Author's Notes: Many apologies for the delayed new chapter. I had a medical issue to deal with - a special "bite me" to my spine. Anyway, I hope it's worth the wait. As always, comments, likes, and feedback are much appreciated.

A special note: COLORADO AVALANCHE ARE STANLEY CUP WINNERS! HURRAY!


Chapter 15: Alea iacta est

Early Saturday morning, a stream of tourists had begun to steadily arrive for the Easter holiday as well as for the more colorful and now legal 420 Festival that was set for the next day near the CU-Boulder campus and at Civic Center Park near the Capitol in Denver. At the same time, the entire Morello-Carlino clan had crowded into the Land Rover and escorted their cousin to Denver International Airport. Despite Pete's confirmed status as the caporegime of the Colorado branch of the Cosa Nostra and discovery of their less-than-legal activities, the plumber found himself sad to be leaving his Rigassi cousins. The feeling was mutual; both Pete and Gene kept talking about the Fourteeners that they would hike once he returned in June, per his open ticket. Even Pinocchio had warmed up to the Brooklynite in the two days following his departure; aside from sleeping and sitting with him at every opportunity, that morning, the family had woken up to Laura's indignant shout at the Siamese and his little present, or trophy, of two, half-eaten, juvenile bunny carcasses left at the patio door. April and May were the first birthing season for the wild cottontails throughout the Denver metro area, which meant that Pinocchio used the patio cat door to go out to hunt in the early mornings. This was one of the few disagreements that Michelle had with Pete, who allowed the seal point to go outdoors, albeit in a large enclosure to protect him from roaming coyotes and eagles, to "hunt the little garden-eating sons-a-bitches."

Thanking his family for the unexpectedly good trip and bidding them goodbye, Luigi negotiated the notoriously long security line at the airport. Even as several hundred tourists had arrived for the festivities in Denver, several hundred more were flying to various domestic and international destinations throughout North America and Europe. Once he cleared the thirty-minute-long line, he went down the escalator to board the train to Concourse B. After a two-minute wait, the train signaled its appearance with a jingle reminiscent of 1970s porno music and the a propos male computer voice stating that "a train is arriving." (Not coming, Luigi noted to himself.) With a chuckle, he entered the subway-like train with other travelers and grabbed a hold of the hanging hooks to keep his balance as it moved. Luigi checked his boarding pass – New York LaGuardia Gate B36 at 8:20 am, seat 24F. He was pleased with the window seat, as it meant more room for his long legs. Five minutes later, he disembarked at Concourse B. He went up the escalators to the departure floor which had a food court at the center of two extremely long halls in both directions. As he had forty minutes before departure, Luigi ordered a quick regular from Caribou Coffee and made his way to the gate.

His boarding group was eventually called, and he managed to enter the plane with enough space for his suitcase in the row's overhead bin. Settling into his window seat, he remarked with both surprise and satisfaction that he was the only person in row 24D to 24F. He waited with barely-contained glee as the flight attendant moved to close the door. His grin fell as she stopped short, and a familiar figure dressed in jeans, a red jacket, and a Mets cap passed by her. Luigi ducked down and put a hand up to avoid being seen. Mentally cursing at the situation, he heard heavy footsteps approach and stop at his row. The figure lifted the overhead bin, moved a few of the bags around to create room for his military backpack, and closed the compartment. Sliding into the row, he then sat on Luigi's lap and pretended to buckle his seat belt, much to the amusement and eye-rolling of their fellow passengers.

"Excuse me, asshole, but you're in my seat," said the man to the squirming Luigi beneath him.

"Mario, you fuckin' prick!" hissed the man in green as he tried shove him away in vain.

A serious-looking flight attendant approached them, signaling to the elder Masciarelli that it was time to sit down and prepare for departure. An unapologetic Mario reluctantly lifted his ass off his younger brother and slid into the spot next to him – 24E. Upon takeoff and the characteristic shaking of the plane by the winds coming off the Western Slope, Mario began nonchalantly, "So, did Shitbucket Scott force you to take the red-eye from Phoenix to New York? It's a two-hour flight from Arizona to DIA. Four o'clock comes early."

Luigi did not answer the question, instead shrugging.

The older plumber nodded while removing his coat and placing it in the aisle seat. "Are you done with galivanting across the country for that fuckhead? 'Cause we got work to do in Brooklyn?" he asked, putting emphasis on the last two words.

"No, I don't think so," coolly replied Luigi. "And I wasn't in Arizona this entire time. Last-minute change of plans."

Mario's blue eyes widened in shock. Blinking several times as if attempting to process what Luigi had said, he finally demanded, "Wait, what? What the fuck are you talkin' about? You were in Colorado?! Why the fuck didn't Joe tell me? Does he know?!"

"Yeah. I was in Colorado. The Morellos and Carlinos brought me for a visit. Pete and Gene."

All the color in Mario's face drained instantly. "The … The Rigassi cousins?!" he gasped, dropping his voice to a whisper, "They flew you to Denver?"

"Yeah. I spent roughly two weeks with them. You know, skiing and shit. I saw photos of Mama, Sal, and Pete together when they were kids. Saw Mama and Pop's wedding photos."

Turning away from Luigi, Mario started to breathe harshly as though he were at the point of hyperventilation. Scrubbing his face and mustache with ashen hands, he suddenly bolted from his seat and rushed into the vacant bathroom in the back of coach, leaving his stunned younger brother to stare uncomprehendingly at the scene. Locking the door behind him, he sank down on the toilet seat and ran cold water over his boiling-hot face. His large hands balled into tight fists as he fought the urge to tear apart the water closet. Muttering a mantra of English and Italian obscenities, Mario engaged his Special Forces training to control his emotions. This was much bigger than Scott Pichler if the fucking Colorado Rigassis are involved. He took a few lingering breaths, exited the coach toilet, and returned to the seat next to a bewildered Luigi. Inhaling deeply, Mario growled while facing straight ahead, "Luigi, you will tell me exactly what happened and who's involved. I mean it. No more bullshit."

"Nothing happened to me. Truly. I was just brought in for a visit," he answered carefully.

"Nothin' happened to you," Mario repeated skeptically. "But something did happen. Aight, if you don't want to say in public, I get it. But bro, you will tell me. Because these people are extremely dangerous. I'm not fuckin' around when I say that," he stated, glancing meaningfully at his younger brother. "You weren't born yet, I remember Mama and Uncle Sal being terrified of Pete's father. Before you ask, I don't know why. Neither one would ever give a reason. All's I know is that Pete had Mama moved to Lenox Hill, where you were born. Pop became indebted to him and Carlo Morano. I don't know what the debt was, he wouldn't tell me, but," he stared at his brother, "I don't want you near 'em. D'you hear me? I won't l…. You and Peach are my family. There ain't nothin' that I wouldn't do."

Luigi rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and you're always hangin' around that fuckin' bar. How is that different?"

"It's very different, bro! The Moranos and Bowsers are fuckin' idiot shysters. I take their money for shits and giggles. They wanna leech off hardworking Italians? Fine, fuck 'em! The Morellos? Now they're a different bunch altogether. They're professionals. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Cousin Pete invited you for a reason, and it isn't for a family fuckin' reunion."

The brothers fell silent for several minutes afterward, and the flight attendants came by to give them each a package of peanuts and a drink. Luigi asked for another coffee while Mario, much to his brother's alarm, held out his debit card to the attendant and requested a Jack Daniels. His own anxiety building, Luigi observed Mario as he gulped it down in one go and closed his eyes at the pleasurable sting on his throat. He ordered another, which the flight attendant obliged as a final order.

"Bro, it's nine o'clock in the morning. Do you really think you should be drinking?"

Mario turned his heard toward Luigi and rolled his eyes. "It's five o'clock in Italy, so salute!" He emptied his drink and enjoyed the warm buzz that soon followed. "Besides, I'm not on duty or working, so I don't give a fuck. Adult bevies, it is."

The younger plumber worriedly stared at him while drinking his coffee. "You're not fooling anyone here. JD is your drink of choice when you're trying to …"

"Don't fuckin' go there, bro," he warned lowly with a finger point. "I'm a fuckin' adult who serves his country, so if I want JD, I can have a JD, capisci?" He chuckled mirthlessly, "I'm a fuckin' adult who's served his country for almost thirteen fuckin' years, yet can't even protect his little brother from getting into crooked shit."

"Mario …" began Luigi, but he found himself interrupted by Mario's buzzed internal-now-external monologue.

"That's one more fuckin' person I can't even protect. Not my little brother, not Peach, not Marco, not Uncle Joe, and not Pops. Not my guys in the field, neither. No wonder why Pauline left my sorry ass. Dunno why Peaches hasn't yet." Drunkenly, Mario once again closed his eyes and laid his head upon Luigi's shoulder. "S-Sorry, Luigi, Peach, Pops. I couldn't find you in time..."

The taller brother's blue eyes filled with tears which he irately wiped away with his sleeve. Like his appetite, his brother's alcohol tolerance was legendary; however, Jack Daniels was a singular and notable exception. Mario and JD were toxic bosom buddies; on one particular day every year, the older plumber comforted himself with the amber liquid, re-living thirty-six hours of hell to the point of inconsolable sorrow, rage, and depression. So noxious was their relationship that Bowser adamantly refused to pour that drink for Mario under any circumstances. John also forbade his employees from serving it to Mario or Luigi in fear that it would end up in the older brother's hands. Along the same lines, Peach immediately threw out every single bottle that he had ever purchased in Manhattan. Normally, it was once per year; however, this situation had upset Mario to the point of seeking to lose consciousness. Luigi cursed inwardly and mentally chastised himself for underestimating both Mario's and Uncle Joe's reactions. Now what? What was it about Pete Morello that frightened them more than Marco Bowser or even Fat Tony? He could not understand it, especially as Marco had literally tried to kill him, Yoshi, and God knew who else. The U.S. Government agreed, as they were watching Marco's every move until his rather timely death.

They're professionals at crooked shit, echoed Mario's voice. Luigi had seen this personally, given Pete and Gene's meeting with their 'colleague.' The question then became the degree to which he wanted to be associated with the Morellos, to say nothing of Lucas. Inasmuch as he disapproved of their ties to criminality, Luigi secretly enjoyed in the feeling of importance that he enjoyed while on these trips. It was no longer about Mario's plumbing jobs, heroism in Iraq and Afghanistan, or his ability to humiliate Bowser and Fat Tony. With exception of Mario's proclivity for cagefighting, Luigi was proud of his brother's accomplishments and heroism – like Jumpman, like Super Mario. Yet for the first time, Luigi felt like he knew more about the game than his brother. And frankly, he did; while gazing at the white pillowy clouds outside of the plane, the thought occurred to him that he, not Mario, had been introduced to the smallest inner workings of the Cosa Nostra, despite his brother having associations with Fat Tony and Bowser. Luigi shook his head, briefly shocked and horrified at his self-admission of feeling that small sense of importance. Is that what Nonno Luigi felt? The young Luigi still did not understand how or why the highly-educated and cultured Luigi Rigassi, who could have enjoyed freedom and independence in post-war Rome or elsewhere in Europe, returned to Sicily to join a centuries-old organized crime syndicate that terrorized the local population. Was it for that feeling of power and control?

At some point in the quiet morning flight, Luigi dozed off like his brother, as the next thing he consciously knew was the flight attendant requesting him to put his seat upright for landing at LaGuardia. Mario still slept semi-drunkenly, oblivious to touchdown and taxiing to the gate. As the first-class passengers began to disembark, Luigi violently shook Mario awake. The latter blinked and, realizing that they were in New York, stood up hesitantly to retrieve his backpack from the overhead compartment. Luigi snatched the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and grabbed his suitcase. They walked off slowly into the main airport. Given Mario's inebriated state, it took them an extra ten minutes – including the older plumber's demand to use the men's room – to exit the terminal. Luigi spotted Zia Lucia's blue SUVparked in the passenger pickup zone. Uncle Joe slid out of the driver's side and moved toward the trunk. The older man gave a disgusted glance at the clearly sloshed Mario, who gave a sarcastic two-fingered salute in return. Luigi rolled his eyes, deposited their luggage in the back, and helped him into the back seat while Joe closed the trunk and returned to the driver's side. As he climbed in next to the half-awake Mario, Luigi's eyes enlarged in recognition at the middle-aged man sitting in the front passenger side. The clean-shaven man was an inch or two shorter than Giuseppe, though darker in complexion with wavy, dark-brown hair and vibrant brown eyes, and wore black slacks and a matching long dress shirt with a white tab collar. The man shifted his concerned eyes at Mario, who gave him a blank look and shrugged wordlessly in response.

"Well," began Giuseppe with a small cough, "if youse are done givin' me fuckin' agita with your little trip to Colorado, I thought we'd all have a nice little chat."

"'Ey, my fuckin' trip to Colorado was legit!" slurred Mario. "Army gave me orders – 'Sergeant Masciarelli, report to lower oxygen and cowboy bars!' Now, Don Corleone here," he gestured with his thumb, "he's the one who wanted t' play around with shit-knows-what."

"Asshole," muttered Luigi while staring out of the passenger window.

"Basta!" interjected Giuseppe, shaking his head. "The pair of youse. And that JD I smelled on your breath, Mario, was that Army issue, too?"

"Nope, United Airlines issue. They capped me at two bottles, though. Peccato."

"We'll stop on the way and get you somethin'. You're not showin' up to your nonna and zia lit," growled Joe.

Mario ignored his uncle's reproach and started to bob his head back and forth to a silent melody. "He was born in the summer of his twenty-seventh year … Coming home to a place he'd never been before," he sang off-key. "He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again … When he first came to the mountains his life was far away … But the string's already broken and he doesn't really care."

Luigi tried to obscure his face with his right hand as Giuseppe stared sternly at the traffic along the BQE, silently cursing his luck at having to take the shittiest Expressway in all of New York with a semi-drunk Mario in the backseat. The front passenger tried to hide a chuckle at the scene as Mario suddenly belted, "But the Colorado Rocky Mountain high! I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky…"

"Shut up, Mario!" grumbled both Luigi and Giuseppe.

"Oh, youse aren't any fun," griped Mario dejectedly. "Personally, I'd think Weegie here would see the humor."

"Yeah, well, I don't," retorted Luigi.

"Speaking of Luigi and Colorado, we'll talk now because I don't want Lucia, your aunt Maria, or God forbid, your nonna to hear this. How did Pete fuckin' Morello get ahold of you? Was it through Scott Pichler?" demanded Giuseppe.

Feeling two and a half pairs of eyes on him, Luigi paused to consider exactly what he should say and how deeply he wanted to be involved in this mess. "Yeah, something like that. I was supposed to go for a three-week job in Arizona, but I was brought for a two-week visit to Colorado instead. Nothing nefarious happened; I went skiing, spent time with Pete and Gene's families. Met my cousins. Saw the family photos of Pops, Mama, youse at the wedding."

Visibly alarmed, the front-seat passenger scrutinized Luigi quietly as Mario rolled his blue eyes. "That's a load of bullshit," the latter hissed. "You take off for fuckin' god-knows-where, end up in Colorado with the Rigassi cousins, and nothin' happened? Meanwhile, Scott the Shitbucket uses fuckin' union money for the family reunion? Goddamn, you've been initiated!"

Annoyed brown eyes made contact with Mario's blue ones, and the younger man shrunk from the older man's taciturn scolding. The man in black turned to Luigi and gently asked, "Did Pete explain to you who and what he does?"

Luigi gazed at the priest and replied, "Yeah, Uncle Sal, I have a good idea who and what he is. But we … we didn't talk about that stuff. Not directly."

"Define directly, kid," ordered Giuseppe. Salvatore glanced warningly at Joe who ignored him in favor of several lanes of traffic.

"Look, I don't know what the hell is going on!" cried Luigi defensively. "Why's Sal here instead of preparing for mass tomorrow?!" Glaring at Mario, Sal, and Joe, he continued while crossing his arms, "First, I find out that Mama was brought to Manhattan by Pete and Carlo-fucking-Morano. Then I find out that I've got family that I didn't even know I had! They didn't torture me or, fuck, I dunno, fit me with cement shoes! Pete taught me how to ski. I went skiing for the first time in my life. Then Matt and Sam – their kids – brought me to campus with them. I hung out with a bunch of computer geeks. That was it! I hardly think that qualifies as a breach of national security!"

"It's okay, kid," replied Sal soothingly. "No one's mad at you. Cousin Pete is … well, he's his own man. But he'd never would have harmed you. Ever."

"Oh, fuckin' perfect. Don Coglione on a pair of skis," barked Mario.

Luigi smiled benevolently at his older brother. "C'mere, Fredo. Lemme give you a kiss."

"Yeah? Well, I got a kiss for ya, cagacazzo!" replied Mario, flicking his right hand away from his chin.

"Aight, aight, the two a' youse. Kid, trust me when I say that Pete Morello is a sneaky son of a bitch. I saw that open ticket bullshit that he pulled. Whatever it is, he ain't done." He coughed harshly, slowing down to maintain control of the SUV, much to the annoyance of cars behind him. Once able to breathe again, he increased his speed.

"So why me?" inquired Luigi, eyebrow raised to both of his uncles. "That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn't it? What haven't I been told?"

Giuseppe said nothing, though he gave an unreadable look to Father Sal. Shaking his head in noiseless anger, he guided the SUV off the BQE toward a sandwich shop in Cobble Hill.

"Luigi," the priest began, "you don't know much about the Old Country, and I'm not talking about Italy. My father, Luigi Rigassi, your nonno, was … part of that world. Back then, it was about family connections, vendettas, and territory. You know that he married my mother, Audenzia, whose own father was a caporegime in the Palermo LCN. You know about Rosa, her husband, Carlo, their son, Jackie. People just don't get made, kid; they have to go through very specific introductions, have a certain pedigree, do certain things to prove their loyalty. But the pedigree's very important. While you're not one hundred percent Sicilian, you are one hundred percent Italian. Your baptism is also a factor."

"Wait, my baptism?" interjected Luigi. "I'm Catholic like eighty percent of Bensonhurst."

Unable to suppress his rage any further, Joe squealed the tires into a parallel park, almost tapping the motionless car behind him, and twisted the engine key off. Glaring at Mario, he slid out of the compact SUV and slammed the door shut. Reluctantly, Mario followed, eyeing both Luigi and Salvatore. Out of earshot of Giuseppe and Mario, Sal answered, "I didn't do the baptism, Luigi. I was still in school when you were born. But if I had been ordained, I would never have allowed what transpired."

"Allowed what?" Luigi murmured. "You're not talking about the baptism itself."

Sal winced slightly. "No, I'm not. You remember Father Rosetti?"

The younger man nodded. "Yeah, sure, Monsignor Rosetti. He did the baptism?"

"Yes. In itself, that wouldn't have been unusual. He was the parish priest. However, it has to do with the godparents."

Shrugging, Luigi responded nonchalantly, "Okay, well, my godparents are Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucia. Like Mario's."

Father Sal threw his nephew a haunted look, then shook his head. "No, kid. Mario's godparents are Joe and Lucia because he's the eldest grandson of the Masciarelli clan. Well, they would have been your nonni, but your father never got along with your grandfather. He's a Mario. Your last name may be Masciarelli, but you're also a Rigassi and a Campisi. You were named after my father; had he lived, he would have been your godfather. The next senior relatives were your great-uncle and aunt, Rosa and Carlo Morano. From what your mother told me later, they insisted on the tradition, with Pete's assistance."

The color drained from Luigi's face, and he covered his mouth with an equally pale hand. "And that's why … But I mean, they'd prefer Mario. Hell, the Bowsers made my life miserable for decades."

"Jackie might, yeah," acknowledged Sal. "But Pete's very different. He's … he resembles my father in terms of intelligence and demeanor, at least from what Gabriella and Mama told me. Pete really thinks things through, and that's what makes him dangerous. His father, Paolo, was exceptionally cruel; before he moved out to Colorado, he was a notorious hitman for the Five Families here in New York. The man's blood ran Arctic cold. Sofia seemed to have calmed him to a point, but I have no clue what he was able to accomplish and hide in a small city like Denver. Understand, Luigi, that part of the life is 'making your bones.' Gabriella and I weren't supposed to know things as kids, though being around it long enough, you learn some. Every made man – soldiers, caporegimes, bosses – had to prove himself by killing someone else. Pete included, though whom he killed is anyone's guess. No matter how nice he is, he's got blood on his hands, niputi."

"Did Nonno Luigi? Sal, I saw the picture … I look just like him."

Salvatore studied his youngest nephew, as if debating how to answer his question. "Honestly, kid, I don't know. That was the one question that no one would ever address. And for looking like him? Yeah, you have his looks and intelligence. But you're also made in God's image. Your father's image. Your mother's. Genetics don't entirely make the man."

Luigi huffed irritably, looking outside at the pedestrians passing by the parked vehicle. "Then why wasn't I told about 'em? Did Mario know? I mean, if I'm my own man, then why the cloak and dagger shit?"

"That," complained Father Sal, "was your father's decision. Originally, he was going to tell you when you were old enough to understand. Normally, families start involving the kids in the business right after confirmation. Unfortunately, your father's … untimely passing put the kibosh on that plan. Before I could return from my parish in California, Jackie had taken custody of you. As a priest, I had no standing, and I had a duty to the Church."

Shaking his head indignantly, the younger man glared at Father Sal and replied, "Yeah, bullshit. Giuseppe never told me, Mario never told me, and how many times have I gone to your Sunday mass since then, Sal? How many times have you heard my confession? All the while, I'm gettin' my ass kicked on the streets of Bensonhurst – and for what? 'Cause I didn't join the club when I never even knew I was a member? None of this makes sense. For instance, why didn't Jackie say anything? Hmm?" He raised his eyebrows at the perplexed Catholic priest. "He never did. Nah, instead, he ignored me, told me how worthless I was as a man, and didn't lift a finger when Uncle Joe took me to Eltingville. There, I was treated much the same fuckin' way, ended up as a plumber when everyone – everyone – knew I was capable of so much more! Everyone forgot about Luigi Rigassi-fucking-Masciarelli-whatever. Didn't matter much, did it? And now, I'm being treated as though I've already pledged myself to them. Well, I haven't. But you know what?" He suddenly unbuckled his belt and opened the car door to the sidewalk on the right side, "I am getting tired of the games. Tell Uncle Joe that I'm skipping Easter. If I'm already a criminal, there's not much hope for redemption. Is there?"

At the last remark, Luigi slipped out of the SUV, shutting the door. As Father Sal attempted to unbuckle his own seatbelt to follow and calm his incensed nephew, the latter opened the driver's side door, opened the trunk, shut the car door, and then moved to the back to retrieve his suitcase. Closing the trunk with a slam, he faced the alarmed priest, who was standing to his right, and said, "È finito. I'm tired of the lies! This family stopped protecting me the moment Pops died! I was forgotten and left to the fuckin' wolves. Well, now, it's my turn." Patting his side green coat pocket for his wallet, he walked past Father Sal toward the nearest subway stop.


Hours later, Luigi stared blankly at the white ceiling of his artsy Brooklyn Airbnb rental. Once he had entered the subway, and despite Father Sal's multiple pleas to come back, he found himself adrift and too upset to take the F Line to Mapleton and Bensonhurst. He used his phone to pay for a vacation apartment in Boerum Hill, which was near both the construction site and Carroll Gardens. He had thought about asking Yoshi if he could stay with him for a few days, but he knew that would be one of the first places Uncle Joe and Mario would look. Frankly, he needed a break from the never-ending family strife. There were three days remaining for Passover, and Luigi did not want to bother Daisy or her parents. Heaven forbid they would find out that her new boyfriend was an Italian Catholic with ties to the Mafia. Moreover, Luigi fretted that staying with Daisy would be too tempting; his self-control had been sorely tested in Phoenix and Denver while listening to her velvety voice on the phone, and there would be, in Daisy's words, pearl-clutching if her parents caught her with a stereotypically eager Italian lover. He texted both Yoshi and Miles a brief message regarding the Saturday afternoon blowup, that he was fine, but wanted privacy through Tuesday. His Airbnb host was a middle-aged man from Marseille who was only too eager to practice his rusty Italian with Luigi once he discovered that he spoke the language. The plumber also lied a bit, explaining that he was an Italian-American living in Italy, and he was in Brooklyn for a few days. Once settled in the gray, brown, orange, and black-motifed, Parisian-like apartment, he had rushed to the nearest foodmart to buy cigarettes and groceries for Easter Sunday and ordered a banh mi sandwich for the Vietnamese shop a few streets east of his rental. Predictably, his iPhone blew up with concerned calls from Yoshi, Lucia, and his aunt Maria as well as fuming texts and voicemails from Mario and Giuseppe. He returned the calls from the first three, as he was certain that they had nothing to do with 'The Family Secret.' In spite of their pleas to come to Sunday dinner for Nonna, he refused, politely, though sarcastically referring them to Uncle Joe, Mario, and Father Sal to "air out the latest Masciarelli skeleton."

Gnashing his teeth for the hundredth time that day, Luigi sat up from his supine position on the purple-gray couch and walked outside to a designated smoking area. Lighting up a Marlboro and inhaling deeply at the hit of nicotine, he felt his anxiety disappear. Pete and Lucas were right about the Masciarellis; if the Rigassi side was such a threat, then why did they not say anything, not even fight for him after his father died? Minchia, even Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucia seemed content on letting him live with Jackie-fucking-Morano for a year before stepping in to make sure that he never left Brooklyn, Bensonhurst, or that goddamned street. And what about Father Sal? Would he not have wanted him to leave?

Even Pops wanted to leave, he thought bitterly.

So why don't you leave?

Luigi knew the answer to that question – he was petrified of being on his own. Inasmuch as he fought, cried, and argued with his family, their presence were a comfort in the garbled mess of anxieties and insecurities that he silently fought a daily basis. He still lived on the very street whose inhabitants either tried or reported to those who tormented him; he worked a job that every Masciarelli man had done for at least three generations (he had no idea if Bisnonno Masciarelli had also been a plumber); and he lived only a few miles from where his father had been killed. Once or twice, Luigi had considered therapy; that idea quickly died when John Slaughter became the business associate for the union and would undoubtedly use any record of it against him. HIPAA aside, news had a nasty habit of travelling within UA 2, and the Maricón needing therapy would only serve to ruin his hopes of becoming Master Plumber.

Yet was that what he really wanted?

He took another drag of the Marlboro. Before running into Lucas again, the trips to Los Angeles, Phoenix, and Denver, and dating the beautiful Daisy, he would have said so; it was a good, secure job with a sure pension for his fifties and sixties. Notwithstanding the Mafia and Lucas's questionable connections, Luigi found that he enjoyed the change of scenery and the ability to ski, surf, and enjoy fresh air (or semi-fresh in the case of smog-ridden Los Angeles). Maybe Lucas and Pete had a point; the union and Giuseppe had wasted his talents for their own selfish interests. He bore no ill-will toward his coworkers or plumbing; they provided him with an education that he could not have received in the brick-and-mortar.

Perhaps he should try a course or two at an in-person college. Undoubtedly, Yoshi and Miles would assist him in that regard, and it would be low risk for a cautious Luigi. Summer school would start in May or June, so he would need to apply as soon as possible. As for Lucas, he had not heard from him in over a week, which was somewhat atypical of him. He quickly texted him a message to ask if he was alright, then sent another text to Daisy to signal his return to Brooklyn.

As he put out the butt of his cigarette and re-entered the apartment, Luigi suddenly heard a buzz from the brownstone entrance. He went to the com box and, clicking on the button, replied, "Yeah? Who's there?"

"It's Miles, man. Let me up."

Luigi's eyebrows knitted together in shock. "Miles? How'd you find me? And how do I know it's really you?"

"Your fucked up iPhone lead me right to you. Google's awesome except if you don't want Big Brother going through your private shit. Also, Mario torments me for fun. And Giuseppe's on a rampage."

"Yeah, okay, just a sec." He buzzed his friend inside and ended the com box call. A minute and a half later, he heard a knock at the door. Opening the front door, Luigi saw his blond friend carrying several bags of pastries, meat, and miscellaneous groceries, a small, black carry-on bag, and a computer bag.

"Wow, man, you brought the whole kitchen sink with you?"

Miles nodded. "Yeah. I just got an earful from Giuseppe who said, and I quote, 'If Luigi doesn't want to spend Easter with his fucking family like a normal Italian, then he might as well spent it with you.'"

Rolling and shaking his head in dismay, Luigi responded, "Sorry, Miles. Their beef is with me, not with you. Besides, normal Italians don't lie to family."

Miles shrugged, then walked into the kitchen to put the food into the refrigerator. "I suppose this is about Colorado and Arizona?"

"Yeah, you could say that. I found out that I had family in Colorado. Pete Morell or Pete Morello, depending on whom you ask. Turns out he's, uh, in the 'family business,' if you know what I mean. Anyway, I came back, and shit hit the fan."

"I bet," replied Miles who organized each shelf by dairy and breakfast items, meats, and finally produce. "This guy, Lou, he's a character. I didn't find much about him at all, even on the dark web, which tells me that he's very careful about his tracking history. Only someone with skill and knowledge can do that. Given I knew where you were, I was able to pick up some of what he may be doing. Guy's into arms dealing and illegal gambling rings."

"I gathered that," affirmed Luigi, nodding. "Uncle Sal more or less confirmed that he's a caporegime. He's a boss in Denver, though he takes orders from New York."

Miles nervously chewed on his lip. "I, uh, I think he's more than that. He may be a Denver capo, but arms dealing and Internet gambling brings in millions per year. If he's sending that kind of money back to New York, then he's got serious power here. Between expletives, comments about agita, and miscellaneous rants in Italian, which, by the way, I did not understand, I got Giuseppe to tell me the flight company and number of your open ticket, then used it to hack Pete Morell's travel history. The guy's taken a round-trip flight from Denver to New York every three months for at least ten years. It's paid by a valid American Express card under a fake name – Farhad Kamek. As far as I can tell, Morello stays a few days and then returns to Denver. I've also been doing a fair amount of reading on the Mafia. Capos are the middle managers, so they take orders from 'corporate' in New York, but they're usually not important enough to fly back and forth. This guy is."

Luigi moved into the kitchen to help his friend with the last of the groceries and to crack open the bottle of Pinot Noir that he had set on the counter. "What, wait, you think he's corporate?"

"It's possible, yeah. I just don't know what he wants with you."

"Well," began the plumber while pulling out a corkscrew from one of the drawers, "if my lying sack of shit family is to be believed, I was supposed to join the 'family business.' Turns out that in twenty-odd fuckin' years of my life, no one ever told me that my fuckin' father named Carlo and Rosa Morano as my godparents." He uncorked the bottle and set it on top of the counter to breathe.

The blond engineer almost dropped the wine glasses in shock. "W-wait. Back up. Deadass, the fucking Moranos?! Aren't they related to Fat Tony and … ? Oh, shit …"

"Yeah. I found out something else." Looking around wildly, Luigi shut the windows and closed the drapes in the kitchen. He moved into the living room, turned off his iPhone, and returned to his original position at the counter next to the opened wine bottle. Miles's golden eyebrows raised in both amusement and disbelief at his friend's unexpected paranoia. "Okay, what I tell you can never leave this room. Never. Swear it."

"On my honor, and may Spock curse me to Rura Penthe if I ever tell."

"Fine. Matt – Pete's son and soldier – and another guy hacked into one of those government 'contractors.' They found a video featuring Marco Bowser handing something over to Al-Qaeda operatives."

"Holy fuck!" yelled Miles before Luigi could shush him. "Are you shitting me?" he mouthed. A moment later, his jubilation turned to apprehension. "What about Mario? Did he … ?"

"I don't know," Luigi whispered, answering his friend's unspoken question. "Personally, I could care less if he did. That fucker needed to be put down, and frankly, I don't think Pete really cares, either. But they're worried about the Bowsers in general."

"Okay, so how do you fit in to all of this?" asked Miles.

"I don't know that, either. Also, I, uh, met with a wiseguy. Pete and Gene met up with this guy, Vinny DiScala from Las Vegas. I wasn't privy to it, but there was a conversation."

"Jesus, Luigi!" cried the blond. "You sat at a table with a fuckin' wiseguy! Are you, like, thinking of becoming one of them?"

The plumber made an incredulous face at his friend and pinched his fingers together in a che vuoi gesture. "Yeah, Miles, I want to be the next Tony Soprano with a goomah on each arm."

Miles shrugged. "Could be interesting."

"Miles!"

"Okay, okay, I get it. So what are you gonna do? Obviously, your job has something to do with this. Did your family know about Pete, Gene, and Marco?"

"I have no idea, man. The Masciarellis and their goddamned secrets! All's I know is that I was treated well – shockingly well – by the Morellos. I'm just fed up, y'know? I know I'm not my brother; I don't do well in physical confrontations, I don't do eating contests, I don't shoot guns and act macho, and I don't want to defend a community that made my life hell. For the first time in my life, I went on vacation and enjoyed it. I saw something new, did something new, not the rinse-and-repeat of plumbing, Brooklyn, and macho bullshit. I even got a tattoo – see?" Rolling up his sleeve, he displayed the thunderbird to a stunned Miles. "I've even been thinking about college again."

Miles touched the tattoo briefly, tracing the pattern and internally making a study of its shape, size, and coloring. "Is it in honor of your father? The colors match those of the FDNY logo – yellow and reddish outlining, blue interior, parts that are white."

The Italian looked down at the tattoo and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. I, uh, had a dream about the tattoo and just felt like I … needed it. Sounds crazy, I know."

"Yeah, kinda. Though it is pretty cool. And college? I'm sure if we ask Professor Omaya, he could get you into a few summer classes at NYU, and you could apply for spring semester admission at Brooklyn College, then transfer to Tandon. It's a bit too late for fall."

Luigi poured a bit of the wine in each glass. "Yeah, maybe. I was also thinkin' maybe upstate or even Jersey or Connecticut. Honestly, I think I need to get out of Brooklyn for a while. Daisy's … Daisy's going to Africa for the summer, so I could come back in August. Then we'll see."

"What about your job? And that job interview in California?"

He took a sip of wine, considering the question. "At one time, I thought I wanted to run my own shop or take the civil exam for the Housing Authority. I just … I just need to do this, I think. It seems like a small thing. As long as I pay my dues, I'm still part of the union and would receive preferential hiring as a senior journeyman if it didn't pan out. And as for the job in California, it's still up in the air. All's I know is that I can't be the best me here."

"Everyone leaves home sometime. I can't help but also observe that Daisy may have something to do with it," said Miles.

"Yeah," he grinned. "Miles, she's … she's so smart, and funny, and she does sports – lots of sports – while getting her Master's from Columbia. She even got her physics degree from Oxford! She's feisty, hot-tempered at times, very independent, but she's so … gentle, so genuine. I don't have to guess with her. I don't have to be some macho Italian to prove I'm human."

The blond grinned. "So, she's a keeper?"

"For as long as she'll have me, yeah."

"Have you told her about the Mafia shit? About any of it?"

Minchia, goddamn it, Miles. "No, I haven't. I don't … Our relationship is still in the dating stage. I don't want to scare her off by telling her that I do in fact have … an interesting family history. It's already touchy that I'm an Italian plumber and not a Jewish lawyer, doctor, or engineer; I don't think she's told her parents about me for that reason. I can only imagine their reaction to her dating a Sicilian with ties to the you-know-what. To be fair, I really haven't told my family, either, albeit for an entirely different reason. The demands to bring her to Sunday dinner would never end, and she would be … overwhelmed with the intrusively loud questioning. Eventually, I will tell her." He laughed dismally, "To be honest, I'm not yet sure that she's as serious about me as I am about her. And as much as I tell myself it's early, and I don't really know her, I feel like this is right. But I gotta wait and do better. For her. For us."

Miles sipped the wine and swirled the deep crimson liquid in the glass. "Hard to satisfy all of the factors when you're operating under one set of parameters that may or may not be accurate. So what are her parameters? She's going to law school the following year, right? From what I've heard, that first year is always the toughest, to say nothing of her first year working at a firm. Can you handle that stress? Can she? But that's a bit in the future. Currently, what are her parameters and can a mutual agreement evolve to incorporate new requirements?"

Luigi snickered while gulping down more wine. "Goddamn, Miles, only you could intellectualize love! My Italian heart is sticking its fingers in its ears! That being said, you do have a point. That, I can't answer. As you said, I don't have her parameters yet. That'll come with time. However, I'd like to try. Aside from drooling over her from afar for the better part of four, five months before actually talking to her, I … I enjoy her company, listening to her complain about her asshole advisor, heeding her advice, and saying good night and good morning to her."

Opening up a bag of salted veggie straws, Miles took a few snacks and then handed it to his friend. "Bought 'em from my bodega; they're not bad." A curious Luigi grabbed a handful and began to munch. A minute later, he waved his hand to indicate that they were okay, which meant for him that they were edible.

"Well," the blond recommenced, "'they' – and I don't actually know who originally said it – said patience is a virtue. From an outsider's standpoint, I think Daisy's good for you, as it stands now. I never understood why Giuseppe pushed you into plumbing. I mean, from a purely financial stance, it's very stable, and a society always needs plumbers, whereas academia is, well, political and dependent on social class, name recognition of the advisor, and the institution from which one graduates. But not every graduate goes into academia; most don't, and they actually get paid more and work less than a professor or researcher does. You'd be one hell of a computer engineer and you'd be making more than what you are. Just make sure that you're doing all of this for the right reasons. To thine own self be true, or some Shakespearean shit like that, I dunno."

A robust belly laugh emanated from Luigi, and he raised his glass. "Salute to that!"


Despite the constant pleas and angry voicemails from The Family from evening until the following afternoon, for the first time in his life, Luigi spent Easter Sunday with a non-family member, though Miles was as close to family as Yoshi and Mario were. Throughout the day, they played video games and ate a makeshift antipasto plate of salami, marinated peppers, anchovies, and provolone, homemade pizza Margherita, and the last two cannoli that Miles managed to acquire from an Italian bakery in Rose Hill. Though Miles was not Italian, having spent time around the Masciarellis and a few Italian-American classmates at Stuyvesant, he learned very generally what they ate at holidays, much to Luigi's gratitude.

Although he missed his Nonna and Zia Lucia, Luigi still felt a deep anger toward the Masciarellis for not telling him about the circumstances of his birth, for defying what his father had wanted for him, and for holding him back. Like him, Yoshi hated Bensonhurst; the Japanese-American had moved to Borough Park with Birdo and thrived in a relatively calm environment in which neighbors barely knew each other and therefore had little interest in harassing or abusing him. Over the holiday, Luigi seriously considered apartment hunting in Brooklyn, only deterred by the sheer expense that rent had become in the nicer areas such as Carroll Gardens, Williamsburg, Bed-Stuy, and Park Slope. Deciding against immediately moving out of the family home, he would wait until his plans for college took shape. Along those lines, he called his boss to take time off for the next couple of days, which was reluctantly granted. Then he texted Daisy that he would be free Monday and Tuesday if she wanted to go out for her birthday. Later that evening, he received a text from his beautiful princess confirming Tuesday afternoon and evening for their outing, as Passover ended at sundown.

Monday came and went quickly. Luigi changed Airbnb accommodations to avoid being tracked by Mario and moved to a brownstone just a street up from Daisy's apartment in Carroll Gardens. He elected to stay out of Bensonhurst for another two days to clear his head. He did, however, make a quick trip to the neighbor's, old Mrs. Segale, to retrieve Daisy's birthday present. To his delight, the silver and turquoise earrings came as advertised: one-hundred-percent Sterling silver containing ovals of deep Arizona turquoise, whose cracks he could actually feel with his thumb. Protecting the small box by putting it in his inner coat pocket, he went to a nearby store to buy a matching blue birthday gift bag and card. At his cozy rental, he ate the leftover pizza and cannoli that Miles had left when he returned to Manhattan. He continued to receive expletive-laced texts and voicemails from Mario and Giuseppe, which he unrelentingly ignored.

At around noon the following day, Luigi, dressed in a clean Oxford, designer jeans, and green coat, waited anxiously at the Carroll Street subway as instructed, birthday bag in hand. He looked at his watch – five minutes late. Chuckling to himself about her incorrigible tardiness, he spotted the casually garbed Daisy jogging up the street. Luigi teasingly made a grand gesture of showing and tapping his wristwatch, to which the Brazilian rolled her brown eyes and exclaimed, "Sorry, I'm late. I'm hopeless, I know."

As she met him at the subway entrance, he pulled to him and kissed her. "Better late than never," he murmured against her lips.

She kissed him a second time, backing him up against the blue-green pole while running her hands over his biceps. "I missed you."

Luigi broke the kiss for air. "Missed you, too, sweetie. I'm so glad to see you. Also," he held up the bag, "happy birthday!"

"Thank you!" she cried. "Thank you also for the kosher cannoli. Papai had, like, half of them. Even Yael acknowledged that they were tasty. However, I did endure quite the interrogation as to who 'L. Masciarelli' is."

The plumber raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And … I told them that he's a mutual friend of Amy's. That's not exactly a lie." The auburn-haired woman looked away distractedly. "I can't tell them yet, Luigi. I know they won't approve, especially Yael. I just … I want you to know that I'm not ashamed of you."

"Hey," he interjected, using his fingertips to turn her face to his. "I get it. Honestly. My family's complicated, too. I doubt they'd have a problem with you being Jewish – hell, half of Brooklyn is Jewish – but they're overbearing, nosy as fuck, and, well, as I've found out recently, don't always tell the truth. It's hard enough trying to have a relationship with someone, let alone when their fuckin' families get involved. Let's just keep it between us for now. That okay?"

She nodded and hugged him. "Yeah, that's … that's very much okay. I feel the same way."

"Aight. Now open your present, sweetie."

With a bright, toothy grin, Daisy fished through the blue-colored tissue inside the small giftbag and pulled out the jewelry box. She gasped at the silver and turquoise earrings. "Oh, my goodness. Luigi, this must have cost a small fortune!"

"I did spend a little money, yeah, but not terribly so. Besides, it's worth it. D'you like it?"

"Yes, yeah, I do! Thank you so much!" She immediately replaced her small stud earrings with the birthday gift, as Luigi watched on with a mixture of pride and arousal. Once she was finished, he captured her lips with his, his fingers possessively brushing her new jewelry and skin just beneath. Breaking for air and rubbing noses, Daisy gently took him by the hand and led him into the subway.

Once aboard the crowded F line train, Daisy read and grinned at the card while Luigi anxiously noted the direction of train to MetroTech. "Daisy, where are we goin'? We're heading north toward Clinton Hill and Fort Greene."

Closing the card and placing it carefully in the giftbag, she replied, "You'll see. It's a surprise."

At the MetroTech stop, Luigi uneasily debarked with Daisy, who negotiated through the crowds toward the R Line Forest Hills-71st Avenue. Realizing where they were likely going, Luigi began to sweat and breathe shallowly. The platform suddenly narrowed, and he retreated to one of the large blue beams for support. Daisy turned to face him, and her eyes widened in shock. Before she could question him further, the R train arrived at the platform. Not wanting to ruin her birthday, Luigi inhaled deeply, stepped into the train, and nearly collapsed into one of the orange plastic seats. Daisy soon followed and sat in the seat on his right.

"Luigi, is everything okay?" she inquired, concerned at the visible cold sweat that had formed on his brow.

He gripped the sides of the orange chair. "Daisy, w-where are we going?"

The train started to move. Frightened, the auburn-haired woman glanced around at the packed interior, some of whom had also noticed the plumber's sickly pallor. "Uh, Whitehall Street. I thought we'd go to the Battery. It's sunny, supposed to be seventy degrees today."

Minchia, cazzo di merda e porca Madonna, he swore inwardly while closing his eyes. Shit! The Battery was near … that place, the place that everyone except Daisy knew never to send him. Of all the places in New York, that was where Daisy wanted to go? God must be punishing him for not going to Easter Sunday. His heartbeat deafened the loud whoosh of the MTA train, and he wondered if he was still breathing, as he could no longer hear or feel anything. The skin on his face was boiling hot and his body shook uncontrollably. In the haze and confusion, Luigi perceived the third stop of the train – Whitehall Street. C'mon, be a big boy for Daisy. Opening his eyes to a worried Daisy, he managed to stand up and force one foot in front of the other as she latched on to him by the arm to make sure that he kept upright. Soon after, they exited to the streets of Manhattan. The sweaty and tremoring Luigi gazed up at the tall buildings which seemed to spin around him. He blubbered several incoherent words and ran to the small staircase leading up the adjacent black and white building. Daisy shouted after him; before he could reply, his stomach lurched, and he spilled its contents at the top of the stairs.

Spitting out the remainder of his breakfast and regular, his girlfriend caught up to him and rubbed his back soothingly. "What's going on, Luigi? What happened?"

He wiped his mouth, then his face which had gone from boiling hot to ice cold. "I … I can't. I can't be here! I … I gotta go. Please!"

"Okay," she whispered consolingly. "Let's go back to Brooklyn?" He nodded, and she helped him to stand up and walk toward the Whitehall Street subway stop. Descending the stairs – Luigi wobbling down them – they waited for the train in silence, with Daisy unceasingly watching his every movement. Ten minutes later, they were at the street level of MetroTech. As if on autopilot, Luigi reached into his coat pocket for his Marlboros and green lighter. In front of a stunned Daisy, he slipped the cigarette into his mouth and lit the end, ignoring the disgusted looks from some of the passers-by. Finally able to transmit messages through the cloud of panic and fear, the rational part of him demanded that he find a less traffic-heavy spot to smoke. Crossing the street, Daisy pursuing him, Luigi stopped at the last gray support column of the building, leaned back against it, and puffed on the cigarette.

Daisy faced him, yet Luigi did not appear to recognize her, his blue eyes still glassy and unfocused. "Luigi, are you okay?"

He did not answer, instead smoking wordlessly. Daisy coughed a bit, flanking him to avoid the secondhand stream of carcinogens. She waited several minutes while he finished his cigarette. Dropping the butt to the concrete, he pulverized it with his boot, and then looked worriedly at his girlfriend. She saw the whole thing, from the whimpering to the smoking. Fucking perfect. But instead of condemnation in her amber eyes, Luigi glimpsed a swirl of sadness, fear, remorse, confusion, and compassion. Calmly taking his right hand, she led him into the subway. "I'm taking you back to my place, okay?" Luigi allowed her to guide him onto the F line to Carroll Street, two streets over to her brownstone, and to the plush couch inside her apartment. Closing his eyes in shame, he shed two tears, one for his cowardice and another for, he surmised, the end of their two-month relationship. Dropping her coat and giftbag onto the coffee table, she arranged him so that he was laying lengthwise along the couch and gently stroked his hair.

"I'm sorry," he croaked. "I know I ruined your birthday." Sighing haggardly, he added, "I'll understand if you don't want to see me anymore. I'm a coward and I smoke when I'm truly anxious. Nasty habit, I know."

Daisy continued to stroke his hair. "You didn't ruin anything, and frankly, if I were to break up with you after our minigolf outing, in which I recall having a moment myself, I'd be a terrible hypocrite." She smiled softly. "Unfortunately, my Sly Stallone impression sucks harder than yours."

Through his tears, Luigi surprised them both by laughing aloud. He wiped his eyes and nodded. "Okay, point taken."

"But," she added, "I'd be lying if I say I wasn't a little scared. What happened?"

Luigi nodded. "That's fair, and you're owed an explanation. You didn't know, and I … I should have said something earlier. That was my fault, and I'm sorry. Daisy, I … I don't like Manhattan. I don't go there unless I absolutely have to, and I avoid Lower Manhattan altogether. I just … I can't be there."

"Luigi," Daisy replied, "what I saw back there wasn't simply a dislike for a place. You had a full-blown panic attack. That's trauma. I had them regularly in the year following my breakup with my ex in England. What happened in Manhattan?"

"I-I don't want to talk about it." Luigi noticed a flash of hurt spread across Daisy's face, then quickly reached out to stroke her face with his free hand. "It's not you, Daisy. It's … Every time I do talk about it, and it's rare, even with my own family, I get the flashbacks which are infinitely worse than going to Manhattan. I'd rather not … ruin what's left of your birthday, sweetie."

Daisy studied her boyfriend's reactions and demeanor. While she acquiesced to his plea not to push this further, she fully, yet carefully intended to revisit the issue at some point. In spite of the severity of the panic attack as well as the smoking, the latter of which she did in fact loathe, he was able to control himself so as not to pose a danger to himself or others. However, Daisy had a hard rule when dating, one which she learned from her time with Tatanga: she was not a babysitter and she would not turn her prospective lover or husband into a 'personal project.' Being supportive was one thing; being co-dependent was an experience that she cared not to repeat. All things considered, she reasoned, it did appear that Luigi's anxiety was caused by going to Manhattan, particularly Lower Manhattan. Daisy recalled with dread the other thing that he did not like to talk about – his firefighter father. A rather disturbing picture slowly pieced itself together in her mind, one which would definitely give cause for both concern about and maintaining the dating relationship. At her prolonged silence, Daisy observed the growing worry and fretfulness within Luigi's cerulean orbs. Coming to a decision, she bent down to kiss his cheek and lay her head against his chest. "Okay, can we celebrate my birthday together in Brooklyn?" she murmured.

Exhaling relief, he nodded. "Yeah. I think I'm okay-ish now."

She lifted up her head and traced his lips. "Okay. No Manhattan, just Brooklyn. Now, let's go the store to get you some toothpaste and a brush. I'm not kissing a Bensonhurst ashtray."

Luigi's cheeks turned bright red. "'Ey! I only smoke when I get anxious. Mario rags on me nonstop about it, too. It's not a daily habit." At a raised, skeptical auburn eyebrow, he insisted, "It's not! How many dates have you been on with me? Have I ever smoked?" Eyebrow still raised, "Jesus Christ, you're as bad as my brother. Aight, aight! No cigarettes around you. Mario can go to hell, though."

Temporarily satisfied at his answer, she rose cat-like from her position atop his body, hands intentionally moving down his sternum, which generated a masculine groan of pleasure. On her feet, Daisy offered her hand, which he seized, and pulled him up and off the couch. Fingers laced together, she led him out of the brownstone door and to her preferred bodega a few streets down, where, under Daisy's scrutinizing eyes, he chose a plain emerald-colored toothbrush and minty-fresh toothpaste next to the cashier's counter. Once he had the appropriate dental care products, the auburn-haired woman went purposefully to the back of the store and selected a pint of plain mint ice cream. Shaking his head, Luigi quipped, "You know, I can get you real Italian mint gelato that's nine times better than that processed shit."

She raised an eyebrow for the third time in an hour. "I'll take you up on that. But today is my birthday, and I will have my processed shit, thanks much."

He pinched fingers with his free hand in response, which she ignored and proceeded to the waiting Arab cashier. Luigi caught up quickly, stole the pint from her hand, and cut in front of her to pay for the ice cream and dental hygiene items. As the somewhat annoyed Daisy watched, Luigi pulled out his wallet, handed the man a twenty-dollar bill, and collected the change. Smirking, he kept the items and strolled out of the bodega, his girlfriend directly behind him. Pivoting to face her as he walked backwards toward the brownstone, he chuckled softly and shrugged, "Hey, you said it – it's your birthday!"

She narrowed her eyes in both amusement and irritation. "Are you now planning to hold my ice cream hostage?"

"Don't worry; I'll give it to you when we're back at your place."

A few minutes later, they arrived at Daisy's brownstone. She unlocked the front entrance and let them inside. Closing the door, he strolled leisurely to the kitchen to put the ice cream in the freezer and then entered the bathroom to brush his teeth. Daisy sauntered to the kitchen and, glancing around for the lurking Italian, grabbed the mint ice cream from the cold box. Spoon in hand, she took a large scoop of the green confection and wrapped it around her tongue, wiping the remainder from her lips with the organ. As she was relishing her third bite, she felt a pair of masculine lips that first grazed the nape of her neck, thence her ear, and at her giggle, her lips.

"Is this better?" he inquired in a low voice against her mouth.

"Mmm," she said, and they broke the kiss. "Much, thanks." Luigi and Daisy stared at each other; the man's eyes were still pained, and he was still somewhat pale. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm … okay. I'm still jumpy, but it'll pass. I just want to start fresh and spend time with you on your birthday. Is there, uh, anywhere you'd like to go for dinner? My treat. I, uh, know of a good Indian restaurant that also does vegan and vegetarian dishes. And there's another surprising coming."

"Oh?" she asked. "Another birthday surprise?"

"Yep," Luigi said while cracking a hint of a smile. "It's from a Brooklyn bakery – very special and very Brooklyn. You can't be a true Brooklynite without having this cake." He looked down at his feet and swiped at an imaginary pebble on the floor. "I'm, uh, embarrassed about earlier. Please let me make it up to you."

"Oh, Luigi," she moved to encircle his torso with her arms and gave him a peck on his thankfully minty-fresh lips. "You've got nothing to be embarrassed about – truly. In the year following the end of my … relationship in England, I had regular panic attacks. I was jumpy, reluctant to even leave my room to go to lectures. I was humiliated to be a victim of domestic violence. I refused to acknowledge it. After all, I was strong, I always made all the right choices in life, and yet … I allowed myself to be swayed by that prick. Finally, my flat mate and tutor staged a sort of intervention, pleading with me to seek help because they cared and wanted to see me thrive. It took a while for me to realize that … it can happen to anyone. It didn't happen to me because there was something amiss with me; it happened because he was a fucking sociopath and used charm as a weapon. He was a predator. I … I don't know what precisely happened to you, Luigi. But I don't judge you. Something profound did happen, that much I've gathered. And you're not ready to talk about it. I respect that. Just … don't forget that people do care about what you're going through, and don't assume that the world's all a bad place. Other than that, it's up to you."

The plumber gawked at her. Aside from Yoshi and Miles, who never commented on his panic attacks except to give him space and a place to crash, no one had ever told him that they did not judge him for running away or refusing to talk about it. The Masciarellis rarely spoke of Mario Senior; when they did, it was always in reference to his multiple acts of heroism or his daily fights with Nonno Mario. They rarely spoke of his marriage to Gabriella, his life with his children, or his untimely death, leaving both Mario and Luigi to deal with his absence in their own way. At least they acknowledged that he lived, thought Luigi sarcastically. Mario did not make any direct comments on his anxiety, save for the cigarettes and his eating habits. He was more sympathetic to him, if more aloof on such days. As for the tough guys at the Koopa or in the union, mental health did not exist, and their homophobic nickname for him was self-explanatory. Grateful for those words, he slammed his lips upon hers until she was tapping him to breathe. Pressing his forehead to hers, he whispered, "Grazie, amore. Grazie."

She grinned, leaning into his warm embrace. "Prego." They stayed in that position for what seemed like hours before breaking for a knock on Daisy's door. The woman excitedly ran to open the large door, which revealed a man with a white cake box and machine for an electronic signature. Accepting the delivery, she closed the door and carefully brought the cake into the kitchen, Luigi still waiting in the kitchen, having put away the melting ice cream. Unsealing the box, she squealed at the beautiful sight: it was a round, dark-chocolate cake with chocolate crumbs decorating the side and top.

"It's a Brooklyn Blackout Cake," spoke Luigi who moved to encircle her waist from behind. "My Pops and Uncle Joe used to frequent this really famous bakery – Ebinger's. It was a Brooklyn staple from the turn of the twentieth century into the 1960s. Unfortunately, it closed down 'cause they baked cakes to order, and everyone wanted the more readily-available mass produced cakes and pastries. This cake was originally made during World War II, when houses and shops around the shipyards used to have complete blackouts to avoid any Nazi planes that could have been lurking. Well, when Ebinger's closed down, they refused to share the secret recipe. So every cake is essentially a knockoff. And believe me – every housewife and every baker – amateur or professional – has tried to reproduce the cake. Uncle Joe told me that this bakery might be the closest, though it's not as good as the original. But I'll say this – it's still damn good cake."

Tempted by the dark chocolate and crumbs, Daisy reached for a sharp knife from the block and cut the cake into eight thick pieces, much to Luigi's amusement. "You not gonna wait until after dinner, young lady? It's not yet sunset," he teased.

Reaching into the cupboard for two dessert plates and pulling out a lower-level drawer for forks, she set them on the counter next to the cake and turned to him. "Screw it," she announced, "My birthday, my rules. Cake first. And besides, I'll atone for it on Yom Kippur." She used the knife to ease two slices on the plates and handed one with accompanying fork to her boyfriend. Licking a bit of frosting from her thumb, Daisy proceeded to take a bite of the cake, which melted pure chocolate into her mouth, from the Dutch-processed cocoa powder in the cake, the pudding-like layers of frosting, to the crumbs heaping on the sides and top. She closed her eyes and savored the chocolate explosion in her mouth that she had to concede was every bit as delicious as a brigadeiro or Brazilian carrot cake. "Dio, this is, like, the King of Chocolate Cake. Mmm! Yes, I'll keep the rest. Obrigada muito." Chewing on the chocolate cake, he mouthed a You're welcome.

Momentarily placing the cake on the counter, Daisy ambled to Luigi and kissed him deeply. "Thank you. This was a great birthday. Thanks for making it special with the earrings and the knockoff, yet tasty, Blackout Cake."

"Forgetaboutit," he replied jovially in the strongest Brooklyn accent that he could force and kissed her back as she giggled at his stereotypical quip. You're worth it, Daisy Abravanel.

After finishing their cake and waiting half-heartedly for sundown, Luigi assured Daisy that he was calm enough to go out for Indian food. Thankfully, the dinner rush was not as busy on a Tuesday evening, so they found a nice window table and spent the evening trying each vegetarian dish and talking about everything from baseball – and how Giants would kick the Mets' asses this year – to his happier memories with the Brobot Boys in Bensonhurst. Though he had pangs of anxiety every so often, Luigi felt better communicating some of his distress to Daisy who worked with him to avoid certain subjects or discuss others in a more positive way. Yet he noticed that she made him take the lead, to do the work of interconnecting, for which he was grateful. He felt listened to and acknowledged in talking about his own story. Luigi Masciarelli was no longer the minor character in a chess game between others; now empowered, he knew that there was no going back.