Chapter 14: Epiphany

Despite Pete's encouragement to sleep, Luigi spent the entire night watching shadows move across the ceiling. At around four o'clock, he gave up and turned on his iPhone to check his voicemails and texts. He received several messages from Daisy; the previous evening, she had gone out with friends in Manhattan to binge on what she called 'forbidden carbohydrates' right before Passover. He texted her with an early good morning, even though it was shortly after six in New York.

Fifteen minutes after his text, he received a ping from his girlfriend: "Morning, sweetie. But it's got to be 4:15 there! What's up? 😰"

Turning on his side toward the wall to block any reflecting light, Luigi wrote back, "Can't sleep. Not sure why. Could be altitude?"

The three dialogue dots appeared for several minutes, followed by the message, "Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry. 😧. I didn't sleep well, either. These couple of weeks have been different. You're not at Sami's trying so hard not to stare at my ass. You're not there to feed me shit in a pan or chocolate. And now I have to suffer a Brooklyn Passover with no birthday cake or Luigi 😠. I miss you."

Smiling sleepily, Luigi texted, "I miss you and your beautiful ass, too, Daisy. Colorado's beautiful, and you'd love the skiing. But no cake? What the fuck's that about? Bread?"

A couple moments later, he received her reply: "Yeah. It sucks being Jewish sometimes, especially when your birthday falls during Passover. No leavened bread = no cake. 😠😠😠😠. Bimuelos just aren't the same, although Papai sneaks me kosher brigadeiros. Still!"

"Can you have cannoli? You consume dairy, right?" he inquired.

He waited another twenty minutes for her text. "Sorry, sweetie – just got out of the shower, trying to get ready. Another meeting with my advisor, the French normalienbastard. Dunno about cannoli. The shell probably not unless it's kosher for Passover. Yes, dairy/egg in moderation is fine."

Closing his eyes at her mention of getting out of the shower, his mind sank well into the lowest levels of the New York sewer system, and he felt his pajama bottoms become tighter. Regaining his composure, Luigi replied, "Shall we continue at your lunch? Let me research this. It's New York – there's gotta be something. Ah, Mr. Red Pen. Also, normalien?"

"I've got time at 3pm. Is that ok? Also, normalien = graduate of École Normale Supérieure. As you've already seen, they think they're a divine GIFT to humanity. 😒 😒 😒. Insists we speak French at every meeting because I need the practice. And yes, he owns a full set of red pens. "

After bidding her a good day despite "Mr. Red Pen" and promising to talk at three o'clock New York time, Luigi used his phone to purchase and ship his princess's birthday present – a set of handmade, yet moderately-priced Arizona silver and turquoise earrings – and to research the 'Passover Problem.' Though he had known Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform Jews in Bensonhurst and at Brooklyn City High, none were within his close circle of friends. Mario knew more; between the ages of eleven and fifteen, he worked as a 'Shabbos Goy' for an Orthodox family in Borough Park, quitting only when he went to work for Nonno Mario. After an hour of searching for Passover-appropriate cannoli, Luigi finally found a highly-rated Orthodox bakery in Newark that was still accepting Passover orders and would deliver to Brooklyn. He winced at the delivery surcharge and inwardly sent a series of invectives to the New Jersey Governor, who would no doubt eat said cannoli upon discovery. Nonetheless, he was determined to impress her with his birthday and Passover gifts. Aside from making her Passover a bit better, he wanted more from her than a five-minute show at Sami's. Luigi would never admit it publicly, but Lucas was not wrong about him being keyed up; the distance and that yellow dress had been driving him crazy for almost two weeks. Once he returned to New York, he would insist on staying for at least a month, as he needed personal time with Daisy.

Flipping on his back, the plumber winced at the crux of what really kept him up that night. On one hand, Lucas's so-called 'business venture,' which had been questionable from the start, turned into something else completely, and he was now a chess piece in a previously unknown game between the Kariolises, the Masciarellis, and the Rigassis. Even though Pete and Giuseppe insisted that he was not the sacrificial pawn, but in fact 'the most important piece,' he felt pushed and pulled in all directions, half-expecting that the Denver winds would blow him away to parts unknown. On the other hand, Luigi knew that a simple plumber would be unimpressive as a boyfriend or potential significant other to Daisy's family and friends. While he did not mind that, in all likelihood, Daisy would be making twice, if not three times his current salary upon graduating from law school, he wanted to give her a good life with all that he had and could be – if she continued to be with him. He liked poking around in computers and he liked building things that benefitted others. The prudent choice would be to walk away from the game entirely. Nonetheless, he could also lose the chance to be more. But at what cost?

And what of Uncle Joe's messages? He still had not called him back, and he knew returning to Brooklyn and Staten Island would bring nothing but drama and trouble. Selecting the voicemails, he quietly replayed them and reflected upon what Giuseppe had said. There was some truth to the Rigassis lying; the Morellos had lied about the purpose of the trip to Denver. At the same time, he was fed up with the Masciarellis' half-truths and lies by omission, particularly by his brother and Uncle Joe. The Luigi of the past would not have dared question or ignore Uncle Joe; the present-day Luigi grew angrier by the second, as he wondered just how much of Marco Bowser's bullying and brutality were a factor in whatever the hell it was that they refused to say. Is this the reason why Mario frequented the Koopa? The plumber resolved to call Giuseppe that morning and hear his side of the story before he met the Carlinos. Given Marco Bowser's sordid activities in Iraq, he needed to tape together an image from the various pieces of truth and fiction.

He checked the time – 6:05 am. Not knowing precisely when Sam's family would arrive from Pueblo, he decided to get up, shower, and slip out of the house to the park a few streets away. Rising from bed, he fished through his remaining clean clothes and took them into the bathroom for his shower and morning routine. Twenty minutes later, he quietly slipped on his socks and tennis shoes and then crept down the stairs of the silent house. Writing a quick note to avoid suspicion, the plumber very gently opened the front door, exited the house, and closed it behind him. Walking briskly up the inclined street, he reached the open space in about six or seven minutes, still affected by the altitude. Once alone and away from eavesdroppers, Luigi pressed the button for Uncle Joe and let it ring.

"Luigi?" immediately answered an older, weary voice.

"Yeah, Uncle Joe, it's me."

"Jesus Christ. Wh-Where have you been?" he followed up timidly.

"Out," replied Luigi tersely. "Look, I'll come straight to the point. I listened to your messages. What the hell is going on? And who is Pete Morello?"

The phone crashed to the ground; in the distance, he could hear coughing and some wheezing. After a full minute, he could tell that Joe had recovered the phone to his ear. "Kid, where … where did you hear that name? Is … Pete in Arizona?"

"Answer my question!" demanded Luigi. "Who is Pete Morello?"

Several moments of stillness followed to the point that Luigi almost hung up the phone. Sighing, Giuseppe eventually spoke, "He's … He's your mother's first cousin. His mother's the younger sister of your grandfather Rigassi."

Rolling his eyes, Luigi spat, "Oh, don't stop there! Who is he?"

"Alright, you want me to fuckin' say it? He's in the family business! And not just any business, kid. That fuckin' guy doesn't need to fire a single bullet! In some sense, he's worse than Big Jackass or Fat Tony. Now, answer my question! Is he in Arizona?"

"No."

"Kid, you're not in Arizona, are you? Did you fucking lie to me?!"

"No!" he growled. "I didn't lie to you!"

"Porca Madonna!" skreiched Giuseppe. Luigi heard him kick over an unknown object, as it banged and clattered onto the floor. "Fuck! That motherfucking piranha! Son, listen to me – I'm getting on a plane to wherever it is – Arizona or Colorado. Then, oh, then I'm gonna shove a cactus up Scott's and Petey-boy's asses and feed their rotten carcasses to the fuckin' vultures …"

"You will do no such thing," replied Luigi coldly. "You damn well know that you're not welcome here. But what you will do is tell me the fucking truth."

"Cazzo di merda!" he breathed. Luigi could hear him sit down in his office chair and scrub his left hand over his clean-shaven face. "Pete and that sick shit Carlo paid for you and your mama's care at Lenox Hill. I know you've seen the birth certificate – your father called me in a panic before your trip to Italy. You … When Gabriella and your father found out about you, the doctor recommended … termination. They didn't know the extent of her cancer yet, but it didn't look good, even then. They wanted to prolong her health and life. Well, she refused. It was hard on her and your father. He thought she was committing suicide, and he stayed out on extra shifts for the first couple months, refusing to accept her decision. Your Zio Sal even tried to talk to him – to no avail. Eventually, Mario came around 'cause he couldn't refuse her anything. When she started getting really sick, his back was against the wall. We didn't think you'd survive. And even so, FDNY insurance couldn't pay all the medical costs. I called in a couple of favors, but even with the extra cash, Mario was still short. Carlo and Pete stepped in. It saved her life, saved yours. But with those people, there's always a price."

He closed his eyes. "What was the price?"

"The Sicilians have their own way of doin' things, kid. Always have. Your mother was never like them, neither were Sal or Audenzia. Your nonna wanted her kids to live well and without fear in New York. She saw what the life did to your nonno and your bisnonni."

"Was …" Luigi gulped, "was Nonno Luigi part of … that life?"

"Gabriella never talked about him much, not even to your father. Audenzia never did, either, so I don't know just how deep he was into that shit."

"So, what was the price? Was the price getting the shit kicked out of me as a kid? That I'm basically persona non grata at the Koopa?"

He coughed, then said, "Marco Bowser was a fuckin' pig raised by that even bigger pig, Jimmy. I'm glad the sonofabitch is dead. I'd have killed him myself if…"

"If, what, zio?"

"That day when Marco nearly … killed you … I remember the NYPD and paramedics were called. Those slimy pig fuckers took Mario into custody after he beat the shit out of that pig and his goons. Turns out that Jimmy lied to his higher-up buddies, sayin' that your brother started the whole fuckin' thing, even though two little kids happened to be bloody and bruised. Your father found out from the FDNY ambulance radio. He called me up and said, 'Enough's enough.' Youse – you and Yoshi – were taken to Maimonides. After he checked up on you both and made a phone call to Yoshi's parents, and I'll never forget this as long as I live, he became calmer that I'd ever seen him. Marco and Jimmy were lucky that day, 'cause I'm certain that your father was planning to kill both of 'em. And I had no problem helpin', neither. We drove to 65th; I saw your dad get out of the car and approach that rat-infested fuckhole of a house when this fuckin' black Lincoln, like a bat outta hell, pulls up to the curb. Before we knew what the fuck was goin' on, two big guys were dragging Jimmy and his piece of shit son out of the house by their hair. Jimmy's old bat's screamin' in Sicilian like a banshee, the other kids are just starin'. They shoved them into the car, climbed in themselves, and sped off. The next thing we knew, Mario got released, and Marco stayed clear of youse."

"And you think it was Pete who did that?" asked Luigi incredulously.

"I don't know. Luigi, son…Promise me that, whatever you do, you don't take what they say on face value. No matter what they say, no matter how legit it sounds."

"So, what did they lie to Pops and you about, then? How about Mama?"

There was silence on the line, except for intermittent coughing and hacking. "Kid," he finally began, "some things are best left unsaid."

"No!" shouted the plumber atop the grassy hill, the morning sun highlighting his angry blue eyes. "No, I'm the one who's being dragged into this! I'm told to fight my own battles, as if I'm so fucking weak that everyone – you, Mario, the entirety of fuckin' Bensonhurst, god-knows-who-else – needs to baby me, yet when I ask for information, it's one goddamn song and dance after another! Well, if I'm so damn weak, then why not let me meet with the Rigassis? They won't be interested in me, so what possible harm could it do?!"

"Who the fuck told you to fight your battles?! Marco's piece of shit brother? Fat Tony? Kid, you got a family for a reason! There's," Giuseppe took a few wheezing breaths, then continued, "there's nothing wrong with you. Nothing! You … You're almost a master plumber. You got a wonderful life! And the Rigassis are … Kid, I'm beggin' ya. Just don't."

"What? Jesus, why can't you tell me?!" At his silence, Luigi scoffed and replied, "Fine. Fuck it, I'll ask them!"

"Don't you fucking do it!" bellowed Joe into the phone. "I mean it, Luigi! If you have any respect for me at all, you'll heed my warning. Per favore," his voice tore on his last appeal.

The young plumber sank down into the grass, phone pressed to his ear. The proud Giuseppe Masciarelli rarely pleaded for anything, much to the grumbling of Nonna, Lucia, and Zia Maria. Even the equally proud Cousin Maria rolled her brown eyes at her father's refusal to budge on a single centimeter of independence. "Okay," he breathed. "I won't ask. But … what am I supposed to do? The Carlinos are coming today."

"Fuck, this is really happening, ain't it?" muttered Giuseppe. Luigi could hear him rubbing his eyes underneath his black-framed glasses. "Jesus Christ. Aight, whatever you hear, it's important to keep your mouth shut, do you hear? Then get the fuck out of there. Swear to me on your parents' graves that you're coming back to New York. Swear it, son!"

"Yeah, I promise, che riposino in pace."

"Bene." Wheezing a little, he added, "You're not in any immediate danger, but don't ask too many questions. Don't try to bullshit them, either. Pete will know. The guy's … very intelligent, unfortunately. We'll … We'll talk more about this when you come home. And kid … Fighting alone is what gets men bigger and better than you or me killed. D'you understand?"

"Yeah," answered Luigi softly. "I get it."

"And if you're not on the plane by the Saturday before Pasqua, I swear to God, the Virgin Mary, and Jesus Christ that I will send them all to see Saint Peter. Send me your flight information once you have it."

"Now, wait a …"

"Non discutere con me, nipote! Mi aspetto che mi invii il tuo itinerario, è chiaro?"

"Si, capisco," exhaled Luigi.

"Let's leave Mario out of this, as well. No need for him to go AWOL from Colorado Springs. He's on annual training until end of next week. But at the first sign of trouble, you call me. Even if it's three o'clock in the fuckin' morning. Got it? They'll act like famiglia, Luigi, but don't forget who and what they are. Capisci?"

"Capisco, zio."

"Bene. Sono al lavoro, quindi devo andare. Ti voglio bene, nipote. Chiamami se ci sono problemi, okay?"

"Okay. Anche ti voglio bene. Ciao." Luigi and Giuseppe disconnected the call, though the former did not move from his spot on the hill. There were similarities between Joe's and Pete's stories: their mutual enmity as well as the Rigassi family's involvement in saving his and Gabriella's lives. They knew each other well enough to anticipate the other's moves in a lifelong chess game. Yet Joe refused to answer just what the price was, and there seemed to have been one, if Pete's metaphoric explanation of the chess pieces was any indicator. It scared his paternal uncle so much that he begged Luigi to leave Denver at the earliest opportunity. But what was it? Was it his father? His brother? A sense of dread suddenly passed through his body, shaking him at his core, then burning his newly-tattooed arm which no longer needed the dressing or extra cleaning. There was nowhere to run or to hide this time. He checked his watch – 7:00 am Denver time – and his text messages. Nothing from Miles or Yoshi, let alone Mario. Sending a "?" to Miles, Luigi decided to stay outside for a bit longer; since he and Lucas left Arizona, he had not enjoyed a real moment to himself.

An hour later, Luigi braved the short walk back to the Morellos' house. By eight o'clock, everyone was up drinking Dazbog and Pete was reading the Denver Post and the Washington Post (which he sarcastically called the DC Compost) at the breakfast table. He looked up gingerly from his newspaper to Luigi. "Morning, Luigi. Walk was good?"

"Um, yeah," he replied. "I just needed some fresh air."

He nodded while Pinocchio bit out a rather bitter meow that Luigi had not showed the proper deference and invited him. "Ah, Pinoc, are you mad? Huh?" The Siamese jumped up gracefully on the table top to complain about their guest's poor manners. Chuckling, Pete said, "Pinocchio thinks he's in charge. Well, actually, that's probably true." Pinocchio meowed again, as if confirming that he was indeed the boss. Pete scooped up the slender seal point, put him in his lap, and scratched his chin. The cat glared victoriously at Luigi. "Sit down, have some coffee."

Smiling, Luigi sat down across from his older cousin and poured himself a cup of the black liquid. "This stuff's strong."

Pete laughed. "Yeah, the Russians don't pull any punches with their coffee or tea. I, uh, heard you speak Russian."

Sipping the hot liquid, Luigi answered, "Да, немного. Я изучал русский язык в школе." At Pete's double blink, his face flushed. "Sorry. I said that I know a little because I studied it in school. After I left Brooklyn City, I went to a magnet high school for science and engineering in Staten Island. But, uh, the only language they offered was Russian. Since I hadn't completed my required three years of foreign language for the Board of Regents, they put me in an immersive Russian class to 'catch me up' to the other juniors who were in Russian III and IV. I finished with the equivalent of three or four years of high-school Russian. I can order a beer and read it a little."

"Wow! And I thought high-school and college French were a pain in the ass. You really are like your grandfather; in addition to his native Italian and Sicilian, he knew French, Ancient Greek, Latin, and German. My sister, Laura, is really into languages, too."

"Yeah, but he was probably much better at languages than I am. I only managed Bs and Cs in Russian," the plumber admitted sheepishly. "That was the one class that I couldn't whiz through. I had all As except for that class. I was also working twenty-five, sometimes thirty hours per week."

"You learned enough to communicate, right? It's amazing that you were able to cram three or four years of Russian into just under two years. But no college?"

"Ah, no," responded Luigi. "Right after graduation, I went to trade school and became a plumber. I thought about going back and getting my engineering degree, but I found out from my friends how hard it was for college grads to get a job in New York. So I stayed to become a union journeyman."

Before Pete could question further, the front door opened, and two middle-aged Italians dressed in coats and jeans entered the threshold between the living room and the kitchen. The clean-shaven man, who was just at six feet in height, resembled Sam with his sandy-blond hair, brown eyes, and muscular build. Luigi gasped audibly at the woman who could easily be mistaken for his mother's long-lost sister: she was five foot six, slender, and had the same almost-black curly hair. Her eyes, however, were a deep chocolate brown instead of blue. Laura seemed equally stunned at her cousin's appearance; she quickly entered the kitchen to the breakfast table and stood in front of the plumber.

"My God, you're the twin of Uncle Luigi!" Laura spoke with delight.

Luigi grinned and stood up to greet his cousin. "And you look like Gabriella!"

They embraced warmly. The man, who had followed his wife into the kitchen, offered a hand to Luigi, "I'm Gene Carlin, Sam's dad and Laura's husband." He took the hand as Gene said to his wife, "He really does look like Uncle Rigassi."


The family decided to go out for brunch at a local restaurant in which both Pete and Gene had invested capital. Pete owned or co-owned three restaurants throughout the metro area: Paul's Italian Supper Club in Sunnyside where Luigi had first met him, a French-Cajun breakfast restaurant in Littleton, and a coffee and snack shop in lower-downtown Denver, known colloquially as 'LoDo.' Even on a weekday morning, brunch was packed with tourists and locals alike, the seating waitlist was often thirty or more minutes. However, as investors and co-owners, Pete and Gene were seated within five minutes. Sam joined them ten minutes later, and the family spent a good two hours telling stories about growing up in Colorado and visiting Brooklyn for Christmas, Easter, and for a few weeks every summer. Apparently, Pete and Laura had gone to school in Brooklyn for ninth and sixth grades respectively in 1972, as their parents wanted them to know 'Uncle Carlo' and the Campisi side of the family. That was also when they became part of a clique of 65th Street Italians – Mario Senior, Gabriella, Giuseppe, Salvatore, and DK, one of the very few black kids in the neighborhood. Jackie, his younger brother, Paulie, James 'Jimmy-B' Bowser, and several of the Irish and Italian kids formed another opposing clique.

Pete and Mario Senior were both born in 1958 and went to New Utrecht High School. Gabriella, whom everyone called 'Wendy Lady' because of her nurturing demeanor, was one year their elder; as she only knew Sicilian when she arrived in New York, she was held back a grade to learn English. Back then, Bensonhurst and Bay Ridge were a collection of residential buildings and Italian storefronts juxtaposed with hanging laundry lines and open lots; aside from stickball, Buck-Buck, and Kill Ball, they used to hold up the nearly twelve-year-old 'Choir Boy' Sal with their toy guns as a prank and bicycle throughout Brooklyn until dark. Every so often after school, the two cliques would have a beef, usually between Mario Senior and Jimmy-B who were both after the beautiful Gabriella. Jimmy-B picked the fights while Mario Senior attempted to laugh it off, walk away, or use reason to end them. On one occasion, the then-scrawny teenager was forced into a physical altercation with the much larger Bowser; the latter beat him bloody and nearly knocked him unconscious when Gabriella distracted him, allowing Pete to slug the latter with a brick and, as DK held the laboring Jimmy-B's arms behind his back, Giuseppe finished him off with a punishing kick to the gut. Because Jimmy-B was their toady and not part of the family, Jackie and Paulie declined to retaliate against them.

The story shocked Luigi, who, growing up, heard countless stories of the heroic "Jumpman" who could easily run up ten stories with ninety pounds of gear and carry men twice his size to safety. Since he was young, Luigi had burned with deep envy of his father's and brother's physical strength which would have protected him from the predatory gangs of 65th Street. He was a better jumper than Mario and even his father; yet with the exception of the rare nearby tree or building ladder, it was useless against Marco's physical harassment. As he finished his pancakes, the plumber wondered why Mario Senior never told him about Jimmy-B – embarrassment, perhaps pride? Unlike his younger brother, Luigi's father was never excessively stubborn or proud; in fact, he rarely discussed his work at home, preferring to listen to his Motown vinyl, play with his sons, or spend time with Giuseppe and Lucia. Occasionally, he would host cookouts for some of the guys from the firehouse; when they would brag to the young Mario and Luigi about their father's exploits, Mario Senior would either change the subject or leave the room. Above all, he discouraged Luigi from fighting – "It ain't worth it. Use your head, not your fists," he would say.

After brunch, the entire family returned to the Morellos' home to look at more photo albums and stories about Paolo, Sofia, Gene and Laura, who married and had Sam right after college in Golden and Boulder, and how Pete fell over himself upon meeting Michelle in college. While the Rigassi men – Gene, Matt, and Sam – generally followed in Nonno Luigi's footsteps to become engineers, Pete broke with tradition, albeit with his father's and Carlo's blessing, to study law at the University of Denver. He even spent a summer in Sorrento in southern Italy to take a class in international and hospitality law. Though his legitimate income was from food and beverage, he was licensed to practice commercial and criminal law in the State of Colorado. He even passed the notoriously difficult New York bar exam and was able to give legal advice to private clients in Manhattan and Brooklyn.

Around one o'clock, Pete and Gene went to his study to discuss 'urgent business,' so Luigi excused himself to call his beautiful Daisy while Michelle and Laura, who wanted to give him and "the lucky girl" privacy, chatted over coffee on the outside deck and the boys went downstairs to play on the Xbox. Running up the stairs and closing the door, Luigi was about to press the speed dial for Daisy when her number flashed on his phone. Pressing the green phone key, he answered, "Hello, sweetie."

"Hey, sweetie," she said half-heartedly.

Immediately on alert, Luigi's smile sank into a frown. "What's wrong? Everything okay? What did that guy do?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I'm happy," she breathed. "Well, I should be. But I'm not." Sighing deeply, Daisy went on, "My advisor was happy with my work this time, so my proposal can be submitted to the Graduate School. That, uh, means that I have to do interviews for my thesis this summer. I'm going to West Africa."

Sitting down on the bed, he weakly asked, "For how long?"

"A month and a half, possibly two. It, uh, just depends on how my sampling goes," she answered softly.

Luigi tried to regulate his breathing and the painful thudding of heart against ribcage. "That's … That's great. Your work will be fantastic," he offered lightly, though his voice sounded squeaky. He felt a lump in his throat grow. How would they be able to make this work when one or the other was gone?

Not realizing that he had voiced this fear aloud, he shuddered in surprise when Daisy cried, "Oh, Luigi, I know. If you had asked me in December, I'd have been ecstatic. But now … I want to spend the summer with you. I want you. But I know I've got to do this if I'm to graduate."

"Daisy, education's important. You need to go. I'm willing to wait, however long it takes. I mean, we've got Skype and email. I just … I need to be present in your life if this is gonna work. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, sweetie, it's a promise. I want this, too."

"Ditto," Luigi closed his eyes and smiled, crossing his heart with his free hand. "When are you leaving?"

Daisy let out the nervous breath that she was holding. "Um, mid-June. I'd come back to New York in early August. Originally, I'd intended to spend the rest of the summer in California, but … I want to spend it in New York, with you."

"And what's Yael and your Papai got to say about this?" he teased.

She snorted. "I haven't told them yet, but I imagine there will be pearl-clutching."

"About you going to Africa or returning to New York?"

"Both," she laughed. "How's your visit with your cousins? Which side of the family, by the way? Was it your mother's?"

"Mother's cousins, so the Sicilian side. They're … interesting. Very intelligent, very closely knit. There is a lot of family history that I don't know. I know my Abruzzese side fairly well, as I grew up with three generations of Masciarellis – grandparents, father, uncles, aunts, cousins. But the Rigassis have always been this big question mark. Plus, the Masciarellis really don't get along with the Rigassis. I, uh, just got invited to Denver out of the blue. Honestly, I don't really know what to make of that."

Daisy hummed in thought. "How do you feel about your cousins? Do you like them?"

Luigi leaned against the pillows on the bed and considered the question. Apart from Giuseppe's warnings to be cautious and skeptical of the likely-mafiosi Rigassis, he did in fact like them; unlike Fat Tony and Big Jackass, who were Teflon Don wannabes, Pete, Gene, and the Rigassi-Morello-Carlino clan seemed so wholesome and normal, with a rooted sense of ethics and goals for themselves as well as their community. The potential Mafia association did nonetheless bother him, as much of the violence within Bensonhurst during the 1980s and 1990s was related to toxic 'wiseguys' and so-called 'men of respect' who leeched off and even murdered hardworking Italians, Irish, and Jews. "I like them so far," he eventually responded.

"Then enjoy yourself," she said with an audible grin. "Maybe it's just that – they want to get to know you now that you're an adult. But I'll admit to being jealous."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Skiing in Colorado! Back in February, I was fantasizing about cold and crisp air against my face while skiing down the Sochi slopes! I'm stuck with Columbia snobs and the Eat My Ass, and my hot Italian boyfriend is skiing at a chalet in Colorado!" she guffawed.

"Well, the said Italian boyfriend was sliding on his ass down the slope … But you think I'm hot?" he purred, face flushed.

"I'm not the only one with a nice ass."

"Really?" he enjoined in a low timber. "I, uh, could continue, but I'm afraid that I'd embarrass you, myself, well, both."

"Oh? Why would you be embarrassed?" asked Daisy coquettishly.

Luigi laughed nervously. "Uh, because, um, I'm at someone else's house and, well, taking a cold shoulder in the middle of the afternoon would probably raise a few eyebrows."

She giggled in response. "Got it. When you get back, I wanna go out. Restaurant, the works."

"I know. It's your birthday. Where are we going?"

"Haven't decided yet. I'm still trying to get rid of the chametz from my apartment. My parents are coming on Saturday. Yael will have a stroke if there're too many crumbs to purge."

"Speaking of Passover," he began, "I ordered you a little surprise. I think it'll be enough for your family. It should arrive on Wednesday. I, uh, don't know if your parents keep kosher, but if they do, they shouldn't eat meat with dinner."

"Yeah, they're observant, but not haredi observant. Thanks for the heads up. So what's the surprise?"

"Not tellin'. You gotta find out on Wednesday," said Luigi in a sing-song voice.

"Bastard." She overheard him cackle in glee. "No, you're a teasing bastard. But thank you for the gift."

"Anytime, sweetie."

"Okay, what do you want for Easter? I know about egg hunts and such, but I don't know what Italians do for Easter."

"Well," he started, sinking down to stretch out on the bed, "we go to Mass in the morning, then come home and eat a lot. I usually spend it with my nonna, Uncle Joe, Aunt Lucia, and my father's side. I'm coming back on the 19th, or thereabouts, so I'll be in Staten Island with the rest of the Masciarelli family. And what do I want for Easter? Well, we don't have gifts as such. I mean, it's commemorating Jesus's Resurrection. Kinda weird, y'know? Usually, I buy the cassata – Sicilian cheesecake. Since neither Mario nor I are in town, Aunt Lucia will have to make do. I guess what I want are two things: a quiet holiday and to see you right afterward. I do miss you, Daisy. Getting out of Brooklyn is something I've wanted to do for a while now, but … I miss seeing you, even as I love talking to you."

"I miss you, too," whispered Daisy. "I don't think I realized how much until yesterday. I was at Sami's for a bagel, but you weren't there. And you haven't been for more than two weeks. Even before Valentine's Day, I noticed that you'd be there, red faced like a tomato and eyes shifting – every weekday. And now … well, like Star Trek, I've grown accustomed to your presence."

"Next Gen fan; you've got good taste. And I've grown accustomed to you, too, sweetie," he murmured.

They chatted for another half-hour before Luigi reluctantly let her go, as she had another project due before final exams and her proposal the following month. He walked downstairs to find that the business had 'concluded' and the family had reconvened in the living room. Like in any Italian famiglia, Luigi fielded questions about his mysterious girlfriend, how they met, where she was from, and what she did for a living. Still vigilant around the Rigassis, especially as the Mafia frowned upon relationships between Italians and non-Italians, the plumber gave them the bare minimum: her name was Daisy (no surname); she was getting her Master's in International Affairs at Columbia and would soon be applying to law school in New York or the West Coast. Having deflected as much as possible, he was nevertheless resigned to the fact that Matt and Pete could find out more, if so inclined. Though they all seemed satisfied with the information, Luigi could tell from Pete's demeanor that he fully intended on revisiting the topic of Daisy. As the weekend would be filled with 'food and family,' Michelle suggested they go out for dinner, to which everyone agreed. Gene drove the group to Cherry Creek in downtown Denver for French cuisine. Returning a couple hours later, Luigi used the Morellos' laundry machines to wash his wardrobe, as he was nearly out of clean clothes.

Luigi slept much better that evening and night, waking up at seven-thirty refreshed and, thankfully, adapted to the high altitude. He checked his phone and saw that he had received no messages, not even from Lucas. That was somewhat odd. Picking up his phone to send a text message, the New Yorker soon thought better of it, given that the Rigassis did not seem pleased with Lucas's behavior over the previous weekend and Tuesday. Taking his morning shower and dressing in a clean pair of jeans and navy blue tee-shirt, he headed downstairs where the family minus Sam and Matt had gathered for frittata and coffee which, this time, Gene was preparing. For a Colorado Italian guy, Luigi had to admit that Gene could make a decent frittata; although it was not a traditional frittata in that he added jalapeno and green chiles, he did like the spicier Southwestern take on the dish. The plumber insisted on helping Michelle and Laura with dish duty after breakfast, as Gene and Pete went back into the study for another chat. Once Michelle, Laura, and Luigi were finished, the women and Pinocchio proceeded to the outside deck for coffee in the sunshine. As Luigi began to follow, he was summoned into the study by Pete. Smiling apologetically to Michelle and Laura, he obeyed, crossing the kitchen and living room to enter the office, where Gene was already sitting. Shutting the door behind them, Pete gestured for Luigi to sit down in the empty chair while he took the chair behind the desk.

"So, Luigi, I wanted to give you the heads up that you, Gene, and I will be meeting a friend from out of town for lunch today. Sam and Matt won't be there, unfortunately, as they have school. We'll be heading to the restaurant in Sunnyside. Dress nicely," explained Pete.

"Michelle and Laura won't be coming?" asked Luigi.

"Er, no. They will be handling Easter prep and other errands."

"The other thing, Luigi, is that whatever you hear or whatever you're asked, it cannot leave the restaurant," interjected Gene.

"Well, if it's private, shouldn't be between you three?" inquired Luigi.

"Normally, it would be," agreed Pete. "This time, however, It's better if you're present. We just need to know that you can keep things … confidential."

The plumber frowned in concern, glancing between Pete and Gene. "Uh, it's not illegal, is it?"

Gene somewhat chuckled as Pete smirked. "No, it's not illegal. I think Giuseppe's been selling you some Martin Scorsese nonsense. The guy always had a wild imagination."

He nodded. "Okay, sure."

Pete stood up and guided Luigi to the door. "Perfect. Oh, one last thing: Lucas told me to tell you that he had an emergency come up at his office in LA. But no worries – we've already arranged for your flight to New York next Saturday. I'll email you the details in a bit."

Luigi attempted to discern whether the unreadable Pete was lying about Lucas, as it was not like him to suddenly disappear, even when there was an "emergency;" in fact, he doubted that Lucas cared much for actual 'emergencies,' preferring that his employees handle it or to fire a scapegoat instead. Yet in that moment, he knew not to voice his doubts or suspicions. With a single nod and a slight smile, he acknowledged the explanation and left the study.


Ten minutes until noon, Pete, Gene, and Luigi – all in expensive suits – arrived at the Italian restaurant in Sunnyside. The drive had been more difficult than expected, as several accidents on Interstate 25 and Colorado 470 backed up the steady northbound stream of traffic. Apparently, Denver had its own BQE, mainly due to the lack of city planning and infrastructure for the 5,000 to 10,000 newcomers per month into the city. According to Pete, Denver had doubled in size within the past five to seven years, as the ostensible 'Second Silicon Valley' at Interlocken as well as the budding marijuana industry brought in people from California, Texas, New Jersey, Illinois, and Florida – the states whose residents routinely demonstrated anything from simply injudicious to outright insane driving. His most trusted waitstaff – the chef de cuisine, Linda, and Rocco – showed them to a private dining room. Sitting down at a circular table with four place settings, they waited for the remaining man. Shortly after noon, a heavy set Italian in his fifties, dressed in an expensive charcoal gray suit, swaggered into the dining room. Pete grinned, rose from his seat, and warmly greeted him with a Buongiorno and a double cheek kiss. Gene repeated Pete's gesture while Luigi rose respectfully.

"Vinny, may I present my cousin, Luigi Masciarelli? Luigi, this is Vinny DiScala," introduced Pete.

"How ya doin'?" greeted a Jersey-accented Vinny to Luigi who gave a Va bene, grazie and a piacere di conoscerlo.

As soon as their guest sat down, Linda brought out an antipasti plate – salami, cheese, olives, peperonata, eggplant slices, and gatò di patate – and a bottle of wine. Luigi kept silent as the three of them chatted in English and Sicilian, which he could follow somewhat, still confused as to what he was doing there. Soon after, Linda quickly cleared the dishes and brought out a house pasta with meat ragu for the primo and, twenty minutes later, glazed veal with onions and salad for the secondo. Luigi's stomach was swelling up like a balloon from that morning's frittata and the traditional four- to five-course Italian meal. Pete gave him a knowing smile and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Vinny, however, seemed unphased by the food; his corpulent body reflected his comfort with such elaborate meals. Mercifully for the skinny plumber, the concluding lemon granita and espresso were finally served; Luigi sipped the espresso to prevent an oncoming and inevitable pennichella.

"So, Luigi," began Vinny, "I hear you're from Bensonhurst. Family's been there for a long time. Your nonno paterno's from Abruzzo?"

"Um, yes, that's right," affirmed Luigi. "Both of my grandparents were born and raised in Pescara. They came here after the war; my nonno was a partisan. My father was born here, well, in New York."

Vinny spooned a generous helping of the granita into his mouth and nodded. "Bene. My condolences; your father was a fuckin' hero. I didn't know Jumpman personally, but several of my associates and buddies knew him or knew of him. Crazy sonofabitch, though – the fuckin' guy used to be the first guy in three, four fucking alarm fires up in the Bronx. He was one of the first guys in … Well, you know."

Luigi's blue eyes became pained, though he resisted the urge to express outward emotion at the stranger's mention of his father's death. "Thank you," he said. "I was … am very proud of him."

"As you should be," Vinny agreed. "And your brother's in the Army. Heroes throughout your father's side. Including you."

Pete and Gene looked at each other, then Luigi with a bit of confusion. Luigi, himself puzzled, answered, "I'm sorry, Vinny, but I don't understand. I'm, uh, a plumber, not Army or FDNY."

Finishing his granita, he calmly took a gulp of the rich black liquid. "Two years ago in October. Hurricane Sandy. So I heard, you were workin' a job for that Puerto Rican – Sal, I think – down in Seagate or Brighton Beach. As you were driving, you encountered three guys caught up in the rising water. You got out of the truck and pulled them to safety. Had you not stopped, those guys would have been fuckin' swept out to sea – no body, no fuckin' nothing for their mothers. One of those guys was my younger cousin. D'you remember Phil? Seventeen-year-old scrawny fuckin' piece of nothin'? I'm always fuckin' tellin' him to go to Gold's Gym to put on some fuckin' muscle."

Gene and Pete's astonished eyes shifted to Luigi, whose mouth gaped open, stunned that a stranger would have known the story. Most Italian guys in or around Bensonhurst narrated tales both tall and true about Mario rather than his finocchio younger brother.

"Is that true?" Gene finally asked Luigi.

The plumber shrugged. "Yeah, I did pull three guys out of the water. I didn't get their names, though. Phil's doin' okay?"

Vinny chuckled and responded, "Nah, little prick's got sent up to Ossining. He's kind of a fuckin' dipshit. But what are ya gonna do – he's family. You got a family, Luigi? You know, wife, kids?"

"Not yet. I'm, uh, seeing someone right now. She's in school, got a few years to go. She's at Columbia for her Master's, wants to go to law school."

"What kind of law?"

"Intellectual property, like her father."

Finishing his coffee, the dark-haired corpulent man made a face of interest and acceptance. "She'll be in school for a while, though. She doesn't want to start a family? It's better to have kids when you're young. How old is she, anyway?"

"She's twenty-four. I get where she's coming from – living in New York's gettin' pricey, and kids need a good life, great deal of money. I wouldn't want a wife who couldn't be independent, no offense. Even though I'm set to be a master plumber in a year or two, and that does bring home a good paycheck, it supports one, maybe two people. Not more than that. I don't want my kids struggling. I wouldn't want her to struggle."

"Aight, fair enough," concluded Vinny. "Things have changed in my time. Used to be that you could buy your own home in Long Island or even in Jersey for a hundred, two-hundred grand, wife stayed at home with the kids, you lived a quiet life. Now, it's these fuckin' million-dollar pricks with their yuppie fuckin' houses in Williamsburg and New Brunswick. My two sons got the same fuckin' problem; they just came out to Nevada. Anyway, speaking of fuckin' problems, I hear youse have one."

"Yes," interjected Pete in a more serious tone. "The Bowsers. They have been a pain in my ass for years. Fine, as long as they stay out of my business." Vinny made a wave of his hand to indicate agreement. "My son and Luigi discovered a certain … video that makes the Bowsers all of our problem. Apparently, Marco was a goddamned traitor. Al-Qaeda traitor."

Vinny's eyebrows disappeared into his brow. "You got to be fuckin' kiddin' me? The enforcer for the … ? Oh, marrone." He paused, lost in thought. "Aight, you got verified proof of this? I assume you do, otherwise you wouldn't have brought me in on the morning flight from Vegas."

Gene nodded. "The video exists. Sam and Matt got a copy; I have it in a safe place."

"Where the fuck did they break into? If it's government, that's a risk."

"Someone else's plan, regrettably," interrupted Pete with a twinge of sarcasm. "But the deed's done."

The large man gestured at Luigi. "And he's seen it?"

"Vinny," offered Pete placatingly, "he's my cousin's kid and is no friend of the Bowsers, believe me."

"Hey," he said, holding up his hands, "I ain't worried about Luigi here. But if our mutual friend finds out, there could be trouble." Vinny sneered and pointed with his index finger. "I always hated that fuckin' Irish cocksucker. Him and his pops. Those fuckers were uncontrollable. Thank God the motherfucker's six feet under, and I hope he's being roasted by Satan himself. However, this has to go all the way up. You know that."

"I do," admitted Pete, taking a sip of espresso. He then glanced at Luigi, reached into his pocket, and handed him the car keys. "Luigi, would you mind going to wait in the car? Gene and I will be out in about ten or fifteen minutes."

"Uh, sure." Luigi rose from the table and, with a final nod to Vinny, he said, "Nice meeting you, Vinny."

Vinny flashed him a genuine smile. "Likewise, kid."

Once outside of the restaurant and in the backseat of Pete's car, Luigi fished out and unlocked his iPhone to find that he had received a text message from Miles:

(1:07 pm MT) Luigi, I don't want to discuss this over text or phone. I'd prefer to wait until you get back from the West. Come back ASAP.

A shiver ran down Luigi's spine. Hacking had made Miles paranoid; yet it was a particularly bad sign when he did not even want to discuss it via Skype or phone call. Whatever his friend found terrified him enough to keep it in person and request that he come back from Denver sooner rather than later. Luigi was now certain that his Rigassi cousins were in the Mafia, if Vinny DiScala, who was an obvious Jersey wiseguy, was any indicator. Furthermore, Pete and Gene were not simply soldiers if they were able to talk with Vinny as a peer. Though he hardly considered himself an expert in matters pertaining to La Cosa Nostra, he generally knew from seeing these guys around in Bensonhurst and reading about them in the New York Times that there were, more or less, four levels of mafiosi: the non-Italian associates who did the dirty work and inevitably ended up either in jail or in the landfill (if there was a body); the Italian soldier-controllers of the associates; the foremen-like caporegimes who oversaw the daily operations; and finally, the higher-up consigliere, underboss, and boss. In the tristate area and in parts of the United States, a commission of five bosses made all major decisions, including executions or other punishments of caporegimes and certain soldiers.

However, Luigi had no association with the Mafia, so why had he been invited to much of the meeting? That's what troubled him. Did Pete know what Lucas and Matt would find? That did not seem to be the case, although he had no qualms about using what they discovered. In the rear view mirror, he saw Gene leaving the restaurant alone. A moment later, he opened the driver side door and slid into the car seat.

"Luigi, I'm driving you back to Pete's. He has to stay behind to take care of some business. Why don't you move into shotgun?" he beamed. "He also wanted me to tell you that you made a good impression on Vinny. You did good, son."

Forcing a hasty smile, the young man quickly switched to the front passenger seat, shutting the door and buckling his seatbelt. Gene started the car and pulled out of the parking lot as Luigi gazed uneasily ahead.


The rest of the week and weekend proceeded normally, with the Morellos, Carlinos, and Luigi spending them at the family skiing cabin in Frisco. Unfortunately, the snow had begun to melt, so the skiing was not as enjoyable as it had been during the previous weekend. Nonetheless, Matt and Luigi spent most of the time skiing on green runs, with Sam attending intermittently due to his coursework and 'other commitments;' at the end of their stay on Tax Day, Luigi managed to ski (or fall down) an intermediate-level "blue run" at Breckenridge. Matt filmed the run as a joke which he then sent to Daisy as "proof" of his newly-discovered Colorado 'badass-ness.' Even though he thoroughly relished skiing down the bunny hills and slightly more challenging slopes, the plumber felt a sense of unease around the Rigassi cousins, especially as he had not heard a peep from Lucas nor had there been any further developments in the Marco Bowser Affair. As suddenly as he had appeared, Vinny rapidly disappeared, and Pete made no further mention of him. Perhaps Daisy was right; the main purpose of Luigi's trip to Colorado was to make contact with another member of the Rigassi family.

Upon their return to Highlands Ranch on April 16, Pete decided to move the Easter celebration to Good Friday, given that Luigi was due to leave on Saturday morning. Apologizing for the delay, Pete sent Luigi his itinerary, a direct flight from Denver International Airport to New York LaGuardia at nine o'clock in the morning, arriving shortly before three in the afternoon. But instead of the expected one-way ticket to New York, there was a return date of June 24. "You aren't obligated to come, with work and all, but it's an open invitation to come back to Denver," Pete explained while the family was hard at work in the kitchen preparing arancini and ravioli for Good Friday dinner. When he had a spare moment, Luigi dutifully, yet hesitantly emailed the itinerary to his Uncle Joe, knowing that the latter would soon be rage-calling about the return date. Inhaling deeply, he attempted to calm himself, reasoning that he had roughly two months to figure out a solution to what he had mentally labelled the 'Rigassi Problem.'

While he was busy in the kitchen with Michelle, Matt, Gene, Laura, and the supervising Pinocchio, who demanded his usual tribute of veal and pork, Luigi had failed to make immediate note of two events. First, Pete and Sam slipped out of the house, which Gene clarified that it was to pick up the cassata that they had ordered for Friday's dinner. Second, for the first time in nearly three weeks, his iPhone received a voice message from Mario Masciarelli. After several hours of making the small hors d'oeuvres by hand and intermittent coffee breaks, Luigi found a moment to play the message:

(12:19 pm MT) "Bro, it's me. Look, I know you don't want to hear from me, seeing as you haven't fuckin' called at all." Luigi heard a brief, sad sigh before Mario continued, "I just want to know that you're okay. That's all. I meant what I said; we're a package deal. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't shut me out. Three weeks without you tellin' me to go fuck myself or tellin' me that I'm a slob or makin' some wiseass fuckin' comment about ketchup are too many, y'know? Ti voglio bene, bro. Come home to New York."

Wiping a tear from his eye, Luigi exhaled raggedly, previously unaware of the breath that he had been holding. Even as there were times when he wanted to strangle Mario, he wished that he had been sitting next to him at lunch with Vinny and the Rigassis or skiing downhill alongside him at Breckenridge. Yet he knew that inasmuch as Mario thought they were a 'package deal,' he did not take his younger brother as seriously as Fat Tony or Bowser. He wanted his respect, not his protection. During the past three weeks, Luigi found himself in exciting, albeit scary situations, from hiking in the desert to sitting down with wiseguys. Despite what Uncle Joe thought and Mario would no doubt have said, had he known, Luigi persevered through all these experiences and relatively unscathed. Mario, anche ti voglio bene, ma non ho bisogno di ti, he voiced aloud to an empty room, then made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

As the Morello and Carlino clan were finishing Good Friday food preparations in Highlands Ranch, Pete's Land Cruiser pulled up to an old, almost abandoned ivory-colored house at the edge of Colfax Avenue in downtown Denver. Sam and Pete exited the vehicle; the first man unlocked the front door, holding it open for his uncle to enter, then followed closely behind him. Inside, they walked downstairs to a heavy, bolted door; Pete took out a set of keys and, with a gold house key, unlocked it and passed into a living area that resembled a hybrid of a trailer park and crack house: beat-up furniture from the 1970s, kitchenette with appliances from the 1990s, twin-sized bed in the back, small toilet, and shower. The white-painted windows were overlain with metal bars so that escape was impossible. Sitting on the worn couch was a petulant, cross-armed Lucas Kariolis wearing his usual slacks and plum-colored Oxford.

Pete smirked. "Well, Lucas. Welcome to my personal hell. I trust you find the accommodations appropriate." At the tall man's stony silence, he continued, "You've behaved poorly, and frankly, I've grown tired of your juvenile bullshit. I made a little phone call to your father in Manhattan. He said, and I quote, 'Do whatever you want to the little prick.' What do you think, Lucas? What should I do with you?"

Lucas faced forward, refusing to acknowledge his captor's remarks.

The older Italian nodded in response. "I take it by your silence that you understand. Well, see, Lucas," he approached the younger man, stopping just in front of him, "we got a problem. Your juvenile bullshit did two things. One," he listed on his index finger, "you may have started a war. A war that could get Luigi – my cousin's child – killed. Two," he held up a second finger, "you didn't prepare him like I had requested. Here's the thing," he suddenly and roughly seized Lucas's chin to face him directly, "you are not in charge. I am. You might be the King Badass in your little circle of kiddo gamer pricks in Los Angeles or Manhattan, but I am the fucking king out here. Do you understand, you little shit?" Giving his chin a painful squeeze, Pete let go of Lucas, forcing the man's head to recoil backward. Lucas angrily growled and lunged at Pete; Sam moved in front of his uncle and slapped Lucas across the face. As the Manhattanite yelped, sliding back down to the couch, Pete held up a hand to stop Sam from doing more. Allowing the man a moment to deal with the sting, Pete hissed, "Here's how we're going to fix this. I know you work for Fat Tony. Well,you were working for Fat Tony, now your ass is mine. Got it? You will personally make sure that not one hair on Luigi Masciarelli's head is harmed. I will be watching. Don't think that being in New York will prevent that. Because, Lucas, if you fuck this up," Pete calmly dropped to one knee and grabbed Lucas by his hair, "I will make sure that your body ends up next to Jimmy Hoffa's."

Shoved back on the couch, Lucas screamed, "Ow, fuck! Fuck you!" His utterance earned him another slap across the other cheek.

"Wrong answer, you little bitch," growled Sam.

Lucas grinned evilly at the Sicilians and spat out imaginary blood. Straightening himself to a sitting position on the old couch, he replied in a mocking tone, "You think that Fat Tony or your cousin Jackie are going to stand for your run at … shall we say … higher management? You can threaten all you want, Cousin Pietro, but your boss isn't going to throw away a 150-million-dollar job. That's needed revenue for your famiglia. And only I know the location of the account, you shitkicker."

Pete raised a thick, dark eyebrow. "Really? Why don't I make you a bet that I can get that information from you within a … New York minute?"

The man in plum scoffed and crossed his arms again. "What are you gonna do, Pietro? Torture me? The man who prides himself on non-violent means. See, that's your weakness – you care. Me? I don't give a fuck."

"No, your weakness, Lucas, is that you're arrogant. You think that you've got the world all figured out. Well, you don't." Nodding at Sam, he waited as his nephew brought out a wooden board with a stand and straps. Lucas abruptly felt himself being punched in the gut and dumped face-up onto the board. Pete and Sam quickly fastened the straps around his legs, arms, and torso. Sam elongated the board a bit to accommodate Lucas's six-foot-four frame, then secured his head. He disappeared, leaving Pete to look down at the tied up younger man. "Last chance, son," he warned.

"Go fuck yourself," spat Lucas. "Do what you want; if I give up the crypto, I must as well put a bullet in my head. And fuck you about Luigi. You involved him in your shit games. I care more about him than you do, you fucking shitkickers!"

Sam returned with a medium-sized washtub, a gallon container of water, and a dish towel. Lucas's vision was first obscured with a black mask, then the towel was placed on his face and mask. Pete shook his head in dismay, finally nodding at his nephew. The cowboy placed the washtub below the board, unscrewed the gallon jug, and began to slowly pour the contents over the man's face and mouth.