Author's Notes: Yet another chapter! I was inspired...This is another scene that I have been planning for months, so enjoy. Please read and review if you're so inclined, and thanks in advance.

Please note: There are some very, very naughty Italian curse words in here, worse than the usual cazzo or vafanculo. So read and note with cautious, i.e., don't repeat these.

I'm also announcing yet another GAME. I need a challenge, so why not.
As you've probably noticed, I like languages a lot. I'm most comfortable with Romance languages, though I dabble in others. So here's my challenge: if there is a language that you'd like me to attempt (NOT English, French, Spanish, Italian, or Portuguese for obvious reasons), let me know in the comments by SATURDAY, JULY 30 AT 11:59 PM EASTERN. The only limitation that I'm putting on this is that it has to have an alphabet or character set, so please no clicking languages. I will do more than a few words to make this a real challenge.


Chapter 18: Girls (and Bensonhurst Boys) Just Wanna Have Fun

Following the baseball game a few nights ago, and much to Mario's newly-developing agita, Luigi insisted on escorting Daisy home from Yankee Stadium via taxicab. The trip cost him over a hundred dollars, including a generous tip, as he requested the cabbie to take the 'long way' through Queens. During the near hour's drive, he and Daisy became obnoxiously handsy and breathy from kisses, caresses, and teasing. Outside of her brownstone, Luigi did not quite get a home run like Dave Murphy, but he reached third base with the beautiful princess, getting her noisily worked up before bidding her a good night. Leaving her outside of her door in shock, he observed and chuckled at a small little foot stomp of irritation. Smirking to himself, he wanted her to experience some of the physical frustration that he felt on a daily basis. A man of his word, he would wait until Daisy was ready, yet he was not above coaxing or outright provoking her to come to him. And when she did, Luigi would make damn certain that she would come back for more.

Luigi stared at the blinking cursor in the empty word document as the afternoon sun peaked through his bedroom blinds. He stretched for the forty-ninth time, attempting to distract his mind from the task at hand, which he had not found too difficult, as it kept going to the postgame and his auburn-haired beauty's pouty lips. Half of his blood volume also was easily rerouted. Launching himself from his chair, the plumber began to pace agitatedly, partly to calm his now very sensitive body, partly to avoid completing the task in the Microsoft Word file. Goddamn Lucas! While he was excited to be offered a personalized introduction to the admissions process at Stanford University, and he had worked out a concrete plan of study for the summer that would impress even the stuffiest of evaluators, Luigi was loathe to explain the reason why he left Brooklyn City High. The truth was he hated the school and wanted to leave.

Roughly one week before his father's death, he and Mario Senior had gotten into an argument. There had been unexplained fires set throughout the school, though the latest one had appeared in the principal's office. As the school was city property, the FDNY and Mario Senior had been sent to investigate the arson. He and Lucas must have left a clue, as his father angrily confronted him a few days after finding the evidence. Instead of the shouting matches that characterized Mario Senior's and his eldest son's frequent quarrels, his low, pained voice asked him why he would do such a thing when "he was first in his class and would have MIT served to him on a fucking platter." The teenage Luigi screamed at the fireman that he had not been offered anything; several of his lower-ranked classmates, who were wealthier or Affirmative Action candidates, had been contacted by these schools for early admissions, yet he received no invitation and no attention, despite being first. The principal already hated him because he was Italian and Omaya's best student. He was "the Dago firefighter's kid," and the administration made sure that he knew it. Later that afternoon, Mario Senior proposed that he and Luigi leave New York.

After his father died, he was left to suffer in that shithole of a school for another year and a half. Ignored by practically everyone, and Omaya having left Brooklyn City mid-year for greener pastures at the Courant Institute, he clung to Lucas, who encouraged him to rebel against his teachers and the administration. By Spring 2002, the principal triumphantly discontinued the robotics program, even though it had been one of the major moneymakers and selling points of the school. Unlike public schools across the country which were continuously strapped for cash and would sell their souls to the devil to retain lucrative and visible programs, the principal, Dr. Darrell Williams, promised to buy state-of-the-art computers and equipment for a new information technology laboratory in its place. The plan never materialized; although the school had purchased the computers, they remained wrapped in the plastic in which they came, and the students began calling the school 'Broken and Shitty' because they were forced to use outdated equipment. In his second or third year of apprenticeship, Uncle Joe gleefully emailed Luigi a copy of a New York Times article in which Williams was accused of having embezzled several thousand dollars from the school.

On one hand, he was sadly orphaned at fifteen, only to 'overcome his struggles' and become one of the youngest master plumber candidates in New York City. On the other hand, he was a renegade, a truant, and a criminal. Luigi highly doubted that the admissions committee wanted to hear about the latter, and he felt dishonest about the former, as he could not even put one foot into Manhattan without desperately needing a cigarette. Once again, he stared at the blank document. Normally, when he needed advice, Luigi went to his older brother; however, Mario was unaware of his plans to attend Stanford in the summer, and would no doubt interrogate him as to why he would want to leave New York so soon after the practical exam, which had yet to be scheduled. Peach did not know very much about American universities, would mention it to her significant other, and the aforementioned interrogation would start. Daisy was busy with exams for the rest of the week and had an LSAT prep course at the beginning of the next. Making a quick decision, Luigi pressed a speed dial key and waited.

"Hey, man, wassup?" answered Yoshi.

"Hey, you got a minute – actually fifteen?" asked Luigi hesitantly.

"Uh, yeah," he said, then muttered a few cuss words in Japanese underneath his breath. Luigi could hear clicking of computer keys and typing.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah," griped Yoshi. "I'm running this fucking experiment for the eighty-fifth goddamn time. My PI's being a royal jackass about precisely nothing. I'm just trying to pass my dissertation review coming up. Hopefully, two more fucking years of this shit. Oh, and I hate Miles."

Luigi frowned at the last statement. "Why?"

"Fucker chose computer science and engineering, so he got a massage on top of his research-exam based quals, and then ends up with a well-known and nice dissertation director. Ergo, he can suck a fat dick!"

The Italian laughed aloud. "Yoshi, I thought the Japanese were supposed to be polite."

"Man, I'm Bensonhurst Japanese. So fuck him. Anyway, what's up? You okay?"

"Yeah, I just need to talk to someone about something. You can't say anything to Mario about this, aight? I'll tell him, but if he hears it from you or anyone else, fucker's gonna be a nightmare to deal with."

"Yeah, yeah," Yoshi assured Luigi while typing an unknown command, "sure, no problem. So what's up?"

"Aight, well, I'm, uh, applying to some college programs for the summer. Y'know, just to see if I'm still good enough. If, uh, all goes well, I'll apply for full-time in the spring or next fall."

"Wait, holy shit! You gonna … ? Oh, fuck, yeah! But wait," Yoshi stopped himself, "what about your practical for master plumber? Has that been scheduled yet?"

"Not yet. Obviously, if the DOB schedules it during the summer, I'll need to defer or reapply. But Omaya and Sal are writing letters of recommendation. Sal nearly fell out of his chair, but it was 'cause he was happy that 'I was doing something with my brains,'" explained Luigi.

"So if you've sent requests for letters of rec, you've already picked the place," reasoned his friend. "Where are you going? BC? NYU? Brookhaven?"

"No," replied the plumber. "That thing in California? Well, I made a contact, let's say, and he got me a chance to attend Stanford."

"Kuso!" swore Yoshi in Japanese. "But … why? Why Stanford? I mean, don't get me wrong, Weeg, you deserve to be there, and it's very good university, but … that's so far away."

"Yosh, it's for only, like, eight weeks! Two months, and then I'm back in New York. As for the why? I guess … Yoshi, I've never really been anywhere else. You and Miles have; both of youse went to MIT for your undergrad, went to Japan and Denmark – Jesus, Miles, like Denmark is so exotic – for your abroad experience, and got to present research all over. Me? I've been places around the East Coast and Italy once, but that's it. And what's more, I need to get out of New York for a while."

"I … Yeah, okay. I get it. It's just …"

Luigi chuckled a little. "You didn't count on me leavin'. Don't worry, Yosh. I gotta come back to finish my background check and licensure. Plus, Daisy's gonna be in New York for another year. I don't want to be apart from her."

"Wow, so that's getting serious. Good for you, man! By the way, where was she? She wasn't at the dinner," asked Yoshi who followed it with more angry muttering in Japanese and punching at the keyboard.

"She was studying for her finals this week. Plus, uh, I didn't want her to be overwhelmed. I mean, you and Miles already met her, but Mario's …"

"A Bensonhurst Italian asshole," finished the Japanese. "Yeah, then he'd run and tell your family. Jesus, Giuseppe would blow a gasket. Graduate student at Columbia, takes no prisoners. Actually, she's like a Japanese woman." He shuddered, then continued, "Yeah, no, I can't imagine Uncle Joe being thrilled."

Luigi raised an eyebrow at his friend's observation. "I thought Japanese women were quite reserved. On TV, they're always giggling, quiet, and shit."

"Yeah, that's publicly," emphasized Yoshi. "I love it how these fuckin' incels talk about how they want a nice submissive Japanese woman. Hah! Once you're past the datin' stage, they become goddamn ferocious. In a traditional Japanese marriage, the wives control the purse strings; they give the husbands an allowance!"

He shrugged. "Yeah, I could see Daisy doing that."

"Precisely. I think of your Uncle Joe – forgive me, Weeg – like fuckin' Antonin Scalia. The fuckin' Cardinal."

"Uh, he'd probably hate that comparison, but I follow your reasoning."

"Yeah, so I'll keep Daisy on the D.L. for now. Mario won't hear it from me," assured Yoshi.

"Actually," the plumber began, rubbing the back of his head, "Mario's already met her. We went to a Mets-Yankees game a few nights ago."

"Jesus Christ, and?"

"I believe Mario's exact words were, 'She got a mouth.' And that's after she went toe-to-toe with Bowser."

Luigi heard an explosion of hysterical laughter and a gasping 'Oh, shit' in the background. A moment later, he heard Yoshi pick up the phone again and snort, "Oh, that's … That's fuckin' priceless! Yeah, when I saw her give you that Cowboy Cocksucker at the night club back in February, I knew that she was a firecracker. Oh, shit …" He sniffed and rustled on the phone. "And Bowser. Goddamn, that stupid fuck musta had heart failure. She ain't no Peach, that's for fuck sure. Ooooh." Taking a deep breath to calm down, he went on, "Okay. I'll laugh about that later. So what's the question, again?" he asked, still giggling.

"Yeah, on writing a personal statement," he began, "what do I do or say?"

"Christ, those things? Ugh, you're giving me nightmares. Um, it's-what-five hundred words? Usually, the selection committee wants one of two things – a sob story as to how you've overcome 'adversity' or an explanation of how 'fortunate' you are to be so privileged. I personally hate those fuckin' things. Asians get doubly discriminated against because either we're 'overrepresented,' i.e., the successful minorities, or too much to handle with elite white males. In your case, it's, uh, well, complicated. On one hand, you're an Italian-American from Bensonhurst. You're white, but not Lenox Hill, Fifth-Ave, or Yonkers white. On the other hand, you've got a hell of a story and family history. You went to Staten Island from a very, very elite public school. While you did well at Staten, you didn't stand out. But as we both know, there's a reason for that. The issue becomes whether you want to talk about it." Yoshi blew out a puff of air and mused, "That's why I hate those things; why should you be compelled to talk about something like that, y'know?"

There was silence from Luigi's end as he pondered what Yoshi had said. Smiling, Yoshi was, like Miles, usually able to size up a situation, though he understood social nuance better than their younger friend and had a gift for navigating tricky circumstances. For that reason, he had been the team captain of the Brobot Boys in their robotics competitions. Yoshi was right; he felt compelled to discuss his father when, even with him and Miles, he rarely did. After all, what could he say? And moreover, why did his academic performance count more than his work history? "Yoshi, I got a question along what you were saying. How much does work history count with these guys?"

"Depends. In your case, that … might work. Normally, high school and early-college applicants have little to no work history, or if they have, it's at some fucking start up or NGO. For you, you were plumbing more or less with your Uncle Joe since, what, sixteen, seventeen? You persevered through a difficult apprenticeship, asshole Slaughter," Yoshi fake coughed, "survived the 2008 Financial Crisis by working odd union and outside jobs until getting hired by Sal, and are now a master plumber candidate. One of the youngest, in fact. I mean, shit, if you can lift pipe and bust your ass among a club of Neanderthals – no offense – you can handle a couple classes at Stanford. I'd just mention that your father died to give chronological context and how your career evolved from that point."

Luigi hummed in agreement. He could do that. "Thanks, Yoshi. I appreciate it. I owe youse – you and Birdo – a pizza."

"Forgitaboutit," joked Yoshi in his best Bensonhurst Italian accent.

"You're not sayin' it right," retorted Luigi with a grin. "I love you, man. I'll leave you to your experiment."

Yoshi groaned. "Yeah, the piece of shit! PI can suck it. I love you, too, Weegie. Let's get together for dinner – you, Daisy, Birdo, and I. And let me know how the Stanford application turns out, huh? If I gotta protect you from Mario, I'll do that, no problem."

"Domo Arigato, Yoshi-chan."

"Dōitashimashite."


After his telephone call to his best friend, Luigi sat down and narrated what he considered to be an entertaining narrative of his work career as a plumber and why he wanted to study at Stanford instead of a school in New York. He wrote about his recent exposure to Silicon Valley and SCADA, his contacts in Scottsdale and Los Angeles, and how the summer courses would directly apply to his future growth as a master plumber in New York City. The final count came to a little over seven hundred fifty words, though given the situation and his unusual background, Luigi thought that it would be fine. After he read through it several times and quietly gave it to Miles for proofreading and suggestions, which the blond engineer gave and who, like Yoshi, complained why he was travelling so far, he converted it to a PDF and emailed it to the administrative assistant. To his surprise, Lisa replied quickly and confirmed that she had received his letters of recommendation from Professor Omaya and Sal Maldonado, transcripts, and the PDF. Now that his application was complete, Lisa reported that the admissions committee would review his application immediately and would reach a decision presently, as the summer session would begin mid-June.

He texted Lucas that he had submitted the application to Stanford, to which he received a "😀 🎉! Has the DOB sent you the practical date yet?"

"Not yet," he replied. "DOB's slow as a snail. I don't know if I'll be able to go to Stanford, even if I'm admitted."

A second later, Lucas wrote, "While I dunno what the AC will do, I think it's favorable. Low risk for them instead of full year, if that's what they're afraid of. DOB = SOBs. Slaughter?"

Luigi shrugged as he responded, "Doubt it's Slaughter. DOBs slow – everyone knows it."

"Fuck. Ok, keep me posted. I'll have P reassign you for a 'job.' Start reading for Security+ test in case you can't go to S. Need Sec+ SCADA. I'm taking test myself."

"Oh?" texted Luigi.

"Yep. CSSLP. Sucks dirty Jersey ass, but needed. Just became eligible at five years in tech and cybersecurity. Work history is a prerequisite. I take it June 18th. Pass = contracts."

Luigi wished Lucas good luck and promised to keep him in the loop. The tall man invited him for breakfast on the following Monday, which he accepted.

The weekend and beginning of the subsequent week were quiet, as far as decisions and test scheduling went. Once again, Mario kept Peach and Luigi home from Sunday dinner, with Aunt Lucia forcing Joe to offer that they would come to Bensonhurst on June 1 with the Family, if Mario was amenable, as June 3 was Luigi's birthday, and Nonna wanted to see her grandson. Surprised that the women succeeded in forcing the stalwart Giuseppe to capitulate, he accepted and let both Peach and Luigi know. Daisy called later that evening to let Luigi know of her completed Spring Semester 2014 and schedule for the rest of summer. She would leave New York for Mali and Senegal on June 11 and return on August 6. Luigi informed her that, provided that the DOB scheduled his exam prior to June 23, he would possibly take a few courses at Stanford University. Upon reading his text, Luigi's girlfriend called him excitedly, asking him where he would stay in Palo Alto and if it would affect his master plumber qualification. They chatted about Stanford and the best places to stay near the campus, though Luigi was quick to emphasize that it was a gamble and only for the summer. Normally, Stanford only accepted talent and elite high-school and first- or second-year college students during the summer; it was exceedingly rare, particularly given the lateness of his application. Shily, Daisy asked him out on a date on Saturday as well as another for a 'special birthday present the weekend of June 7,' as she knew that his birthday was June 3, and he would likely spend it with his family that week. He gladly accepted both, begging her to tell him what the present was. She teasingly refused, saying that "Good things come to good Italian boys who wait."

His interest as well as his second head were peaked.

As promised, Luigi's plumbing assignments were once again kept to half-days through mid-June, pending the schedule of the master plumber practical exam. On Thursday, Luigi finally received an email from the Department of Buildings proffering the date of Friday, June 20 at 8:30 am in the basement of Staten Island's Richmond Civil Court. He quickly wrote back to the administrator and accepted the date and time. Later that day, the Department of Buildings confirmed his exam and sent him relevant instructions along with a list of materials and equipment that he would need to bring to the test. He created a group text including Mario, Sal, Daisy, Miles, and Yoshi and informed them of the practical's date and time. In a separate text, he let Lucas know, to which latter replied sarcastically, "The fucks couldn't cut it any closer to Stanford, could they?"

The next afternoon, Luigi was at the shop practicing his black steel piping assembly for next month's practical. Sal had created a little space for him to hone his technique, coming by every so often to inspect the young man's work and give constructive critique. Wiping his brow, the plumber reached for his canteen to drink some water and lean against the wall for a break. He took out his iPhone to check his voicemails, texts, and messages. He saw that he had received a generic email from Stanford University. His heart sinking, Luigi shrugged to no one and reminded himself that the institution was elite, and that it accepted only a handful of students – between five and seven percent, even for short-term programs, every year. Inhaling deeply at the probable rejection letter, he opened it and skimmed the language. His eyes froze when he read, "….At Stanford you join a diverse, joyful and collaborative campus community with a shared determination to change the world."

Wait – what?

Shaking with disbelief and excitement, he reread the letter which congratulated him on his determination and achievements in both his "academics and career" and requested that he go to their website to confirm his enrollment by no later than Monday due to the Summer Quarter officially beginning on June 23. He collapsed ass-first to the ground, making him wince in pain from the cold concrete, and read the letter a third time. Suddenly, his iPhone flashed an incoming call from a number with a 650 area code. Pressing the green key with a trembling hand, almost dropping the phone, he answered with an equally wobbly voice. The caller, Lisa from the Admissions Office, asked if he had received the email and congratulated him on his acceptance. She wanted to know if his master plumber's practical had been scheduled, to which he responded it was the Friday before the first day of the quarter. Luigi confirmed the date and his attendance, regardless of the result of the practical. She encouraged him to pay the non-refundable placeholder fee and select his courses as soon as possible, and they would send him information about his student ID number and card, location of his classes, and Palo Alto in the coming week. Much to his astonishment, Lisa also announced that Stanford would offer him a partial scholarship for tuition and fees, though they regrettably could not offer him accommodation on campus. He assured her that this would not be a problem, as he had friends who could assist him with finding a place to stay. Wishing him a good weekend, she promised that she would be in touch.

Hanging up, Luigi's mouth drooped open. What just happened? Unable to text or communicate, he forwarded the letter to Lucas. A moment later, Lucas's name flashed on the screen. Pressing the green key, he heard him say, "Congrats! I'll fly you out to Cali on the Sunday before. Does that work since your practical's on Friday?"

Luigi replied, "Y-yeah. They're giving me a partial scholarship."

"Weeg! You realize how much they like you? It's an unofficial invite!" cried Lucas. "Victory breakfast on Monday! Just do their paperwork, and I'll take care of the fees and crap. They charging the usual three-hundred-dollar nonrefundable?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, just pay it, and I'll reimburse you. Also, do you know where you'll be staying?"

"N-not yet."

"Well, we can do one of two things – Airbnb for the eight weeks or see if anyone needs a house sitter. That'll probably be the easiest, as Cali landlords won't generally lease for two months. I'd lend you my pad if I had one in Menlo. Lemme see if my minions in LA know of anyone. We'll figure it out. Just get the bureaucratic shit done. How's the studying for the practical coming?"

"Okay, I guess. It's the black steel piping demo that I find the hardest. But I'll be as ready as I ever will be," answered Luigi.

"Awesome. Don't worry and enjoy this, Weeg. It's about fucking time." He heard Lucas giggle, "I, uh, would love to be a wallflower when you break the news to Joe the Plumber and Sergeant Major Dickerson. Heh. Ah, man, a master plumber at fucking Stanford! Monday, Weeg, we're going for waffles. No, actually, this requires serious breakfast. I know this great place up in Greenpoint. Best ricotta pancakes."

"Um, okay."

"Excellent. Enjoy the second victory. I'll pick you up in Bensonhurst at eight o'clock. Nosh a little before we leave – the wait's normally horrendous, but it's worth it. Ciao!"

For the rest of the afternoon and early evening, Luigi enjoyed the silence, processing the monumental changes in his life that had occurred in the time frame of a little over three months. He visited places outside of New York, was in the final stages of the master plumber's exam, had been accepted to study for a summer at Stanford, and was in a happy dating relationship with the girl whom he had been pining over for months. The only downside was that the same girl was going on a thesis-related research trip to Africa for two months, leaving him alone and concupiscent in California. If she returned in early August, perhaps she could fly to San Francisco and visit him in Palo Alto. He did not think that she would immediately invite him to meet her family, given his background; however, they could spend a blissful weekend or two together before returning to Brooklyn.

Daisy Abravanel would be the death of him.

Later that evening, the plumber heard the familiar ping of his iPhone and viewed the screen to see that Daisy had asked him to meet her at the bus stop of 18th Avenue and 62nd Street. When he asked why, she cheekily replied that she wanted a tour of Bensonhurst.

That was the date?!

He texted her promptly, insisting that Bensonhurst was not that exciting, and there were other places in Brooklyn or even Queens that were more interesting. They could even go to Long Island for a day.

The princess disagreed.

Reluctantly, Luigi acquiesced and somewhere beyond Brooklyn, beyond the rainbow, he could hear the uproarious laughter at being whipped a little over three months into the relationship. Yet he found that he did not care, and if being a whipped was the price to pay for being with the auburn-haired lioness, he was all too willing to pay it, interest included.

On a partly-cloudy Saturday morning, the blue jeans and black jacket-garbed plumber waited anxiously at the bus stop for the feisty princess to arrive. Right on time, Daisy, dressed in casual black yoga pants, yellow tee-shirt, and denim jacket, descended from the blue and white MTA that had stopped in front of a Chinese-owned supply store. Smiling, Luigi chivalrously offered a hand to guide her down the final step and greeted her with an eager kiss. As the bus resumed its course, the pair continued kissing, the plumber adding an extra nip to convey his appetite for something decidedly not food. His girlfriend's stomach, however, argued with him, growling so loudly that they were forced to stop the embrace.

Daisy giggled apologetically while looking around at the old shops juxtaposed with red brick buildings from the turn of the century. "Sorry. I was so excited to come see Bensonhurst that I didn't eat breakfast."

Shaking his head Luigi frowned and chastised, "You're in Brooklyn's Little Italy and on an empty stomach? Nah, nah, nah, that's …. Nah. We can't have that. Saturday morning, we got bagels, we got Italian pastries. Whatcha want, huh?"

She beamed at him, batting her eyelashes. "You're the master plumber from Bensonhurst. What do you recommend?"

His ego unexpectedly and satisfyingly stroked, Luigi spun his heel a little, thinking aloud, "Aight, well, I'm a bagel guy. But frankly, the best bagels are up where you are, in Crown Heights, or Borough Park, and they're closed 'cause it's Saturday. However, when you need a pick-me-up, you can't match a good, nonni-owned biscotti or boule. We got to go a few streets down and quickly, huh?"

They proceeded to walk south down 18th Avenue. As Luigi pointed out what had changed since his grandparents had moved into the area during the 1950s, Daisy gazed around the street, which had bits of several decades crammed into one long street: old beige residences from the 1920s and 1930s, followed by the occasional remaining Italian mom-and-pop deli or pastry shop, and finally, the contemporary Verizon, Target, Subway, and a various of red storefronts in Chinese advertising food and other services. At 70th Street, they came to a large crosswalk and intersection. Having to wait for the walk signal, Luigi smiled shily at his girlfriend and took her hand. They traversed the street, the plumber still looking both ways as, every so often, an asshole driver would try to run a red light and make pedestrians their roadkill. At the other side, he motioned that they were crossing a second and final street to the east. An old red brick building stood at the corner with an elegant red cursive storefront – Villabate Alba. Daisy's eyes widened; this Sicilian panetteria was rather famous in Brooklyn as well as throughout the rest of New York. Though, even by Bensonhurst natives, the general quality of bakeries and pastry shops had gone downhill in the past twenty or thirty years due to Italian-Americans moving out of Brooklyn and into more middle-class areas such as in Staten Island or the Jersey Shore, the Villabate Alba was an exception. A rather latent addition to Bensonhurst, the pastry shop opened in the late 1970s; Mario Senior, Giuseppe, Gabriella, and later Lucia frequented the shop, even purchasing Mario's fourth birthday cannoli from them, and the brothers continued the family tradition.

Crossing the street to the red, white, and green themed storefront, Luigi held the door open for Daisy, who gasped at the inside. It was very much like the panetterie that she had visited in Italy: large oak-wooden tables displayed packaged cookies, breads, and a mock wedding cake. The ceiling was painted a pleasant and appropriate heavenly blue, gold, ivory, with an random red. A medium black and white sign to their left said, "Line forms here." There were a few people in line ahead of them at the pastry counter and display case, where a variety of fresh Italian pastries were available for purchase. Giddy, Daisy hoped in line with the content Luigi close behind her. When it was her turn, the dark-haired woman behind the counter greeted her briefly and inquired as to what she would like. Rubbing her hands together while Luigi snickered and put his hand at the small of her back, Daisy asked for two cannoli and two sfogiatelle. As she reached into her purse, Luigi immediately stepped forward and handed the woman a twenty and a five. Daisy glared at her boyfriend and stomped her foot in annoyance, to which the amused Italian shrugged and answered, "Fat chance that you're paying in my neighborhood."

Her twinkling amber eyes promised payback at a later time.

Taking their pastries out of the store, Daisy bit into her fresh cannolo, closed her eyes, and leaned in ecstasy against the cold brick. The creamy, sweet ricotta was a perfect ice-cream-like texture set against the crisp cookie of the shell topped with a maraschino cherry, chocolate chips, and powdered snow-like sugar. Luigi marveled in watching his girlfriend lick her fingers and form a rather intimate relationship with the cannolo. In a few bites, she swallowed the last of it and wiped her mouth. "Jesus, no wonder your family stayed three or four generations – this is, like, divine."

"Three generations, and yeah, Italians do any kind of food right," replied Luigi while taking a bite of his cannolo.

She eyed the sfogiatella; she loved croissants, but this pastry existed on another level, with thin, page-like layers and cream inside it. Though she tended to watch what she ate to maintain a higher athletic performance, Daisy decided that one bite would not break her diet. Much to her boyfriend's surprise and delight, she took a mouthful of the flaky, sugary pastry and mumbled, "Oh, Dio!" Setting aside the rest for later, she radiated pleasure and true satisfaction.

"Tasty?" asked Luigi.

She nodded, "Si, erano gustosi. Allora, ho bisogno di un caffè."

Luigi's eyes widened. More Italian? "Ahmm, conosco un caffè che è ubicato nelle vicinanze. Va bene, andiamo," he replied to her, unsure of how much she understood and suddenly worrying if he used too much or spoke too quickly.

Nodding again, Daisy grinned and started to walk, then stopped. "Nella quale direzione?"

He blinked several times in shock and, stuttering and turning red, slowly gestured to the west. "A-adiamo da quella parte, v-vero ovest."

"Bene." As she was leading them in the correct direction across the same crosswalk on 70th Street, at the other corner, she was abruptly, yet gently, pushed against a red brick building and sugary male lips descended upon hers. She moaned as they began to nibble below her right ear and down the delicate skin of her neck.

"Mi piace quando parli italiano … È molto … eccitante," he growled between kisses, still managing to hold the pastry box.

"Puta merda," she whimpered between gasps and moans.

He chortled, moving his lips to a newly-discovered sensitive spot on the nape of her neck. "Vuoi dire cazzo. O puoi dire: partami a letto …"

Groaning once more, Daisy stroked his brown hair and said softly, "Cazzo, we should probably stop before the NYPD cites us for indecency." Unenthusiastically, Luigi pulled away, though not before leaving a small purple mark near her clavicle. Leering at the mark, he murmured against her full lips, "Andiamo?"

The pair ambled hand in hand down 70th Street reservedly to give themselves time to calm their bodies and hormones. The auburn-haired Brazilian knew that it was only a matter of time before she gave in to him, though she was summoning all of her courage to take control. She wanted Luigi; having now spent time with him, be it on dates or on the phone, it was ostensible that he truly valued her, that he was with her for reasons beyond "a cheap fuck." Yet she had been uncharacteristically shy for years, as her year-long relationship with Tatanga had made her skittish around men. Since her time in England, her exterior had been honed, sharpened, and pointed at, in Luigi's parlance, 'fuckboys' who thought they could dominate or humiliate her. Sports was a favorite pastime, mainly because she could compete, stay protected within the rules of the game, and beat them 'fair and square.' Luigi, however, seemed to appreciate her assertiveness and even encouraged it, provided that he could participate.

Yet Daisy was scared of giving up something so intimate, even to the sensitive Italian who could never harm her. She told no one – not to her girlfriends in London and San Francisco and certainly not to her parents – about her 'practice sessions.' While Luigi was in Colorado, she first passed by an exclusive lingerie boutique near 5th Avenue on her way back to Brooklyn. In the window were an assortment of pretty brassieres, thongs, and string bikini sets, undergarments that were decidedly inappropriate for a nice Jewish girl. Mesmerized by the lace and satin, she walked into the boutique and was promptly told to make an appointment. Wavering a little, Daisy surprised herself by arranging a fitting and consultation in three weeks. After debating whether to cancel, feeling a bit ludicrous and anti-feminist to indulge in the male gaze of sexy underwear, she decided that she could always use a good laugh if it became too much. On the Friday before finals, Daisy went to her appointment, where she was attended by a very nice, forties-something woman from Angola. Her general discomfort became less with a fellow Lusophone, and Joana guided her on styles, fit, and intent. Upon reflection, Daisy wanted to feel powerful and authoritative. Smiling, Joana took her measurements and proposed several brassiere-thong sets in a multitude of colors. She settled on two sets which fit snuggly in the right places. Joana advised her to practice wearing them, as sensual power came from self-confidence. Every so often at night, when she knew that she would be alone, Daisy wore her brassiere sets while walking in her kitchen or sitting at her desk to study. At first, she cackled uncontrollably; four or five times more of wearing them, she noticed a hop in her step and her hips swaying just so, especially thinking about the handsome and shy Italian plumber.

Still a bit handsy, with their intertwined fingers stroking and caressing the other, they strolled underneath the bridge along New Utrecht Avenue when Daisy spotted a dojo-like edifice across the street. As a martial artist, she always liked to look into other schools, out of curiosity. When she lived in Brazil and then in Carroll Gardens and Manhattan, she often received permission from the master instructor to join his students for a class, especially in Capoeira and Wing Chun.

In New York, jaywalking was hazardous; letting go of Luigi's hand, she ran back to the crosswalk to traverse New Utrecht Avenue. Confused, Luigi jogged over and, seeing the walk signal, accompanied her. A moment later, he realized to his chagrin what drew her attention. He standing over her, Daisy gazed through the glass door at the sparring pairs and men kicking bags in a large studio. Mixed Martial Arts, she thought with a mental eyeroll. Suddenly, she spotted a familiar face; the short, curly-haired man was dressed in black pants and a red tank top, military tattoos visible on his biceps, boxing another man in a ring. With surprise, she noticed that his right leg was partly prosthetic.

Daisy looked back at her now annoyed boyfriend. "Luigi, isn't that your brother? He has a missing leg!"

"Yeah, that's Mario. He's military – Army Special Forces. He lost his leg in Afghanistan from a sniper bullet a mile away," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Wow, I never knew. I don't recall that he had a prosthetic leg when I met him in England. It must have happened after we met," she mused. "Can we take a look? I, uh, have a weakness for sparring gyms."

"Daisy, I don't …"

"Please? Just a quick look?" she batted her eyes, grinning slowly and sensually at him.

Minchia – damn her to hell, he thought. One look, and I can't resist her anything, no matter how much of a bad idea it is. "Aight, a quick look. We can say hi to the cagacazzo in red and then get a coffee."

Daisy clapped in delight and opened the glass door to the large interior. Black and red kicking and punching bags hung from the ceiling; salt and body odor hung in the air which forced Luigi to wrinkle his nose, though the auburn-haired lioness did not seem to mind it. In the boxing run stood Mario, who was removing his red boxing gloves to take a sip of water from his clear plastic bottle. As he turned his head, his blue eyes enlarged and he spewed all over the corner. "Ey!" he called out, "what the fuck are youse doin' here?"

The woman and her boyfriend moved toward Mario's corner to greet him. "Yo, Mario!" said Luigi a few steps following her. "Daisy, uh, wanted to check out the boxing club."

"That right?" Mario wiped his face and mustache with his white towel and moved out of the ring to face his brother's girlfriend.

"Yeah," answered Daisy. "I'm a huge fan of any martial art, so I have a weakness for looking at clubs."

"Well, uh, Daisy," he began while taking a badly-needed sip of water, "this ain't a place for nice ragazze, y'know?"

She rolled her eyes and argued, "Mario, perché non sono libera di guardare? Non disturberò nessuno. E per di più, siamo in America e non in Arabia Saudita!"

The older plumber blinked and glanced at his brother as if to ask him how she spoke Italian. Then he shook his head and began to escort her out, "Because you're … you, and this ain't a place for ragazze."

"Mario," interrupted Luigi. "C'mon, it can't hurt if she just watches. It's not like she'll give the guys cooties or somethin'. C'mon."

Giving them both a hard stare, he let out an exacting breath and groused, "Fine!" He pointed at her, "You watch only! Non ti cacciare nei guai!" Muttering under his breath in Italian about ragazze sfacciate, Mario grabbed his bottle and returned to the ring. Luigi guided his stubborn, Italian-speaking princess to the side to observe the sparring match between Mario and one of the regulars, Ivan. As they were practicing hooks and takedowns, Luigi leaned in to whisper in her ear, "Sweetie, how do you know Italian?"

Fists raised and wincing at Ivan's lack of structure, she replied nonchalantly, "It's similar to French, Spanish, and Portuguese which I already speak. I was curious, so I went to the bookstore and got a traveler's guide on Italian conversation. Filled in a bit of vocab here and there with Word Reference."

"Bene," he responded, visibly impressed that in short time, she was able to have a basic argument with Mario.

As Luigi placed hand at the spot on her back, several of the fighters in training recoiled in shock at the presence of a female in their boxing club. While women did box there, they were a distinct minority and boxed early in the morning or later in the evening when they were not busy with childcare. This female, however, was young, attractive, and with the biggest musciada in Bensonhurst. The men in their twenties and thirties briefly ran their eyes all over the woman, then returned to their routines. An unphased Daisy continued to observe and analyze the fight in the ring; Mario was a decent fighter, and she could tell that he was holding back with Ivan, who was a novice.

Behind them, a booming voice rang throughout club, "Junior, you gotta practice in the ring. You never know when you'll need to settle a beef!"

"But Dad, this is stupid! I'm not gonna get into a beef unless it's about Marvel!" disputed the eighteen-year-old son.

Luigi and Daisy spun around to see blue-hoodied John Bowser enter the boxing club, dragging his obstinate son with him. Ryan Bowser, nicknamed "Junior," was slightly shorter than his father at precisely six feet, slender, wore a faded Yankees cap, was a self-identified geek who was obsessed with video games and comic books, and hated using his fists for any reason. He secretly looked up to the Brobot Boys, especially Yoshi and Luigi, and quarreled with his father over attending NYU in the fall. During the week, he lived with his mother, Bowser's ex-wife, and his stepfather in Queens; they encouraged and presented him with a college fund for his birthday, much to John's fury. Ryan rolled his eyes and halted next to his secret idol and his girlfriend, refusing to move any further. He did a double take upon realizing near whom he was standing.

"Kid, listen …" started Bowser when he spotted Daisy and Luigi. Crossing his arms, he chewed on the ever-present toothpick. "What the fuck is this? Mario, you fuckin' asshole, did you let the finucca and the troia in here?"

An irascible Mario stopped boxing with the taller Ivan and retorted, "Watch your mouth. And yeah, fuckface, I did. They ain't doing anything, so deal with it!" He resumed boxing.

"Finucca?!" growled Daisy. "Something tells me that Luigi's less of a finocchio than you are, succhiacazzi!" To add context to insult, she curled her fingers and brought them to her lips.

Bowser moved right into her space. "You wanna say that to me again, bitch?"

As Luigi flanked his girlfriend and put his hand up to the man, Mario immediately stopped boxing, flew out of the ring, and stepped between Daisy and Bowser. "Hey, hey, hey, c'mon!" He turned toward Luigi and Daisy, "Weeg, take her outta here." Spinning his torso to face Bowser once more, he yelled, "Bowser, you stupid asshole, enough with that shit."

Daisy shrugged out of Luigi's hands attempting to guide her toward the glass door. "No, Mario! I wasn't doing anything! Why should I have to leave? This asshole thinks he's a big macho man by bullying bystanders. Fuck him and fuck you!"

Before Mario could reply, John smirked and said, "Mario's being a gentleman. 'Cause," he walked his brown eyes lasciviously over her form, "you never know what might happen to a cute little thing like you, toots."

"Toots?" demanded Daisy incredulously. "If only you had the sufficient imagination to put that into reality, prick. But unfortunately, we'd only be witness to a dead rooster."

Several boxers had stopped punching and kicking the bags to observe the spat between Daisy and Bowser. Glancing around at the group of men who were watching with mounting interest, the bartender replied darkly, "I'd suggest going back to the streetcorner where you belong."

She smiled thinly, "Or what?"

"Okay, okay, I'll take her out!" shouted Mario. As he moved to grab her wrist, she quickly rolled her arm against his thumb and escaped the hold.

"No way!" she growled to both brothers.

Removing the toothpick and tossing it to the floor, John pushed a horrified Mario and Luigi aside and again stepped into Daisy's personal space. He crossed his large arms and wordlessly sneered at the shorter, auburn-haired woman.

Unimpressed, she put her hands to her hips. "You're in my way to the ring, asshole."

Bowser frowned and, scanning the newly-formed ring of amused men, peered down at the woman in disbelief. "W-wait. You wanna … ?"

"Give the man a prize!" she said sarcastically.

Scanning the room once more, including his eldest son who was covering his face in embarrassment, Bowser stammered, "Mario, Luigi, come collect your dog before she gets euthanized!"

Daisy spun on her heel and heatedly shook her head at the brothers who had each taken a step to escort her away from the large man. A fearful Luigi tried to convey his terror, anger, dismay, and love in his hard stare to his princess, whereas Mario furiously gaped at her and John. Pivoting back to Bowser, she hissed, "Let's go, shit for brains!"

"Fine, bitch. Prepare to go to the ER," he taunted in a sing-song voice.

The laughter and hooting deafened the room as well as Luigi's outraged shouts as both John and Daisy lifted the ropes to enter the ring. Daisy threw off her shoes and denim jacket, revealing a simple yellow tee-shirt, to which a couple of the young men whistled and yelled their 'approval,' as Luigi and Mario told them loudly to 'shut the fuck up.' Bowser took off his shoes, hoodie and, with a leer, his blue jeans to his boxers. Grabbing the front of his underwear, he spoke, "Since you're in a group of men, toots, you shouldn't be offended at these."

Daisy snickered, "I'm not because there's nothing to see." The crowd oohed at the retort, and Bowser slapped his hand on his opposing bicep in the ombrello. Then he lightly marched to the center of the ring and closed his eyes. "Okay, toots, I'm gonna give you a freebie before I beat your ass. I hope Luigi likes his piece of ass blue and purple!"

No punch or kick came; instead, Daisy waited, positioning her fists in front of her body and flexing the knuckles. John opened his eyes, sighted the woman, and snorted with laughter. "Oh, ain't this cute? Okay, toots, you earned it!" He took a fighting stance and weaved rapidly toward her in an orthodox stance. She swung her body to the side, sweeping her left leg to his right knee, bending it forward under his momentum and then jump kicking him to the face with her right leg, knocking him to the ground. Swiftly moving to his body, she attempted to yank his black tee-shirt from the neck to punch him in the face, but a strong hand whirled from the right side and slammed into her left cheek, the force sending her against the ropes. As she yelped involuntarily, the sneering redhead managed to get to his feet, reveling in Luigi's distant, enraged cry of "You stupid fuck, Bowser!"

He turned to his audience and held out his arms. "See? This is why women don't fi-" The taunt was cut short by a Donnie Yen-like cyclical double punch to the face and a side kick to the solar plexus. A second later, John found himself on the ground again, only this time, Daisy ran to him and stomped on his groin. As the audience groaned and oohed, some of them biting their fist in imagined pain, John whimpered in mind-stopping agony, puffing out, "Jesus fucking Christ!" The angry woman put a knee on his midriff and hit him in the face again. He held up his arms in mortified surrender.

A stunned hush fell on the crowd, including Mario and Luigi. Face and knuckles bruised, Daisy howled in a mixture of Portuguese and Italian, "Fode comigo de novo e ti metto un remo in culo e ti sventolo per l'aria!"

[Fuck with me again, and I'll shove an oar up your ass and wave you like a flag!]

She smashed his sniveling form to the ring floor, ambled to the corner for her denim jacket and shoes, which she put on, and slid out of the ring to the boisterous applause of the onlookers.

"Weeg?" queried Mario open-mouthed.

"Yeah," answered Luigi breathlessly as the lioness stalked toward the brothers.

"She got a mouth."

The taller brother looked vacuously down at Mario, who continued to watch the incoming Daisy, and nodded. "Yeah."

Still laying on the floor, Bowser's voice, which had become a noticeable soprano, asked, "What'd she say?"


After the fight, Mario softly, but firmly ordered his younger brother to take the lioness home. Not wanting to let the bruise become a swollen shiner by taking an extra forty-five minutes or more to drive her back to Carroll Gardens, Luigi escorted her back to the Masciarelli brick house on 62nd Street. Guiding her up the stairs and arranging her tenderly on his bed, Luigi went downstairs and retrieved a bagged, frozen pork chop. Returning to his bed, he held it to her cheek.

"You know," she began jovially, "there's something ironic about curing a Jewish woman's shiner with a pork chop."

Her boyfriend did not respond verbally, instead he held the frozen item and shook his head. Daisy noticed what she called "The War of the Blues" – cerulean, midnight blue, periwinkle, cyan – in his eyes. She reached out to caress his cheek, but he turned away from her, chewing on his lip.

"Luigi, tell me what's wrong. Are you angry with me?"

Still holding the pork chop to his lover's cheek, he paused for a moment, as if debating whether to vocalize his emotions. Luigi's body stiffened, wordlessly endorsing a massive screw-it, and answered, "Daisy … Yeah, yeah, I'm angry. You got into it with Bowser, again, and instead of leaving when we had the chance, you jumped into the ring with him!" He took a few deep breaths and went on, "On one hand, I'm …," he raised his eyes licentiously, "I'm really turned on. Bowser deserved what he asked for, and boy, did he get it! On the other hand, I'm worried. Do you normally get into this shit?! Daisy, this is what Mario does; he's the self-appointed King of Bensonhurst and gets into fights, bets, and other stupid shit to prove how much of a man he is. He disappears for nights on end, and I'm left to wonder whether he'll end up in the hospital or with the NYPD."

Daisy considered both his words and new information. That's partly why Mario's a good fighter; he's practiced. It did not surprise her to learn about Mario's likely illegal boxing ring matches, as many high-level martial artists engaged in real combat to hone their skills. As for Luigi, an obvious pacifist and a man who loved his only brother, he was left to pick up the pieces when Mario lost or was injured. "Luigi," she sighed, "I told you that I don't do well with bullies. We were watching the sparring – even your brother said we weren't being disrespectful! Bowser needed to be taken down a peg. And I don't fight unless it's necessary."

"But you've gotten into two fights – hell, three, if we count the club where we met!" At her fearful look, he realized that he was yelling and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. Let me start again. Sweetie, I've lost people. My mother of cancer; my father … All's I had and have is Mario. Now you. I don't like it when Mario gets injured. You … It would break my heart, and I don't have much of it left."

Luigi reached up to wipe the tear that had trickled down from his left eye, but Daisy moved in to brush her fingers against it as well as the soft skin. "Sweetie, that's been an exceptionally high number. I do mean exceptionally high; the last time that I actually got into a fight was in Mali when I had to defend myself from a man who thought that Western women were easy and always available." At his widened eyes, she held up a hand. "Luigi, believe it or not, you can more easily walk away from fights because you're male. Even as Bowser taunts you, you know that your strength or your brother's strength will protect you. But I'm a five-foot-eight female against asshole bros who are six feet or more. I can't stay in the house forever or hide myself to keep from being seen as prey. I fight because I want to live in the world, because I'm a human being, too." Moving her body forward, forcing Luigi to momentarily remove the pork chop from her cheek, she added, "I don't begrudge your decision not to fight. I respect it immensely, and we should all be able to make that choice. I don't take pleasure in fighting." At Luigi's skeptical eyebrow raise, Daisy sniggered, "Well, I'll make an exception for that pig Bowser. The fucker was in my way." She beamed as he cracked a hint of a smile. She took his hand, and he timidly faced her. "Sweetie, I don't want to be a hero. I want to be true to myself."

"I just …" He tenderly put the pork chop on her bruise and whispered, "I just couldn't have beared it if Bowser had hurt you like he said he would. You … Daisy, you can't know, but in the past three or four months, you've taken me out of my shell. And I mean it in the best possible way! I don't wanna go back to that." His voice tore on the last words.

Daisy seized his lips in a fiery kiss and murmured against them, "Never, sweetie. I'm here for you. I want to defend you as much as you want to keep me safe."

Rubbing their noses together, Luigi nodded. "Partners."

"Partners," she affirmed.

He hooked his right pinky finger and said, "Giurin giurello, giurin giuretto."

She burst out laughing. "What?"

He giggled in response, "It's kinda hard to directly translate into English, but it more or less means 'pinky swear.'"

A flirty smile passed over her lioness face, and she hooked her pinky with his. "Giurin giurello, giurin giuretto." He leaned in to peck her on the lips, which she countered by deepening the embrace.

Luigi broke the kiss again and, pressing his lips against her forehead lovingly, proceeded to move her hand atop the now semi-frozen pork chop to her cheek. He tucked her into his bed and spoke, "Rest now, my princess."

Now relaxed, Daisy closed her eyes and promptly fell asleep from exhaustion. Once asleep, the plumber removed the pork chop and very lightly stroked it with his fingertips.

She awoke to an empty room a few hours later. Confused from semi-consciousness, she whirled around to find a small post-it with precise cursive written on it: "Daisy – if you wake up before I get back, don't worry. I'm picking us up the best pizza in Brooklyn. BB Soon. L."

Sighing contentedly, she sunk back onto the pillows, wincing a little at the bruise. Deciding to 'check the damage' as well as to use the toilet, she got up from the plumber's bed and moved to the adjacent bathroom. Shutting the door, she looked in the rectangular mirror above the simple, white sink. Her right cheek was puffy, and a dark pink with a deep purple was forming in the center. Groaning, she informed herself that she would need to get out the cover-up. Subsequently, she blinked in a budding internal quarrel: Why should she cover it up? It was a battle scar well-fucking-earned. Eat shit, Bowser, you pig! Tabling the matter for the time being, she used the toilet, washed her hands, and exited the blue-tiled en-suite to a relieved Luigi, who had arrived and had been alarmed at the empty bed. He was carrying a large pizza box and a small bouquet of red roses.

The auburn-haired woman crossed the room to kiss and greet her lover. "Hey, sweetie. Pizza and … roses. Are those for me?"

Sheepishly, he handed them to her. "Yeah. There's, uh, a flower shop near the pizzeria. I, uh, you know."

"They're beautiful. Thank you! We'll need to put them in water."

He kissed her again, guiding her back down to sit on the bed. "Eventually. It's lunch time. And don't worry – the pastry box from earlier is in the kitchen. Mario won't come back for a bit, so I won't have to hide them from his greedy ass. Like Nonno Masciarelli, he has a fuckin' sweet tooth that's bigger than the Earth." Setting the pizza box atop the bed, he flipped open the lid to a heavenly smell. "Best New York pizza. Now, they do crazy, absolutely wrong shit like potato pizza, but their Margherita isn't bad."

Daisy's eyes widened eagerly at the large pizza with bubbling, well-portioned cheese, tomato sauce, and fresh basil.

"Mangiu," he said while taking off his black coat to make himself comfortable in his Mets tee-shirt and jeans. Studying the pizza briefly, she finally selected a slice perpendicular to her position and pulled it away into her hands. Biting into the tip, her eyes shut in sheer pleasure. Luigi beamed as he chose a slice opposite hers, folded it lengthwise, and bit into it.

"You're right; this is good pizza."

He handed her a napkin from the wad that the cook had provided him upon request as a 'neighborhood guy' and fellow Italian. As she accepted it, their fingers brushed and intertwined for a moment. She gazed into his eyes, and all that remained was a deep midnight blue with specks of cerulean. Wiping her mouth, she continued eating the pizza as Luigi mentioned that he had been admitted to Stanford. Daisy squealed in delight, giving him a deep congratulations kiss. Somehow, the kiss evolved into Luigi lowering her down to the pillows and, with garlic and cheese-scented breath, left a trail of kisses along her neck and just above the upper hem of her yellow top. She snaked her fingers into his hair, her breathing becoming heavy. As he moved downward, they both heard a strong knock at the front door. Luigi tried to ignore it, stroking her hair with his left hand. The same knock occurred a second time.

"Fucking shit!" swore Luigi. "If it's fuckin' Mario, I'm gonna kill that motherfucker!"

Daisy snorted as he lifted himself from the bed and his girlfriend, clothes askew. He quickly kissed her hand and announced, "I'll be right back." Then he headed downstairs to the ground floor and the front door. He opened it to a familiar man standing outside. "What? What are you doing here?"