhand, the assassin slammed it into her face. Chuckling and mumbling bitch and cunt, he kicked her savagely in the solar plexus, then bent down to grab her hair. Having focused his attention on the bleeding and bruised Daisy, he neglected to see a wave of incoming boiling-hot coffee and to block a muscular leg from striking him in the lower abdomen and knocking the syringe from his hand. The man screamed from the burn to his face; he lost his balance and fell backward like a freshly chopped tree. A feminine hand jerked Daisy to her feet; despite the pain, the latter perceived an angry-looking Maria studying her opponent, an empty Styrofoam cup in her right hand. Rubbing his eyes, he launched himself at Maria who threw an uppercut to his chin, though not prior to hitting her in the head and knocking her glasses off.
"Fucking bitches," he growled lowly, retrieving a switchblade from his pants. "I'm gonna gut youse!"
Now blinded, Maria attempted to put her hands out to guesstimate distance. Having recovered, Daisy guided the impaired woman to her left, shoved her out of the curtain and out of harm's way, and tore the fabric down with all of her might, rolling it around her arm to protect from potential blows. From the corner of her eye, she looked down at the moaning Peach who seemed as helpless as Salvatore was. Given that his strength and weapon would decidedly work against her, the lioness mentally calculated the best option: wait for him to make a mistake, hit him in the face, grab his arm, break it at the elbow, and hope that she would not receive mortal wounds in the process. It would need to happen soon, as she was also short on space.
The man curled his lips in pure distaste and hatred. "G'head! Make your move, you little meddling cunt!"
She inhaled to keep her wits. "Didn't your mother teach you to be a gentleman? Or did they skip that particular lesson in Mafia Finishing School?"
He sneered at the woman. Pretending to lunge toward Salvatore's IV, he switched hands and swiped across with his left, cutting her on the left bicep. Quickly tossing the knife to his right hand, he jabbed at her, which she successfully dodged by hopping backward. In a risky move, Daisy baseball-slid to the floor, legs-first, and scissor-swept his knees and ankle, knocking his head and trapezius into the wall. Kipping to her feet and pushing Salvatore's bed away from the enraged man, she put her fists up, catching a burly ball approaching her at full tilt. Raising her fabric-covered arm to protect against another slash or jab, the auburn-haired woman moved into hit him in the face when Peach came up from the side, holding two objects in her hands, which she pressed to his body. The attacker screeched upon feeling the electricity pass through him. Seizing her moment, Daisy executed a cyclone kick to his face, stomped her foot on his knife-wielding hand, and, like a hockey puck, slap-shotted the knife into one of the far corners. As if on cue, José Hernández and several security officers sprinted into the room and restrained the moaning assassin.
"You alright?" asked the detective. "What the hell happened? Maria told us someone was trying to kill you?!"
Daisy clutched her bleeding arm while a laboring Peach set down the paddles. "Yeah, I think so. Or rather, the guy was trying to kill Salvatore."
He nodded. "Alright, let's get this prick out of here. I'm going to place security guards with both Father Sal and Joe. As for you three," he bent down, recovered, and handed an errant pair of titanium-framed glasses to the myopic Maria, "you're going to seek medical care for the cuts and bruises."
"Who the hell was that guy?" demanded Maria, who blinked in relief at being able to see clearly.
"My guess is one of Polina Bowser's thugs. Her back must be up against a wall, 'cause it's a risk to attack someone in a hospital."
The three women's eyes simultaneously grew wide. "What about Mario? Luigi?" gasped Peach.
Yoshi and Miles stood about twenty feet from the door to Room 829, watching Pete, who had utilized his illegally acquired shield to act as a 'senior detective,' and the two police officers inspect the threshold and magnetic reader for any trip wires or triggers. Giving the all-clear, one of them slowly passed a card over the reader and opened the entrance to a room semi-brightened from the Manhattan sunrise. In the spacious living room stood DK, two junior detectives, Mario, and Bowser around a seated figure. Pete and the other NYPD inched closer, revealing a duct-taped and handcuffed Lucas Kariolis atop a bomb-laden chair. A cardboard sign with the word "GARBAGE" block-printed in black Sharpie hung loosely around his neck. The clock read 2:12 at that moment and was ticking down the seconds in an eerie green digital color.
"Well, at least the guy didn't use red," quipped one of the technicians who knelt before the clock to inspect it.
Pete lowered his weapon. "Yoshi, Miles, we'll need you guys!" He then glared at the smothered Lucas, whose sounds remained incomprehensible. "Nice guy, your father. Strapped his own son to a fucking bomb. Now, granted, I can't blame him for wanting to beat your treasonous ass, but goddamn, this is stone cold, even for me."
2:04.
"What the hell are you doing?" barked DK, stilling his body from moving involuntarily. "They're civilians, Pete!"
As the Brobot Boys came into the living room, bringing Luigi's plumbing tools and the computer console, the caporegime responded flatly, "You got any better ideas, DK? It'll be another five, maybe ten minutes before the Bomb Squad can get here, and as you can see, we don't have that kind of time. Also, where's our Russian friend?"
"Dunno," interjected Bowser. "When we were comin' inside, the commie rat bastard pulled a disappearing act. Left us here."
"Fucking sonofabitch!" hissed the Denverite. "We'll get his ass later. Yoshi, Miles, can you disarm this thing? Or cause an interruption long enough for us to run like hell?"
1:53.
"We can try," answered a tremoring Yoshi. Nodding at Miles, they set to work, examining the wires and circuitry.
DK turned to the other officers. "You guys, take the detectives and Bowser and walk slowly out of here. Start evacuating the hotel. At least off the top floors. Hopefully, the Fire Department and Bomb Squad will get here ASAP and help disarm this fucking thing. But save as many people as you can. That's an order from a lieutenant, so don't bother arguing!" Exhaling, they nodded and, grabbing a protesting John, backed out of the room step by agonizing step, loath to leave their fellow officers to their potential demise. Once they had departed, the lieutenant raised an eyebrow at his childhood friend. "In another life, Petey, you'd have made a good cop. FBI, maybe. I'm not sure if I'm comforted by that idea."
In spite of himself, the mafioso led out a hearty snicker. "I make a good lawyer, too, believe it or not. That's probably why you guys have always been a few steps behind."
1:39.
"Where's Weegie?" demanded Mario. "Don't tell me you just left him outside?!"
"Of course not!" Pete growled at his cousin. "Luigi went back to the hospital. We thought – he thought – this was all too convenient."
The plumber snorted a little. "Weegie's always been one step or three ahead of us normal guys." He prudently took a small step to view the innards of the bomb. "Yo, Dipshits, it looks like an IED of some fuckin' sort."
Still examining the timer and associated wires, Miles replied, "Yeah. I think it's being activated remotely. Why Triple-F did it this way, I have no clue. Maybe to feel in control? I ... I don't know which wire or wires to cut. What I'm going to try to do is interrupt the timer to give the Bomb Squad enough time to set it off safely. That's our best bet. Yoshi?"
Nodding, the physicist joined in, "Yeah, I agree with Miles. I have a couple ideas, but with one minute five seconds, we have no room for error."
Miles began speed-typing on his laptop in an attempt to hack the Wi-Fi 'MaRiOgTzBoMbdLoLz,' which caused him to cry out in frustration, as it was a dummy. He proceeded to hack all available WLANs, narrowing it to one that seemed to have a little more security than the recognizable routers from the hotel or residential areas.
0:43.
"C'mon, man!" chanted Yoshi softly, both as a plea and encouragement of Miles's hacking skills. At thirty-two seconds, they heard agitated, indecipherable chattering from the gagged man.
"Lucas, shut up!" hissed Pete. "Do you want to set this thing off?!"
0:24.
The clock stopped at 0:22. A sweaty Miles leaned back from his laptop, breathing heavily. "I don't know how long this is going to last, so I think we should get the fuck out of here."
DK and Mario closed their eyes in relief. "Aight, Pete, we're going to need your help to try to get Lucas off this thing. Miles, you tell us immediately if that fucking thing starts moving!" The hacker gave a single nod while refusing to take his eyes off the green digital numbers.
Pete and Mario approached the seated man. Reaching into his pocket, the plumber took out a Swiss Army knife to cut the duct tape from Lucas's body. Choosing to leave the sign hanging around his neck and tape on his mouth, DK and Pete moved behind him to unlock the cuffs. As the tall man began to push himself up from the bomb, Mario smacked a hand on his shoulder to restrain him. "Don't move, you stupid prick. We don't know if there's a weight sensor; if there is, you could blow us all to hell." As the portly Italian and Yoshi inspected the construction of the chair bomb, Lucas wordlessly responded by rolling his eyes and presenting a right middle finger.
"Yo, prick, how much you weigh?" snarled the plumber.
Lucas gave a mur-mur-mur-mur in reply.
Walking up to him, Pete ripped the tape off his mouth and pressed a hand over it to prevent his loud scream from triggering any mechanism. Once Lucas finished his cries of pain, the caporegime removed his hand. "Fuck!" the former hissed.
"Your weight, shit for brains! And don't give us a bullshit number, either!" he growled.
"I said one hundred seventy pounds!"
Pete looked up at the two older men. "Is there anything around here that would come out to one-seventy and fit in the chair?"
Mario glanced around at the living room to two Greco-Roman sculptures. "Those statues might weigh fifty, sixty pounds max. I don't think so. Plus, if there are sensors, I don't think our reaction times would beat a machine's."
From a kneeling position, Yoshi said, "Yeah, I agree with Mario. We're gonna have to wing it. Either it blows or it doesn't."
The tall man in a rumpled, purple suit glared at him. "'Wing it'? Oh, for fuck's sake, it's not your fine ass that will explode if you're wrong, Sushi!"
Immediately rising to a standing position, Yoshi angrily pointed at the man. "Well, let's see, Baka, you decided to join Triple-F on a fucking kill-by-drone-hunt, only to end up shit creek without a paddle when – shocked Pikachu – he fucks you in the aforementioned ass and on your daddy's command! Now, I don't give a flying fuck whether you die!"
"Easy, Dipshit, easy," cajoled Mario, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Let's just get the fuck outta here. We'll deal with Fuckwit later, huh?"
"Guys, let's make a decision here!" enjoined Miles, whose eyes continued to stare at the frozen clock.
"Let's go on three," spoke Mario from Lucas's left, gesturing for DK to move to the right side of the chair. "Dipshits, get ready to run. You, too, Pete." Everyone nodded; the Brobot Boys gently picked up their tools and backed away from the device, followed by the Denverite, who checked his gun and moved in front of the two young men. "One ..." he began, taking a hold of Lucas's wrist.
"Two ..." continued DK, copying the leftmost man's motions.
"Three!"
Like a limp doll, the two burly men yanked Lucas from the chair, and ran full speed out of the suite. Somehow, they managed to move in a single file down the hallway and toward the nearest stairwell fifty feet away. Yoshi vaguely noted Miles pressing the fire alarm while skidding down one flight of stairs after another. Whereas Pete's voice – move, move, move – rumbled throughout the corridor, Lucas whined that the grips on his wrists were too tight, even as DK and Mario kept his feet from sliding down the slickened steps. Upon reaching the second floor, they joined a steady, calm stream of sleepy and confused guests down to the lobby. Exiting the stairwell, they were met by the detectives as well as newly arrived firemen and officers on scene. DK yanked Lucas toward his body and cuffed him to his wrist. "Good luck escaping this time! I'm personally booking your ass for grand larceny, conspiracy to commit murder, the attempted murder of Luigi Masciarelli and of Giuseppe Masciarelli, obstruction of justice, and fleeing police custody. And that's not counting the extradition hearing to the UAE and shit knows where else. You, Lucas Kariolis, have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney; if you cannot afford one, he or she will be appointed for you and be available during questioning. Do you understand your rights as I have explained them to you?"
"Screw you, Lieutenant! I'm the victim here!" Lucas shouted back.
DK rolled his eyes while hauling the skinny man with him. "I'll take that as a 'yes.' Now, do us all a favor and keep your fucking mouth shut on the way to Central Booking." He then eyed Pete. "Turn in Nielsen's badge, Petey. You know you can't keep that."
Carelessly, the caporegime tossed it to one of DK's junior detectives. "Yeah, have fun tracking down whose butt-boy he was."
"Good, now all of you, stay clear of this!" barked the lieutenant. The Wrecking Crew, now including Bowser, tailed him to the front of the hotel where several police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances had blocked off the area from incoming and outgoing traffic.
"Hey, screw you!" called out an angry, frustrated Bowser. "My kids – Louie and Wendy – are still fuckin' missing! Brooklyn PD, like the dumb motherfuckers they are, sent the case to Missing Persons, but we know that the Crazy Bitch's got 'em! And God knows where she and her billionaire fuck-boy," he spat at the emotionless Lucas, "are! I ain't quitting! Mario, Pete, the Fenucca, the Dipshits, and I will take care of business!"
"Bowser, enough!" DK yelled in response. "We aren't quitting, either! But I got One-P-P breathin' down my neck! Bomb threats in a five-star hotel, a fucking RICO with the Russians and the LCN, a fucking caporegime who's gone rogue and posed as a goddamned police detective – one whom he shot!" Pete merely raised an unapologetic eyebrow. The lieutenant took a deep breath at the unmoved men's stares. "Shit, I'm gonna get at least a two-week rip for this. Then again, I'm not sure I give a fuck." Exhaling once more, then glancing at Lucas who tried unsuccessfully to cross his arms, he rasped, "I got to take this slippery little shit to Central. Although ... there's no set timeframe when. Lucas, you even think of trying to escape, well, let me remind you of something: if Polina and her lover, a.k.a., your daddy, get wind that you're alive, you won't last long, not even at Rikers. If he's willing to let his new buddy strap you into a bomb, then you've been written out of his will – to put it mildly. Not to mention what Carlo, Fat Tony, or the Vor might do. Got that?"
Before the man in purple could give a characteristically smartass retort, a bang and accompanying debris knocked forced them to take cover behind a fire truck. The Wrecking Crew looked up to see a fireball and a plume of smoke on the eighth floor, thankfully localized to a single area instead of several rooms' and floors' worth.
Frightened from the NYPD and first responder presence outside of the emergency room, Luigi raced into the general waiting area, searching in vain for the familiar faces of his family. His frantic movements attracting attention, several nurses and staff tried to calm him down, but he shook his head, demanding to know what happened, where Salvatore Rigassi and Joe Masciarelli were, where Daisy Abravanel was, where the others were. As two uniformed police made their way to intercept the agitated man, José jogged out of the main doors, Matt Morello just behind him, flashing his badge. "Yo, it's okay, it's okay! He's immediate family!" Nodding at the detective, the hospital staff and police backed away. "Luigi, follow me; I'll explain on the way."
Putting an arm around his shoulders, José escorted him into the hallways; though Matt kept up with their brisk pace, he remained more attentive to his laptop, presumably doing a sweep of any malevolent actors. "What's going on? What happened?!" Luigi asked in a tight voice. "Did something ...?"
"Lou, calm down! We're okay. Everyone's okay, alright?" The plumber gulped, bobbing his head a little. "We've moved everyone to a section of the hospital that's tightly controlled. Someone, presumably New Jersey Mafia or otherwise tied to Vinny DiScala and Polina Bowser, tried to kill Father Sal this morning. Thankfully," he flashed a tight smile, "the, uh, Hinchapelotas, was there." Luigi halted in his tracks, his blue eyes filled with dread and anxiety. José put up his hand to calm his shop manager. "She got cut up, but she, Doctor Venier, and your cousin stopped the guy. They're receiving treatment." He closed his eyes in relief, allowing a tear to escape the corner of his left eye. "As I said, Lou, everyone's fine. Alive. C'mon."
Wordlessly, the green plumber trailed the detective, who presented his badge to three sets of security checkpoints within a sectioned portion of the ICU. Four rooms were accorded to both old and new patients; Luigi glimpsed an unconscious and wan Salvatore hooked up to a ventilator; a sleeping Sam in the second room; a relieved, conscious Joe sitting with Maria, whose glasses were slightly crooked, as if they had been diagonally folded back and forth; in the last, an upset Harry and Yael observing their daughter's knife slash being treated with liquid stitches. Without knocking or waiting until the young resident had finished, Luigi rushed into the room and seized Daisy's lips in a passionate kiss, his day-old scruff caressing her smooth face. The woman whimpered from arousal and surprise, yet her boyfriend refused to move away; Harry interceded, pulling the reluctant man from his daughter so that the resident could complete the treatment. José entered and stood nearby in case the distraught plumber tried to break the lawyer's grip. After the doctor wrapped the young woman's arm to keep the wound sealed and sterile, he murmured that she was good to go. Disposing of the soiled gauze and other rubbish and cleaning his hands, he left the newcomers to speak with the patient. Smiling at her angry and horrified lover, Daisy said, "I'm fine, kerido. Peach's getting a CT scan. They think she has a mild concussion."
"Jesus Christ, amore ..." Luigi bit out furiously.
"Where are Mario and the others?" she asked while rolling her sleeve over the bandage.
He pinched his nose. "They're at the Plaza. We were set up. That's why José was sent here, I assume, by DK. I had a bad feeling ... so I came back." Shaking his head to clear the dark imagery that he had visualized on his way to her room, he rasped, "I couldn't just ... not after Riyadh or Dubai, kerido. Mario can handle himself. But I'm not leaving you."
"Kid, this wasn't your fault," Harry declared, even though his voice betrayed a certain weariness.
Luigi scoffed in self-reproach. "Isn't it? We went charging in, allowing Polina to play us like a violin. Now? She's out there and won't stop until every single Rigassi's dead, whether we're Mafia or not. And why?" Harry observed the sniffling young man wipe his tears with the back of his hand, in the same manner as Giuseppe had done. "Some fucked up quest for some fucked up notion of power." The Brooklynite glanced briefly at Daisy and her parents. "I never wanted this. I wanted ... a life, a family, a change in my life, yeah, but not this shit. And I'm sorry you're involved." Resolutely, he turned to José and Matt. "I don't care if it's against the law. DK can charge me for obstruction or whatever. But I won't let Polina or George Kariolis harm my family. This ends now!" Swallowing, he went on, "If I have to, I'll take 'em out myself as a Rigassi. I don't care about the brass or the mayor. They allowed this problem to persist, leaving ordinary guys like me to deal with it." The entire group could only stare as Luigi squarely faced his second cousin. "Matt, you got the security up and running?"
The scrawny Coloradan nodded. "Y-yeah, I think so."
A flicker of electricity passed over the green plumber's blue eyes. "Good. Thus far, we've been on the offensive. We've been forced to play her games. Now it's time for her to play ours." Advancing on the perplexed Daisy for one last searing kiss, he murmured against her lips, "I gotta go to work now, sweetie. When I get back, when everyone's safe, I promise you ... For the past nine months, you've been my present. Once this is over, you will be my future, and I can't wait to spend it with you. Thank you for saving Salvatore and my famiglia. Now, let me save you and yours." Sliding out of her embrace, he placed one final kiss on her ringed hand, he matched purposefully out of the room, Matt and José almost flanking him, to Sam's room for extra privacy. Luigi tiredly focused on José. "Uh, look, you're a detective, so you probably shouldn't ..."
"Lou, look, the respect that I have for you, that was developed at the shop? That wasn't part of my cover. I may be a UC, but I know the genuine article when I see it. I'm in." The Hispanic man sniggered a little. "Let One-P-P give me a rip for this. It won't be the first or the last."
Matt nodded in agreement. "We're not supposed to work with cops, but in this case, the rule book needs to go out the window. Polina and Kariolis aren't abiding by any rules."
"Count ... me in," whispered a voice from behind them. The three men twisted to face a weak, yet conscious Sam Carlino. "Gotta repay the ... asshole who turned me into Scarface."
Luigi laughed lightly. "Sam, it's not that noticeable. You'll heal. Rest up; we'll include you as we can." Facing his companions, he addressed them in a more serious tone, "Since Salvatore is ... incapacitated, I am the Rigassi heir. Matt, I want you to see if you can get into contact with Fat Tony. Tell him to get his motherfucking corpulent ass over here. I didn't fuck him over, so he sure as shit won't fuck us over. Same with whatever shithead capo who's still alive. If they want to live to see another day, then they'd better pay attention to the danger that befalls us all. I don't give a fucking shit that they're made! They will come to me. You tell 'em that, however you need to. And as for Polina and Kariolis?" José shivered as he saw a bolt of lightning flash in the man's blue orbs. "It's time for them to face their worst nightmare."