Please read and review; thanks to everyone who has.

As a special thank you to those who you have commented and/or have followed the story from beginning to end, I am announcing a little treat. Reading this chapter is necessary to understand the next part, so please look for the treat in the end notes at /works/37876045/chapters/97626888#workskin. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!


Chapter 9: Skeletons in the Closet

Luigi's eyes slowly blinked open to his darkened bedroom. Sweat lined his brow, as he was still dressed in his black shirt and blue jeans. Heat emanated from a form behind him; turning his neck over his right shoulder, he spied Mario who was twisting fretfully in his sleep, muttering incomprehensibly. All of a sudden, the man's large hands, which were bunched up on and under the extra pillow, tightened into fists and he began to cry and growl.

"Mario?" whispered Luigi.

"No … No posso … vedere. Dove sei? No posso vederti!"

Luigi dragged his body closer to his elder brother who was becoming more agitated and distressed by his dream. "Mario, svegliati. Svegliati, fratello mio," he coaxed, shaking him slightly. His voice seemed to register in Mario's subconscious and his blue eyes fluttered open in confusion. Bolting upright and looking around as if searching for someone, his shoulders sank in frustration and disillusionment as he realized that it had been a dream. Mario's deep blue eyes darted to his brother's concerned look.

"What were you dreaming about? Who couldn't you find?" asked Luigi carefully.

Mario did not answer. He scrubbed his sweaty face with his hands, then moved off Luigi's bed to check the time. 4:55 am. Fully awake, Luigi flicked on the night table lamp and observed his brooding brother. The shorter man braced himself against Luigi's desk, wheezing and coughing from the remnants of his fight-related injuries. A moment later, he collapsed in Luigi's chair with a blank stare.

"Jesus, Mario!" cried the younger brother. "Maybe I should call Peach."

As he reached for his phone, Mario growled, "Don't you dare. You don't get to talk to her. You've worried her enough!"

Luigi's eyes closed in shame. "Mario. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that … I've done this. I don't know what happened with the cellphone. But I'm so sorry that I caused you to worry."

The elder plumber hotly glared at his younger brother and nodded. "Yeah, you fuckin' should be. Now, if you're done being sorry, you can tell me exactly where the fuck you've been. And don't tell me that you've been working. Because I already know that's a lie. Sal didn't know where you were except that you were selected for a 'special job' by that slimy piece of shit Pichler." He angrily made finger quotes at the words 'special job.'

An irritated Luigi crossed his arms on the bed and laughed mirthlessly. "Well, pot meet kettle. How many times have you ditched me for whatever struck your fancy, Sergeant? See, I never got an apology for the nine hundred times that you went AWOL and left me to explain it to Sal or Uncle Joe. Or do I need a chevron tattooed on my ass for that, you sanctimonious asshole?"

Mario's eyes became the same ice blue from the previous night. "Stai attento," he warned ominously. "Tell me where you were."

"Or what?" challenged Luigi, eyebrow raised. "You're not Uncle Joe and you certainly aren't …"

Before Luigi could finish the sentence, Mario leapt out of the chair and grabbed his brother's black shirt roughly. "No, I'm not!" he spat to a stunned Luigi. "I'm sorry that I'm not him. I wish I were, 'cause he'd have smacked you across your goddamned face, you pezzo di merda! And you … Fucking stronzo! Fucking testa di cazzo! Now tell me!"

"Perche?" shouted Luigi, shoving Mario away from him. Regaining his balance, the elder plumber moved back into his brother's space, keeping his balled fists at his sides. Luigi tilted his angry gaze up to Mario and continued, "As I said, I fucked up by not taking the initiative to text or call you. I'm sorry because I should know better. I know how much that hurts. I. KNOW. And I shouldn't have done it to you, no matter how much of a prick you are. But you know what? I was telling the truth when I said that you don't care!" Mario blinked, but did not move. Luigi went on, "Maybe I liked being the center of attention when I was picked! Instead of being Mario's little brother who everyone asks about his whereabouts and about who he fought the night before, someone took an interest in me! You never gave a shit, except you always get to come home," he listed on each finger, "to a clean house, a stocked fridge, and a secretary to make whatever excuse to Sal or Joe. And hey, it ain't Peach's problem because she doesn't live here! But I do! Yet I'm called the irresponsible or immature one? Just because I'm not fucking the nearest Italian blonde who's neither here nor there!"

Mario's face turned a bright, beet red, contrasting with his white tee-shirt and black boxers. "Aight!" he yelled. "You want to go there? Fine, you selfish fuck, let's go! Pichler is an oily son of a bitch. Any gift that the smarmy fuck offers should be treated like nuclear-fuckin'-waste and buried under six feet of lead. I'm sorry that you're too far up your own special little ass to see that! As for taking an interest in you, where the fuck do you get off talking about my relationship? I don't see your girl. Oh, wait," he lifted a finger and chortled, "she's one of your fuckin' robots! My mistake! AI apparently makes you an expert on your grand total of zero human relationships."

Luigi's eyes narrowed and shook his head in disgust. He slid off the bed and headed for the door. As he turned the doorknob, the younger plumber scoffed, "It's official. Your knowledge of me and my life stopped when you first left for Afghanistan. I'm such a beloved fratellino that you didn't know that I've in fact had three notable relationships and several friends with benefits. Rest assured that they're all human. So I know the difference. I'm going to take the couch downstairs. And you can still go fuck yourself."

A shocked and irate Mario watched Luigi walk quietly down the stairs. Three relationships? Multiple fuck buddies? He had heard and rolled his eyes at certain rumors uttered by John and others on 65th Street, but Luigi steadfastly refused to discuss his love life. The only person that he vaguely knew of was a girl named Éclair from Luigi's first and second years at Brooklyn City High. Mario remembered mercilessly teasing Luigi about his first love and even coaching him on how to be suave and alluring to her. The teenage Luigi stammered and blushed throughout his first-year French class, promising and swearing up and down that the following day would be the day that he would be a brave ragazzo and ask her on a date. Mario agreed to keep Luigi's crush on the down-low in exchange for doing his laundry for four months. While he manipulated the situation to his benefit, the elder brother nonetheless knew of the necessity to keep shtum: none of the Bensonhurst guys would have approved of Luigi dating a black girl from Bushwick.

There was the first relationship, albeit from high school. Who were the other two?

You-know-who, echoed Miles's voice from Sunday dinner a week ago.

Mario's eyes widened. Momentarily forgetting about the unidentified number two, he realized that number three was current. Was that, at least in part, where he was during the past week? Was he with Number Three? How the hell did he miss a Number Three in Brooklyn? Would he have risked worrying everyone for Number Three?When did Luigi have the time to meet Number Three and, more importantly, why did he not know about Number Three?

Miles's skinny little ass was a Kentucky bluegrass primed for mowing.

Crawling onto his 'side' of his brother's bed, Mario pumped and adjusted the pillow, then closed his eyes to get an hour or two more of sleep. He would let a few days pass, after which he would take a drive, even in traffic, up to the City and put the screws to Miles, as he knew that Luigi would stonewall him about Number Three. As for his self-centered shit of a brother, he would find out what or who was behind Pichler. From Mario's small operation of terror in the Koopa Bar, it was clear that neither Tony nor Bowser had anything to do with Matusz and Ferenc; and from the null result of the miscellaneous bruises and cuts that he left those little pig fuckers, they had nothing to do with Luigi's disappearance. However, based on his latest fight with Luigi as well as the little that Sal had said, Mario was certain that Pichler was involved. The problem was that for as long as he could provide multi-million-dollar contracts, Scott the Soggy Shitbucket was protected by the union.

Mario awoke to a few pale rays of sunlight through the window a few hours later. Pushing himself out of Luigi's bed, he crept downstairs to spot his sleeping brother's lanky form stretched along the couch. Walking silently past him, Mario entered his bedroom and en-suite to shower and prepare for work. He would do this, as per military parlance, double-time, as he had no intention of leaving Luigi on his own – Sal, Pichler, and NDAs be damned to hell, fucked sideways, and personally ass-reamed by the Devil himself. As he stripped out of his sweat-drenched shirt and boxers, Mario heard rustling and jogging up the stairs. Knowing that he had a maximum of twenty, perhaps twenty-five minutes, Mario cleaned his body boot-camp style, stepped out of the shower, swiftly dried himself off, brushed his teeth, and changed into clean boxers, gray undershirt, jeans, a red long-sleeved shirt, a thick zip-up hoodie of the same color, socks, and lightweight boots. Checking his watch, he smirked; he had completed his morning routine in just under thirteen minutes. As he leisurely skimmed the morning edition of the New York Times on his phone, he heard a run down the stairs and toward the garage. Phone in hand, he sped out of his bedroom and after his little brother into the garage. With his lightning-fast reflexes, Mario opened the passenger door of Luigi's red Suzuki and, shoving his body into the seat, slammed it behind him. Sitting in the driver's side, an irritated Luigi, who was dressed in a green turtleneck, jeans, black poufy jacket, and Converses, stared at him.

"Get out, Mario," he hissed.

Mario reached for the seat belt, buckled it, and crossed his arms defiantly. "Not a snowball's chance in hell, bro."

"You can't go to this site, and you know it. Stop fucking around and get out," yelled Luigi.

"I have an active top secret security clearance from the U.S. Government, so I think I can handle a bullshit NDA. I'm going," replied Mario evenly.

"No, you're not. Pichler was very clear; the client wants me only."

"Pichler can go fuck himself; we're a package deal," growled the plumber in red.

Luigi snorted, placing both hands on the steering wheel. "We're not a 'package deal.' We're a sometime partnership, and that's putting it loosely. We're a 'package deal' only when you decide it is. And when you don't, when you're off punching people, I get left behind in the fallout. Well, now, I'm wanted. I'm no longer second fiddle. Now, fuck off."

"I'm not going anywhere!" shouted Mario. "You know, you're so full of shit. For all of your pity-party crap about how I supposedly don't care, well, I do fucking care about where the hell my only fratellino was for five days. I care that he doesn't go off a bridge! I care that I tore up half of New York City looking for him! Now drive. Pichler can deal with me."

The plumber in green stared out of the windshield for several moments, his eyes shifting as if reading a particularly detailed novel. Finally, he grinned evilly and said, "Fine. Buckle up, bro."


"Yo, boss," called out Luigi as both he and an aggravated Mario strolled through the large plumbing shop. Brooklyn Plumbing and Mechanical Works was located in one of the remaining old garages in Dumbo, just a few streets from the shoreline of the East River and the Manhattan Bridge. The business had been open since the 1950s, passing from one master plumber to his first or second trainee. Its first owner and founder, the exacting and foul-mouthed David "Commie Dave" Ginzburg, retired after forty years in 1985 and handed the keys to his second-in-command, Benny Cardoso, who ran the shop until his sudden heart attack in 1997. After months of discombobulation and a near bankruptcy, the Cardoso family named the third-in-command, Salvador Maldonado, as his successor. The second-in-command, Joseph McManus, was facing lengthy criminal and civil court battles, as he was found to have embezzled several million dollars from the company coffers. Having little to no experience of running a business, to say nothing of a failing one, Sal Maldonado struggled for the next three to four years to fight the increasing demand for cheaper "independent" plumbing jobs and growing anti-union sentiment. In 1999, his former master plumber and mentor, the seventy-year-old curmudgeon Mario Masciarelli, sent his eldest grandson, then a third-year apprentice with the skills of a seasoned journeyman, to help with the backlog as well as "enforcement." The younger Mario spent the rest of his apprenticeship under Sal's mentorship. Sal had intended for Mario to be his successor; however, just after the completion of his apprenticeship, the Italian joined the Army to defend the world against terrorism.

At least, that is what the young Mario Masciarelli told everyone.

From over the two-foot-tall stacks of paper, reports, tickets, and the monitor of the old Windows XP on his metal desk, the fifties-something Sal Maldonado heard his mentee call out over the grinding and clinking of metal throughout the shop. His thick black hair sticking in all directions, his equally dark eyes glanced over the frame of his reading glasses. Loud Bensonhurst bitching inched closer to his open office and, for a brief moment, Sal debated whether to shut the door and turn down the blinds.

"I can't fuckin' believe that you're tattling to Sal!" griped Mario for the seventh time that morning.

Ignoring him, Luigi arrived at the wooden door and knocked on it politely. "Yo, Boss, got a sec?" he asked.

Sal rubbed his eyes with his fingers as he spied an agitated Mario halting behind the taller, younger plumber. "Depends on what shit you're about to bring me, kid."

"Yeah, shit bein' the operative word!" interjected Mario, jabbing his index finger at his brother's back.

Luigi rolled his eyes and began, "Boss, could you please explain to this overbearing scimmione that Pichler wants me to go alone?"

The red-hoodied plumber crossed his arms and replied, "Fat fucking chance. I know the little shit wants to be the next Houdini, but we all got responsibilities. If he goes, I go."

"No, you're not going, asshole," retorted Luigi without looking at his brother.

"Fangul, little shit. I am. Even if I have to superglue or nail your ass to mine, whichever comes first."

"Mierda," huffed Sal exasperatedly. "How in the hell did your Papa and Abuelo manage you two? You're acting like two old women. Mario, Scott the Snake asked for Lou and Lou only. He made it crystal clear that anyone else wouldn't be … welcomed. God only knows why." He directed a piercing stare at Luigi who precipitously found the floor interesting. "Let him go. I trust Lou to do the job."

Mario's eyes narrowed into slits. "His ability to do the job isn't the issue."

Whirling to him, Luigi bellowed, "So what is? This is about the job, not our personal bullshit!"

"Lou, report for work, now!" interrupted Sal before the argument between the Masciarelli brothers could turn into a screaming match. Taking a deep breath, Luigi obeyed his superior and stalked out of the office. As his brother began to follow him, the boss added, "Mario, you stay. Shut the door before I can your ass."

Mario glared at his boss. Slamming the door, he turned to face the tired Maldonado. Crossing his arms and leaning against it, he waited for him to speak.

"Jesus. Mario, more than anyone, you know how hard we've worked to keep this place running. After years, we're finally in the black. Now, I share your concerns. I don't trust Pichler, and I don't know who he's working for. He was very, very careful not to tell me, even with these bullshit NDAs. Frankly, I'm not sure I wanna know. But with a couple big contracts, I can finally sleep at night. I can retire, see my daughter and grandkids in Miami," he said resignedly. "But in the past twenty years, I've learned one fucking thing: No echa leña al fuego. My gut's telling me that this is a big fuckin' fire."

"And that's the reason why Luigi shouldn't be there on his own!" hissed the younger plumber.

"So you think that he can't handle himself?" asked Sal.

The plumber in red paused and bit his lip. "It ain't about that, Sal. He's my brother."

"And he's a man now." As Mario opened his mouth to protest, Sal held up his hand and stated. "¡Ya está bien! The pipes are waitin', so get your ass over there. We need that done in two weeks." He spun in his chair to face the financial report on his computer, signaling to his subordinate that the conversation was over. Raking a hand through his cropped hair, Mario reluctantly, but neutrally, exited the office and the shop. Looking up to make sure that the plumber was gone, Sal fished out his cellphone, dialed a number, and put it to his ear. "Hey, come stai? Si, va bene, grazie. Yeah, thankfully, Lou showed up for work this morning, though I haven't a fuckin' clue what Pichler's got him doing. No paperwork, no nothing, except a general assignment for four months. Yeah, it's shifty as fuck, and I don't like it. It smells like a John Slaughter turd in the bowl. No, I don't even know who he's workin' for. And man, even if I knew, I couldn't tell ya because of that goddamn NDA. Yeah, Mario's pretty pissed off, man. He's not gonna stay at the site, not a chance in hell. Uh-huh. Yeah, okay, sure. Yeah, thanks. And give my best to Lucia. Bye."


Luigi drove through the congested morning traffic in downtown Brooklyn toward a favorite morning haunt of his and Lucas's. Throughout their sophomore year at the nearby Brooklyn City High, they cut first period every Monday to eat stuffed French toast or Belgian waffles at Kent's Diner. Although he and Luigi had been sent to the principal's office several times for their truancy, they actively competed with each other to give the school administration the most outlandish, smartassed excuse, which they would rank after the "Monday Coffee and Asschew." On one occasion, after the principal finished chastising the pair for their flagrant disrespect of Brooklyn's 'finest institution,' Lucas began singing and humming "U Can't Touch This," which caused Luigi to giggle uncontrollably. They both received a week-long detention. Since his Cousin Jackie had more pressing matters to attend to than Luigi enjoying breakfast at a notable Brooklyn eatery, he blew off the arrogant principal, stating in a conference call that he "must not have enough issues of Penthouse to jerk off to if his top student taking an hour for breakfast was cause for alarm." The principal could not argue with the man's vulgar logic; Luigi was ranked number one in the sophomore class and number two including the juniors and seniors. Lucas Kariolis was right below him at number two and fourth for the entire school. Eventually, the principal gave up his Monday Crusade Against Waffles, though not before letting Luigi know that he would make his life miserable.

Pulling up to the curb on the left side across from the diner, Luigi shut off the engine and exited the driver's side. At least the asschewing preceded breakfast this time. French toast sounded better than fighting with Mario. Self-righteous prick, he thought contemptuously. Crossing the small street to the restaurant, Luigi stopped briefly on the sidewalk. Take a deep breath and focus. After a slight self-nod of encouragement, he entered the restaurant and spied the well-dressed Lucas sitting at a window table. The décor was very much the same as it had been a decade ago; the walls were painted a multitude of oranges, beiges, and pastel greens, and each 1990s-style square table was surrounded with homestyle wooden chairs. Lucas waived him over with a grin; returning the gesture, Luigi crossed the dining room and plopped down in the opposite chair.

"Morning," greeted the man in gray Armani and a lilac Oxford. "I thought we could resume Mondays at Kent's, minus the Coffee and Asschew."

"Sorry, I'm a little late," said Luigi while picking up his menu. "The Asschew preceded both the coffee and breakfast."

Taking a sip of his regular, Lucas frowned in concern and confusion. "Who asschewed you?"

"Sal and Mario."

Lucas quickly set his coffee cup down on the table. "Wait, what? As far as Sal knew, you were on a job. Why would he chew you out? And as for GI Joe, why are his panties in a twist? It's not like he noticed."

"Oh, they noticed," exclaimed Luigi who flipped through and scanned the menu pages. "Uncle Joe, Yoshi, and Miles noticed, too. Mario apparently went on a rampage across Brooklyn. He thought I had been kidnapped!"

The well-dressed man stared at him disbelievingly. "Wait, and he didn't even attempt to call or text you? The guy's mental, Weeg. Are you sure that he's not having some sort of breakdown? I mean, I've read about Afghan or Iraq vets coming back from the war with their heads all kinds of fucked up."

"Well, they showed me their phones, and they all left messages – voice and text – on my phone," replied Luigi. "I mean, I've never had an iPhone that malfunctioned."

Lucas gazed at him darkly. "Are you trying to say that I fucked with your phone? Weeg, I know we didn't end our friendship on the best of terms back in the day, but Jesus, that takes the cake. Check with your phone company – I never turned it on while I had it. I even kept it in my safe so no one would fuck with it. Weeg, I mean, no offense, but perhaps this was a mistake. I tried to patch things between us, but I can see that you're not interested."

Standing up indignantly, the man in the gray suit reached into his inner coat pocket and dropped a five-dollar bill on the table. As he was about to leave, Luigi called out, "Wait. Lucas, I'm trying to make sense of all of this. My family, they were really worried. They sent all these texts and messages that I never got." The man studied Luigi's face, then hesitantly sat back down in his chair. "Lucas, I don't get it. But they still don't know where I was, and I'm going to keep it that way."

Angrily, Lucas sipped at his half-empty coffee cup. "Why?"

Luigi set aside the menu and stared at his breakfast companion seriously. "Because you were right. I've let Mario dominate my life for far too long. I want to breathe again."

A brunette waitress approached their table and asked if they were ready to order. Luigi handed his menu to her and asked for the stuffed brioche French toast with a side of bacon and a regular. Cracking a grin, Lucas ordered a Nutella Belgian waffle, two eggs, and Canadian bacon. She took the order with a pencil and notepad, poured coffees for both men, and left to take care of the other patrons in her section.

"So about your phone," began Lucas, drinking his fresh cup of coffee, "you could've picked up malware. Despite what they claim, Apple's security is like toilet paper – you can wipe your ass with it, but that's about all. Microsoft's worse, but I digress. Did you run a scan with an antivirus app?"

Luigi blew on the boiling-hot black liquid and then drank. "I ran a complete scan, but found nothing."

"Hmm," he reflected. "It's strange, since all of your messages and texts were missing. Email, too, I suppose? Is your phone running slowly?"

"Email is fine, and I did receive one message. Memory hasn't been affected," responded Luigi.

"But you didn't receive any of their messages? Well, how do you know that one of them didn't transmit something to the others? It probably wasn't your phone if you were able to receive calls and texts, which you clearly were. It sounds like you had some data damage. See if any of their cellphones have similar issues." He let out a sigh of frustration. "I'm sorry, Weeg. I'm just throwing ideas out there. Honestly, without examining your phone, I couldn't tell you. I'm sorry that you got stressed out from them. But I'm not sorry that you came to California. And frankly, neither were you. After all, you didn't exactly try to call them."

The plumber nodded slowly, then drank more of his coffee. Lucas was always exasperatingly difficult to read. Even in high school, he could be charming and charismatic. With a shy smile and gentle tone of voice, he persuaded the entire Physics Club into giving him the answers to the latest electromagnetics homework and talked three girls – two seniors from Stuyvesant and a freshman at NYU – into a drug-fueled orgy at his then-empty Bensonhurst brickhouse. On a cold Saturday night in the early spring, while they were high on ecstasy, Lucas and the three coeds had loud raunchy sex in Mario's bed. (Luigi refused them access to the master bedroom, much to Lucas's audible displeasure.) Although he attempted several times to coax him into participating, a drunk and despondent Luigi retreated into his room upstairs to stare blankly at the ceiling. Those same magnetic talents were also used for mayhem and deceit. He witnessed Lucas cheat on several exams and frame other students to cast doubt on their academic performance. The school administration believed Lucas, as he was from a 'good family' with alumni-fundraiser ties to Harvard, Princeton, and the University of Pennsylvania. The students in question, all of whom were from middle- or working-class families, were transferred out of Brooklyn City to normal, crime-ridden public schools in the area. Most ended up acquiring tens of thousands of dollars in college debt to attend cheaper state schools. Lucas Kariolis was a known liar and charlatan; yet Luigi could not prove that he was behind the cellphone issues, and he was, at least for the time being, attempting to act genuine.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. He wants something from me.

"I am, too," Luigi finally said. "So, what's the plan for today?"

On cue, the waitress reappeared with their breakfast entrées and a small container of amber-colored maple syrup. Lucas stripped off his gray suit coat, hanging it on the back of his chair, and tucked the large white napkin into the collar of his Oxford. Cutting up his waffle, his shoved a gooey, chocolatey bite into his mouth and slapped the table in pure gratification. "Mmm," he began, "fuck, I missed this, Weeg. Mmm. Well, you got some reading to do. A couple textbooks on recent AI shit, nothing hard. I'll have you work at the construction site on, like, Thursday or Friday. You pick the day and time. I don't care about schedules right now; if you wanted to work from noon until six, fine by me. It's just to make sure Sal doesn't whine too much. On Saturday, we'll leave New York again for about three weeks. We'll be back by Easter. But I'll let you handle Soldier Boy this time."

Luigi cautiously took a bite of his golden-brown French toast and chewed the custard-like starch deliberately. "Leave? Again? Why? Where?"

Wiping his mouth of the Nutella, Lucas ate several bites of waffle before answering. "It'll be a surprise – I'll let you know at the end of the week. But trust me, you'll like where we're going. Don't worry; it's Continental U.S. only. If you're gonna be successful as a techie, Weeg, you gotta travel and get the fuck outta Brooklyn. By the way, do you have your passport?"

Eating a small piece of French toast with his fork and knife, the plumber shook his head.

"Okay, add that to your to-do list for this week. I think you once told me that you'd gone to Rome for some fuckin' eighth-grade Catholic school trip, so you'll need to get an adult passport, and that'll take extra time. We may be going outside of the U.S. by end of spring, so you need to get the passport application submitted, like, yesterday," said Lucas between globs of Nutella and Canadian bacon.

"You have plans," deadpanned Luigi.

Lucas nodded as he cut the remaining Canadian bacon slices into pieces. "Indeed I do. I just secured some major-ass capital. Not from my idiot father, by the way. Capital gets me – well, us – credibility. Add some more foreign investments, and presto! We got an extra ten or fifteen million to fuck around with. I'm thinking of approaching some people I know in London and Frankfurt in the late spring, like May or June."

Nibbling on the bacon, Luigi frowned. "Yeah, but what exactly are we doing? What's the business plan?"

"First, we're gonna build neural networks for our investors, then move on to robots. Advance artificial intelligence by designing intelligent devices for the home. Internet of Things as well as devices for large machines long-term, SCADA. That's why I wanted you – you're a plumber, so you understand infrastructure and controls. Plus, you also know the tech. I'm sure that there are processes that you hate in plumbing. We can fix them."

Luigi finished chewing the last of his bacon and shrugged. "Yeah, sure. But we're talking about aging infrastructure. I'm not sure how we'll be able to change that, especially when the union's there to prevent the introduction of tech and to protect human interests."

"You let me worry about the selling part. Your job's to design it," replied Lucas.

"Okay. I can try. But honestly, if it does work, you'd be getting me and my designs for a bargain," said Luigi, finishing the last of his French toast.

"Oh, your salary will increase, not to worry. If this works, Weeg, and you come work for me full-time, even a master plumber's hourly with the city will be a complete joke," the suited man chortled as he wiped his mouth and sipped the last of his coffee. "We're talking lawyer or cardiologist wages. You could have Google tongue-bathing your pole."

But the master plumber's salary's stable, retorted Luigi in his head.

At Luigi's shifting, leery blue eyes, Lucas slapped a reassuring hand on his friend's left shoulder and fixed his brown eyes on him. "Weeg, I know Joe and Soldier Boy kept you in this hellhole for over a decade. It's form of Stockholm Syndrome – it's comfortable, and you even learned to like it over the years. But I think I still know part of you. The part that outdid even Omaya and most the science faculty at Fort Greene. The part that wasn't afraid to have a little fun with Éclair. The part that stood up to that asshat principal. Hell, even the part that stood up to me on occasion. It still exists. C'mon, Weeg; let it out to play."


After breakfast, Luigi returned home to dig through his old school records for his first passport and birth certificate. Thankfully, both were placed in an old banker's box in the master bedroom closet. The room that remained quarantined for all of time. Occasionally, Luigi entered the 1990s-era bedroom to air it out and clear out any cobwebs or other pests that tried to move into the unused space. Sitting on the cobalt blue comforter, he opened the old passport to reveal the photograph of his fourteen-year-old self, eyes twinkling with excitement and mischief. He remembered the pharmacist had to retake the photo several times because the young Luigi dared to grin for the State Department. Eventually, Mario Senior rolled his eyes and told his son to "cut the bullshit and get it done." Flipping through the passport book, he found the entry stamp that he had received at Rome-Fiumicino International Airport. Luigi spent ten days in Italy as part of an eighth-grade class trip for St. Rosalia's; Father Sal as well as the Italian teacher, the Naples-born Signora DiCicco, chaperoned them. It was one of the few times that Mario Senior and Giuseppe agreed upon anything related to little Luigi's education; Giuseppe fished out his old green suitcase from his dusty attic in Staten Island and brought it over to the young Luigi as well as a small, blank photo album. "The memory fades with age, but a picture is forever, Luigi," he had told him. The adolescent heeded his uncle's advice and brought back several beautiful photographs of the Colosseum, Pantheon, Vatican, and Trevi Fountain as well as the eerie, ivory Neoclassical buildings of Fascist Italy that spackled the old city center.

The album was somewhere in the master bedroom; he had not tried to find it in over a decade.

Next, Luigi unfolded his birth certificate issued from the City of New York. The pink, blue, and white colored paper was re-issued six months prior to receiving the passport, as Mario Senior had lost the original. It contained all of the information that one would expect – his full name, his parents' names, birthdate, and sex – though he was shocked to learn that he had not been born in Brooklyn. Luigi had presumed, like his older brother, that he was born at Maimonides Hospital just ten minutes away in Borough Park. Bafflingly, the five-pound-four-ounce Luigi Gabriele Masciarelli was born to Mario and Gabriella on June 3, 1986 at Columbia University Irving Medical Center in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Even in the 1980s, the hospital that later became a part of the famed New York-Presbyterian was known to be the preferred hospital of New York's wealthy. Although one would consider it a minor detail, the fourteen-year-old Luigi knew that there was more to the story, as a nine-year veteran of the 1980s-era FDNY and his housewife would not have been able to afford first-class obstetric care at a private Ivy League hospital. When he asked his father about it, Mario Senior gave him a haunted look and rasped, "You're a Brooklyn Masciarelli in every way that matters, mio figlio."

Unsatisfied with his father's answer, Luigi brought the certificate to Mario who was also stunned at the discovery. During Gabriella's labor, the nearly eight-year-old Mario had been taken to Joe and Lucia's, who were at the time living next door to their house on 62nd Street. He remembered an agitated Uncle Joe going to and returning from the house while Lucia eagerly waited with the Family – his grandparents, his aunt Maria, and the toddler Maria. The young Mario assumed that Joe was anxious over his older brother's long-awaited second child. However, on the night of Luigi's birth, a perplexed Mario watched Giuseppe rage in Lucia's arms and viciously curse both his brother and an unknown "fucking bastard." The child did not understand what had happened nor had he been able to ask questions. It was soon forgotten after the exhausted, yet happy Mario Senior and Gabriella brought the small baby home to Bensonhurst a few weeks later.

A few days after Luigi asked Mario about the circumstances regarding his birthplace, an uproar in Italian occurred in the kitchen between father and eldest son. The next morning, Luigi awoke to find his father restlessly sleeping in a chair next to his bed. As for Mario, he steadfastly refused to discuss the subject further. Luigi subsequently spent the next decade in the dark with many questions and no answers. In a fit of anxiety and depression over bits and pieces that never made sense, he quietly bought two DNA Ancestry kits, comparing samples that he had surreptitiously taken from him and Mario to Uncle Joe's online genealogy profile. While he breathed a sigh of relief that he, like Mario, was the full-blooded son of Mario Masciarelli and Gabriella Rigassi, he nonetheless felt the same, years-long trepidation around both the Family and the Sicilian cousins, as if a vortex was about to converge upon him at an appointed time in the near future.

Having filled out the paperwork and stood in line for forty-five minutes to apply for a passport at his local postal office on 20th Avenue, Luigi decided to take the subway to Gowanus to buy the list of books that Lucas had given him and enjoy a cup of coffee. At lunchtime, Luigi went for a shawarma and called his beautiful lioness to plan a date at her place on Friday evening. He listened to and calmed her when she fretted over the "EMA" and the harsh words of her advisor, soothingly promising her takeout and a night of relaxation on Friday evening. Then he encouraged her to attend a Wing Chun session to work off the frustration, which she gladly agreed was a good idea. Luigi did not mention, though, that his jeans had grown much tighter at the thought of a sweaty Daisy practicing movements at the wooden dummy. Although he abhorred fighting and violence, the plumber found himself getting extremely hot under the turtleneck at the idea of the auburn-haired, well-toned woman performing split kicks and Donnie Yen-like blocks. It was sweet torture that sent his imagination into overdrive. For the first time since they began dating, he was relieved that she had to end the call after thirty minutes; his body was now reacting to her voice. Luigi was a good Italian boy; he fully intended to give Daisy the time and respect that she needed. Nonetheless, a dark, primal part of him hoped that she would be ready soon.

Like the rest of that Monday, the next few days passed without incident, which suited Luigi. Expectedly, Mario did not return to the Bensonhurst brickhouse after work. As the young plumber poured over the textbooks on artificial intelligence and machine learning, he inwardly rolled his eyes at his older brother's predictable, yet hypocritical actions. Later in the evening, he tried to call Yoshi to apologize but each time was directed to voicemail. Of the remaining three Brobot Boys, Yoshi possessed the most Mario-like temperament; when truly angered, it would take the Japanese several days, even weeks, to calm down and properly discuss the issue. Luigi had only been on the receiving end of the Yoshi temper three times in his life: the first time as small children, in which they quarreled over who would be the hero in one of their games; the second, when Luigi suddenly cut Yoshi and Miles from his high-school life; and the third and latest, when he disappeared to California. In all three cases, Luigi knew that he had deserved it. Yoshi would call him back once he was ready to talk – he hoped.

On Thursday, he decided to put in his "plumbing time" at the construction site. After finishing his morning routine, he drove to Carroll Gardens for his bagel and regular. He and Daisy chatted as they ate breakfast together. Casual touches became increasingly heated; at the end of the meal, Luigi gently pulled her into an adjacent alley and spent the next five minutes kissing her passionately against the cold brick. Both parted each other's company with dopey smiles, full of unspoken promise and anticipation of Friday evening. Luigi arrived at the downtown building site at around eight o'clock. Receiving his assignment from José, he took his place on the sixth floor. Fifteen minutes into his shift, Mario stomped in, sneering that they were working the same section. Shrugging indifferently without facing his brother, Luigi continued cutting his portion of the pipes, which only aggravated him more.

"'Ey, little shit, I'm talkin' to you!" growled Mario.

"Bravo," retorted Luigi in a flat tone. Out of the corner of his eye, he took note of the fresh cuts on his brother's knuckles. "So, I see that you've proven to be the asshole hypocrite that we both know you are and gone back to fighting like a good cock."

Several hours passed in silence, save Mario's incomprehensible grumbling and slamming of metal. At lunchtime, Luigi decided to go out for a chicken shawarma and to flirt with his girlfriend via phone call. Exiting the construction site, he took a leisurely stroll to a nearby gyros and shawarma stand outside of Borough Hall. It was not his absolute favorite, but he did not want to waste a thirty-minute round trip to Prospect Heights via subway. As he absorbed the cool, sunny Brooklyn air, he failed to notice a muscular figure shadowing him. Luigi pulled out his phone and dialed Daisy's number. There was no answer; Luigi pocketed the cellphone and waited for his girlfriend to call or text him back.

Although he was a good distance away, the red-hoodied man kept his blue eyes on the taller plumber walking down the street. Following him to the gyros stand, Mario stopped and pretended to go into the adjacent pharmacy. Inside the store, Mario watched Luigi order a shawarma and a can of lemon soda, then head along the crosswalk and down Court Street to the public benches near Borough Hall Station. When he was certain that Luigi would not notice, Mario left the pharmacy and crossed the busy Brooklyn street, still keeping his distance. Though he was unable to see him fully, Mario observed Luigi's hands lift the sandwich to his face. A moment later, he switched hands awkwardly to shove the unopened can in his coat pocket, hold his lunch in his left hand, and fish out the phone in his right. Using his long fingers to press the green key, Luigi put the phone to his right and answered. Mario sped up a little, as the phone call seemed important.

Was it his new boss or was it Number Three?

Luigi's relaxed posture indicated to Mario that it was likely the secretive Number Three. Finding an empty park bench, the young plumber sat down, flirty smile plastered on his face, and, as he ate lunch, proceeded to chat with the caller. To avoid being seen, Mario ambled in front of the multiple MTA bus stops at the edge of the street and then double-backed down the path behind the benches, finally stopping ten feet from Luigi and obscuring himself behind a tree.

"…Mmm, you know what I like. So your advisor's still being an asshole?" asked Luigi.

Definitely Number Three, deduced Mario as he leaned in to hear better.

"Yeah, I once saw some fetish sub on Reddit called r/redpens. It was dedicated to those who could only get aroused from using red pens in some manner. No, I'm serious! No, I found it by accident! No, really, I think half of them are professors. Ew, goddamn, no! Ooo, yes, I love the way you think. Yeah. Well, I prefer your ass, but we've had this conversation already."

Whose ass? Goddamn it, Weeg, say her name already! Mario thought impatiently.

"So how was practice? Oh, wow. I bet that was a stress reliever. Capoeira in the park? Hmm, I've never tried it. Huh, really? Sounds like fun, I'd be down…"

Mario continued to eavesdrop on the lunch date between Luigi and Number Three while trying to ignore the growing sting from the perspiration around his split knuckles. As far as he could tell, Number Three was a graduate student of some sort and liked playing a variety of sports. However, there was no name. Calming his growing exasperation, Mario reminded himself that if Number Three was indeed a graduate student, then the Two Dipshits would certainly know her.

He had yet to interrogate Miles about the phone.

"… I can't wait, either," Luigi went on in a lower, playful voice. "What do you want me to bring? Sounds good. Movie or more chocolate? Both, huh? Well, I don't know. I don't want to spoil you. Oh, is that right? You always get what you want? I don't mind giving in to you, sweetie."

Sweetie? Mario's eyes narrowed. Fuckin' sweetie, huh? Cutesy fuckin' pet names?! Seriously?

"Mmm, as I said before, your ass's fuckin' poetry. Gotta go? Well, I can't wait. Me, too. Okay, if you must. Bye, princess." A forlorn Luigi hung up the phone and placed it in his pocket. Taking a bite of his shawarma, he stared ahead to the base of the tall office buildings across the street.

Sweetie and Princess. Well, Princess, time to meet Mario, the elder plumber vowed.

Mario ambled down the path behind Luigi and began his approach from his brother's left to give the false impression that he just arrived. Oblivious, Luigi carried on eating his sandwich and sipping the lemon Pellegrino. The latter unexpectedly felt his sandwich being ripped out of his hand. Indignant, he turned to find his older brother shoveling a large bite of the shawarma into his mouth.

"Pretty tasty. Not as good as the one in Prospect Heights, though," concluded Mario, sitting down next to his little brother.

"What the fuck?! The stand's up the street. Get your own, jerk," barked Luigi.

"I'm lazy," said Mario, shrugging as he took another bite. "It's easier to steal yours."

"What do you want, Mario?" asked a hungry and irascible Luigi. "I'm guessing that you followed me. Why, I haven't a clue."

Mario divided the sandwich in two pieces, handing two-thirds to his little brother and keeping the remainder for himself. "You know why," he answered while eating.

Accepting the larger portion, Luigi bit into it. "Do I? Why is it that I'm supposed to be available at all times, but you disappear whenever you want?" he argued between chewing and swallowing.

"Because that's how it is," replied Mario, licking his fingers of his finished portion. "And I meant what I said about Scott the Shitbucket – he's dangerous, Weeg. I can't … I just don't understand why I can't come with you. We're a package deal. That ain't ever changing."

An incredulous Luigi slammed the lemon soda down his throat, crunched the aluminum, and tossed it into the nearby garbage can. He walked past Mario toward the construction site, sandwich still in his hand. Mario quickly got up from the bench and pursued his brother. Without a word, Luigi waited at the electronic signal and, finishing the remaining bit of shawarma, crossed the street. Mario moved to flank him as if to prove his previous point. Luigi persisted with the silence, speeding up his strides to leave his brother behind. Undaunted, Mario increased his speed to keep pace with him. After several minutes of the unsaid competition, the red-hoodied plumber reached out with a power arm and halted Luigi's path, the momentum causing his body to recoil, which Mario used to bring him securely to his chest. "Package deal," he snarled, keeping his arms around Luigi.

Instead of relaxing in his embrace, Luigi pushed him away, leaving Mario's mouth agape and eyes enlarged. "Fuck you, Mario. Package deal? Really? The little brother that you too happily ditch?"

As Luigi turned to leave him, Mario latched on his shoulders to face and keep him in place. "Yeah! Yeah! That's right! I ditch you to keep you safe!"

"Safe?!" shrieked Luigi. "No, more like to be the fuckin' hero! Can't have Bensonhurst think that the great Mario Masciarelli is a pussy! Can't have the homo brother ruining your reputation, Mister Tough Guy!"

Mario's eyes darkened in ire, and Luigi recognized the expanding nostrils as the tell-tale sign of an eruption. Again, he tried to turn away from his brother, but felt a strong hand pull him roughly back. "No! You don't get to walk away after saying that, you selfish fuck!" screamed Mario. "I have always respected your choice not to fight! But some things you don't know! And frankly, you're better off not knowing! Despite your smug, anti-violent bullshit, you always asked me to step in! You say I don't care? Well, fuck you, Weeg!"

Luigi's eyes softened from sharp sapphires to cloudy blue orbs. "I know, bro. That's why I can't tell you where I was. I got to start fighting my own battles now."

Mario's anger immediately dissipated, his own eyes changing from icy blue to a pained cerulean. "Weeg, I … No, I didn't mean … You – You can't fight Pichler and his goons alone. You don't even know what you're walking into. No, let's … let's just discuss this."

Luigi chuckled a little, then responded, "Yeah, you meant it. Do me a favor and go to Peach tonight, bro. You need her." Then he wordlessly started to walk back to the site.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Mario balled his fists, debating whether to stay put or to recapture his little brother and never let go. Watching the man march purposefully down the street and back to work, Mario bit his lip and trailed aversely behind Luigi.

For the remainder of their shift, the brothers worked in quiet except to ask each other plumbing-related questions. Luigi became hyper-focused on cutting and integrating his pipes, blocking out his brother's self-contemptuous swearing at the way his hands shook and slipped furiously on the metal. Nonetheless, they managed to complete installation of the entire sixth floor. At six in the evening, the sweaty Mario and Luigi grabbed their gear and made their descent to the entrance. Luigi stopped just short of the street where he and Mario had parked their vehicles. "Mario," he called out in a normal voice. Car key in the door, the man looked up wearily from the driver side of the company truck. "I'm … I'm not going to be at the site tomorrow. And starting on Saturday, I, uh, I'm going away for about three weeks – out of New York. So you don't need to worry if you don't see me. I'll be back for Easter." Mario stared vacantly at his brother. "See ya," said Luigi quietly, leaving to his red car.


Tears fell from Luigi's eyes as he drove aimlessly around Brooklyn for an hour. He could not bring himself to go home to the empty brickhouse in Bensonhurst. Part of him wanted to show up unannounced at Daisy's apartment to seek comfort in her warm embrace, but he assuaged himself that he would see her tomorrow evening and, as he would be away for three weeks on an adventure to the unknown, spend every possible second in her arms and meld her rosy lips with his. Luigi craved Daisy's strength, as he had felt something inside die on the street that afternoon. The sensation petrified him; he thought that life had already taken all that remained. Yet she had plenty on her plate – school, thesis, law school applications. She did not need a clingy Italian plumber or his family and ex-friend drama on top of them. Taking a deep breath to self-soothe, he chastised himself to focus and come up with a list of goals for the next three weeks. First, he had to determine whether Lucas was on the 'up and up,' so to speak. While his general plan sounded plausible and even doable, Luigi knew from their shared past that he could not be fully trusted. The paranoid part of Luigi mildly wondered why he re-entered his life at this point in time, after twelve years. It was not by accident. Second, if Lucas was planning something nefarious, then he needed to protect Mario, Daisy, his family, and his friends. Third, Luigi had to figure out a way to prevent him from causing additional harm. Fourth and most importantly, he needed to prove to everyone – his brother, Uncle Joe, Yoshi, Miles, Peach, and even Bowser and Tony – that he could handle difficult situations without Mario. Luigi was not a 'tough guy' nor did he want to be; however, sensitivity and intelligence did not equal incompetence.

Feeling hunger pains in his stomach and in dire need of a cigarette, Luigi decided to stop in Prospect Heights for a burrito and a smoke. He cursed and invoked Mary's name several times as the closest parking spaces were all taken. Circling for ten minutes, he finally parked a few blocks up the semi-congested Franklin Street. Five spaces behind him, a silver truck parked and blended in with the vans and small cars lining the red and white brick residential buildings. Luigi hurried down to the burrito shop while the shorter figure waited until he was three streets ahead to exit his vehicle and enter the adjacent bodega for a couple of Snickers bars and a coffee. Returning to the plumber's truck five minutes later, Mario haphazardly tossed the candy bars into the passenger seat, then, sipping his black coffee with sugar, he sat in the driver's seat to wait for his brother's next move. While watching for Luigi, Mario dialed Peach to let her know that he would be in Manhattan by Saturday instead of that evening, as he was certain that Luigi "was about to do something really fuckin' dumb." Peach then told Mario that she would have Rospo drive her to Bensonhurst in an hour, to which Mario vehemently objected, told her to stay in the City, and that he would explain on Saturday. Peach was not placated, and the two lovers bickered in Italian for several minutes, prompting Mario to end the call with "Stay put! Discussion over!"

A minute later, the tall plumber strolled up the street, cigarette and burrito in hand, and Mario ducked his head down to avoid being seen. Spotting the flash of headlights from the corner of his eye, he waited ninety seconds before engaging the truck engine and following Luigi's red Suzuki down the street. Hastily setting the phone in the dashboard stand, Mario pressed a button to dial a second number and put it on speakerphone. The tone rang until it was rerouted to voicemail. After the beep, Mario barked, "Miles, this is the third time that I've called you in two days. Pick up, you little dipshit! I know about the girl that Luigi's goin' out with. I want a name. I also want to know what you really know about Weeg's Houdini act, 'cause he's apparently leaving again on Saturday. And if you don't fuckin' tell me, I'll personally make sure that your brother locks you in a shed upstate where you'll be surrounded by lots of lightning." He punched the red button to end the call and maneuvered a few cars closer to his brother's vehicle. Not knowing how long this would take, Mario peeled the wrapper of the first Snickers bar at the subsequent red light and turned on 106.8 FM Radio New York for background noise.

"…Unknown cybercriminals stole an estimated $150 million over a period of nine months through numerous suspicious transactions. The Whitaker Investment Group had no formal comment, citing ongoing internal and criminal investigations. A designated spokesperson for the company stated that Whitaker CEO James Langer was working closely with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and INTERPOL…."