Author's notes: Yet another chapter. Since the contest is on-going, I haven't answered the challenge yet, but I will in the next chapters.

Reader discretion announcement: This is one of those chapters that will push the Teen rating a bit. By European standards, it's still Teen, but by US/North America, it's borderline. Nothing graphic, though; just suggestive.


Chapter 19: Il Festeggiato

Luigi stared at the man in black before him in surprise. Looking inside as if he already knew that his maternal nephew had company, Father Sal Rigassi asked, "Hey, Luigi, can I come in? I was in the neighborhood."

Lips parting to voice his reluctance, he stopped at the man's definitive eyebrow raise and moved aside to let him pass. Smiling slightly, he entered his former family home and glanced around at, presumably, his youngest nephew's upkeep of the place. Salvatore knew of Mario's untidy habits and would never trust housework of any sort to the man. He walked reverently to view the photos on the mantle, those of Nonno Masciarelli, his late sister, late brother-in-law, current paterfamilias of the Masciarelli clan, and himself. Taking a moment with the framed photos, touching them with his fingertips like precious relics, Salvatore wiped at his eyes, inhaled deeply, and finally turned to address his youngest nephew. "First, I wanted to make sure you that you're well, niputi. I'm sorry about our discussion in the car. Of course you didn't participate in … that side's activities. But they frighten me, and they frightened your late mother. You, Mario, and Giuseppe are all I have in family."

"Sal, I'm okay, really," insisted Luigi. "I just wanted to … live, you know?"

"Yeah, I know, kid. It's about time. Eventually, you would become your own man." His lips turned up into a teasing grin. "That aside, I, uh, heard things."

The plumber frowned at his maternal uncle. "What things?"

Suddenly, both men heard thumping down the stairs and a woman's voice call out, "Sweetie, the pizza's getting cold. And I don't think it counts as a party if there's only one…"

Spinning around, Salvatore and Luigi spotted Daisy at the base of the stairs, who froze at the presence of the Catholic priest. Though considering herself an open-minded woman of the twenty-first century, Daisy nonetheless retained a mistrust of Catholic priests and clergy as a Sephardic Jew. Dating from the bloody Spanish Ferdinand and Isabella in the fifteenth century through several hundred years of the autos-da-fé, in which hundreds of Jews were systematically murdered by the Catholic Inquisition in Brazil, Mexico, France, Spain, Portugal, and Italy, Sephardim historically avoided Catholic priests whenever possible.

Sensing a certain unease in the woman, the priest introduced himself and offered his hand to her. "Hey, how you doin? My name's Salvatore Rigassi. I'm Luigi's uncle on his mother's side."

Like a cat assessing lurking danger, Daisy cautiously approached him and politely took his hand. "Daisy Abravanel."

At the mention of her surname, his eyes flickered something unreadable. Then he spoke, "Komo estas ? Permiso, pero un nombre de familiya como Abravanel, mi permitas pensar que avlarías djudeo-espanyol. De ande sos ?"

Daisy was stunned that this Italian Catholic priest spoke Ladino, or Judeo-Spanish, the language of her father and grandparents. "S-Si. Esto bien, bindicho el Dio, gracias. I si, avlo en djudeo-espanyol con mis genitores que nascieron en Brasil. I komo esta i … Komo aprendió espanyol?"

"Esto bien, bindicho el Dio, Daisy. Travaho com los Djudios turkos i sirianos i también los otros Djudios que lo havlan en Nueva York," he replied. At Luigi's blank stare at the conversation in Judeo-Spanish, Salvatore laughed and interrupted himself in English, "Uh, we should probably switch to English for poor Luigi here. But I'm pleased to meet you, Daisy. Judeo-Spanish is such a pretty language, and I hope to improve my grasp of it."

"Nice to meet you, Father Rigassi. I'm impressed that you know my language," said Daisy in a more relaxed tone.

"I just go by Sal or Salvatore with family and friends. Father Rigassi's a bit stuffy for my taste, and I only use it in the Church for formal settings." He turned to Luigi and winked. "Quindi è vero. È molto spiritosa," he said to his nephew in Italian.

"Solamente per occasioni speciali," answered Daisy pleasantly to the exchange.

It was Sal's turn to be surprised at the Brazilian Jewish woman who could converse in Italian. "She speaks Italian, too. I also heard through the grapevine that, uh, her parolacce were very Italian. Not that it wasn't appropriate to the situation," he concluded, grinning.

"Sal, what are you talking about?" demanded Luigi somewhat agitatedly.

"Kid, most of Bensonhurst and beyond have heard about what happened earlier at Mickey's. How Daisy here beat the crap out of that piece of trash. I know that I'm supposed to say that everyone's redeemable in the eyes of the Lord, but too often, the path to redemption originates from humiliation."

The plumber groaned and muttered a plethora of inventive curses in Italian, much to Daisy's and Sal's amusement. "Minchia! That means …"

"He is likely on his way here, yeah," finished Sal while attempting not to laugh. "Poveretto."

Daisy's amber eyes confusedly moved from one Rigassi to another. "Who's 'he'?"

Sal gave Luigi an entertained glance and motioned with his hand to tell his girlfriend about the inevitable mystery guest. The plumber turned to her in fear; but before he could warn Daisy or, better yet, flee the red brick house, they heard the sound of a pick-up truck engine and wheels pulling up to the curb outside. Covering his mouth to avoid upsetting his nephew and Daisy with loud cackling, Sal stepped away and coughed. Luigi's brow formed a layer of sweat as they overheard the driver door open and shut, a man's cough, and footsteps approach the front door. The man did not bother with a knock; he simply opened the front door, calling out, "Luigi, don't even bother pretending! I know you're here."

"Cazzo!" Luigi repeatedly mumbled to a curious Daisy and a chortling Sal.

Wearing a blue hoodie, jeans, and scuffed white, gray, and navy-blue sneakers, Giuseppe Masciarelli strolled into the living room to find a guilty-looking Luigi, a pink-faced Salvatore, and unreadable ragazza. The older, spectacled Italian studied Daisy very carefully, then strode over to his nephew and smacked him upside the head. Luigi winced, as Joe nodded in satisfaction. "That's for your nonna. Every fuckin' time that you weren't at Sunday dinner, shewas askin' me where you were! She's nearly eighty-four fuckin' years old, and it's hard for her to come all's the way to Bensonhurst. And while youse were screwin' around, I hear about the fight at Mickey's." He turned to Daisy who refused to back up as Luigi had done, much to Sal's continued glee. "I'm Luigi's uncle. And you are?"

The Plumbing Ayatollah, she realized. Uncle Joe.

"Buongiorno, sono Daisy Abravanel," she began in Italian. "Piacere di conoscerlo, Signor Masciarelli."

His familiar blue eyes widened at Daisy's respectful self-introduction in Italian, and he nodded in momentary contentment, "Piacere di conoscerti. And how long have you been dating," he glared at Luigi, "my nephew, Daisy?"

"About four months."

He reached over and smacked his nephew again. "C'mon, zio!" whined Luigi.

"Basta," interrupted Sal. "Sei venuto al dunque, huh?"

Joe growled back at his late brother's brother-in-law, "Non metterti in mezzo! È la mia affare, Sal!" Once again, he faced Daisy, who started to become visibly uncomfortable, much to Luigi's and Sal's distress and dismay. "Abravanel, right? That's your last name? Where are your parents?"

"They're in San Francisco," replied Daisy quietly, yet succinctly. Anytime a non-Jew asked about her parents or surname, she immediately went on alert. Though she had grown up in major metropolitan areas, there was always the threat of encountering a random anti-Semite or the so-called Christian 'lover of Jews' who wanted to convert her for the 'good of the kingdom to come.'

Joe raised an eyebrow at the discreet answer. "And you're not in California with them? What brought you to New York?"

"Zio, she's …" One quick, harsh look to his nephew quietened him. Joe calmly waited, eyebrow still raised.

"I'm a graduate student at Columbia. I'm getting a degree in International Relations so that I can apply to law school for next year."

"A lawyer?" asked Joe incredulously. "Mama mia. A lawyer of what, exactly?"

Daisy narrowed her eyes at Joe's negative tone regarding her prospective education. "Intellectual property, actually," she said with an edge. "That'll be my bread and butter, protecting people's ideas and inventions. But I have an interest in human rights. Protecting people who have no voice."

To Luigi's and Sal's surprise, Joe did not immediately respond to the woman; instead, he seemed to consider it, eyes shifting in thought. "Why Intellectual Property Law? Seems a bit … uncommon."

"My father's an intellectual property lawyer. I also have a physics degree, so I'd like to put my skills to good use."

Sal's eyes widened at Daisy's statement, while Luigi looked on with pride, gaining back a bit of strength in the presence of his elders. Giuseppe's eyes also enlarged, briefly turning to give Luigi an indecipherable glimpse, and then responded, "Bene. Now here's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: why did you get in the ring with that shit-for-brains?"

"Wait, how did you … ?"

Before Luigi could finish the question, Giuseppe fished out his smartphone and re-opened an incoming email containing a video attachment. "Your cousin Maria sent this to me. Apparently, she got it from a friend's cousin whose husband practices at Mickey's." He held up the phone so that the other three could see and played the video clip of Daisy and Bowser in the ring. At the part where Daisy delivered the nutcracker, the three men winced as she crossed her arms and smirked. Once the video clip concluded with her rather colorful warning, Joe put the phone back in his hoodie pocket. "I'm waiting for an answer, young lady."

She shrugged unrepentantly. "Bowser needed to be taught a lesson. He was being a jerk and was insulting Luigi. Plus, he was annoying me."

Giuseppe grimaced and started to rant animatedly at Salvatore in Abruzzese Italian using appropriate hand gestures. She was able to pick out words similar to or using Standard Italian, Spanish, or French like "cazzo," "non è italiana, è iudìa," "bardasce," "ormai è stato postato in cazzo di tutto di internet," and "tutta la rue le' se'!" Salvatore held out his hands, then made a steeple to calm the irritated Masciarelli while speaking back in the dialect, occasionally adding Italian and, what she assumed to be, Sicilian in his retorts. Finally, Joe ran a hand through his greying dark-brown curly hair as Salvatore made an indistinct face.

Once everyone was calm, the priest spoke, "Daisy, uh, Luigi's cousin Maria was sent this video, which means that it has likely gone viral. Italians are, uh, big gossips, and taking down this scumbag is too much to contain."

Daisy's face became white at the potential consequences while Luigi hurriedly pulled out his phone and checked his Facebook page to find that one of Maria's 'friends' had posted the video to a group stream with the title, "Biggest D-Bag in Brooklyn Gets Clocked Hehe." It had already received over a hundred likes and had been shared over a dozen times. He slowly showed his girlfriend who groaned, even though she took delight in watching Bowser's small nuts get crushed by her foot. A sinking feeling spread in the lioness's gut. "Luigi, would you check Twitter?" As Giuseppe and Salvatore moved to observe the results of the search, the plumber went to the social media and, to their collective horror, the video had been shared under #douchebags, #brooklyn, and #DontFWNYC.

"Shit," she muttered. "I will inevitably get a call about that."

"Oh, I'll bet," retorted Giuseppe.

Shaking his head, Luigi moved to his girlfriend's side and took her hand, interlacing their fingers, much to the shock of his paternal uncle and Daisy. "You know what? I don't care. Bowser needed to get his ass kicked, and I'm proud that Daisy Abravanel, la mia ragazza, did that. È la mia, eh? Yeah, so it's online. Big fuckin' deal. But the truth is that I'm not ashamed, and she shouldn't be. He picked the fight with both of us. You wanna say that she could-a walked away? Well, she tried that at the ball game that we – Mario, Peach, Daisy, and I – went to a couple Tuesdays ago. John was an asshole then, too, and was startin' shit for no fuckin' reason other than being a Bowser." Luigi gasped for air, then continued, "Yeah, zio, I've been with Daisy for four months. Even with my recent travels. I didn't tell anyone 'cause … The Family's hard to deal with." At Giuseppe's attempt to cut in, he held up a hand. "You wanted an explanation? I'm givin' it to ya. Daisy needs to feel comfortable with me first before youse. If and when she's ready, we'll come to ya at Sunday dinner. Her choice is paramount."

"Kid," the elder Masciarelli started, coughing slightly, "I get it. More than youse – Mario and you – think." He cracked a smile. "I had to introduce your zia, a Napolitana, to your Nonni Masciarelli. Mama was downright hard on her. Not as hard as she had been with Gabriella, but still, it was a process." He looked at Daisy directly, "I don't mind you. You seem like you have a direction and aren't a vizata. Bowser did need a good asskicking. That bein' said, you ain't discreet about your actions. And in the Bensonhurst world, that can have unforeseen consequences, capisci? You need to learn that." He gave a concluding glance at his nephew and said in Abruzzese, "Be sure of your choice, nephew. She's not Italian, and she doesn't understand. You will need to help her if you want this to survive."

Luigi looked back at Salvatore who was, as usual, motionless and unobtrusive, as if saying to his niputi that it was his choice. Frankly, he was unsure that he completely understood the underlying meaning of Giuseppe's words, though given his recent trip to Colorado and the discoveries that he had made, he had a good idea. It would also partly explain Salvatore's rush to meet Daisy first. While he stood by Daisy's actions and was ninety-nine percent certain that the rest of Bensonhurst would as well, there was always the nagging question of Fat Tony and Big Jackass. If push came to shove, Luigi always had the Morellos to forward him the infamous videotape. Nodding to himself as well as Uncle Joe, he finally answered in English, "I'm sure."

Daisy peeked at her boyfriend and his uncle uncomprehendingly, who briefly squeezed their intertwined hands in reaction to her unspoken question. Giuseppe and Salvatore exchanged a brief, yet troubled glance. Releasing a puff of air and a hacking cough, Joe acquiesced, nonetheless giving his nephew a hard stare before quietly leaving the house. As they heard the engine turn and the truck drive away a couple moments later, Salvatore and Luigi let out the breath that they had been holding and began to laugh nervously, with the former putting his hand on his niputi's shoulder. The woman, however, was shaking with tears. At the woman's obvious distress, Salvatore made a quick excuse to also exit the house so that the couple could talk.

"Daisy, look at me, please!" whispered Luigi. She shook her head resolutely and continued to cry inaudibly. "Mama mia, sweetie, I'm so sorry!" he cried. "I didn't know that anyone had filmed it. And frankly, I don't give a shit, if that's what this is about. But I can't … I can't help if I don't know. Per favore."

Once again, she shook her head and, wiping tears angrily, began to pace wildly in the living room. "No! No, that's not what … Luigi, I just got interrogated by your paternal and maternal uncles. One doesn't seem to like me much and the other … I can't tell. You just had a whole conversation about me in front of me! As for my side … Luigi, they're gonna find out. And let me say this very bluntly: they will not accept you. You're an Italian Catholic plumber! I just … I don't know what to do. I don't want my life to be Romeo and Juliet, Luigi. Shakespeare made it sound so romantic, but in reality, it rarely works out. One either has to capitulate or …" She resumed her angry crying.

Luigi crossed his arms and bit out, "So that's it? Daisy Abravanel makes her judgment and è finito? Yeah, well, I object!" At his use of legalese, she raised her head quizzically, capturing his stormy blue eyes. "Partners, remember? My uncle Joe is a hardheaded son-of-a-bitch, but he didn't dismiss you outright; what he said was that Bensonhurst operates under an outdated, fucked-up code, one that we need to be careful of. As for my uncle Salvatore, he can't say anything 'cause he's a priest. I don't know how it works for rabbis, but the Catholic Church takes the vow of silence and the confessional very, very seriously. The very fact that he even came here is borderline because he heard something." Moving to her space, Luigi stroked a few strands of her auburn hair. "I'm sorry, sweetie; I didn't know they were coming, so I had no time to explain all of this. And as for your family in California, I … I'd want them to accept me. Family is very important to me, as an Italian and as a man. That being said, I let my uncles know where I stand with you. I ain't going anywhere. Sweetie, Daisy, you need to do the same thing. If I'm your guy, then you need to own up to it."

She scoffed. "It's easy for you to say when your entire life is being funded by yourself. Me? I couldn't afford to go to the Ivy League without my father's help, and he would absolutely cut me off for being with a goy."

Luigi shrugged and held out his arms. "Welcome to the real world. Life ain't always fair." He then steepled his hands. "I'm not trying to trivialize your worries, which are genuine. I know how hard you've worked – shit, Oxford, Columbia … Uncle Joe was right about one thing – you're not a vizata – you're not spoiled. You could have sat on your … tuchas," she raised her eyebrow and sniffed at the Yiddish word, "and majored in, fuck, Fashion and Event Planning. Ended up as a kept Jewish princess with some lawyer and three kids. But you didn't. You wanted something different, and that's why you came to New York, land of everyone who's from somewhere else. You already got the world in the palm of your hand, sweetie, don't you see that? Yeah, if you be with me, he might cut ya off, at which point, I'd say that he's an asshole for prioritizing religion over the happiness of his onlydaughter. His only daughter who's resourceful enough that she'd do well in spite of him. Have faith in us, but importantly, have faith in yourself."

If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And when I am for myself alone, what am I? And if not now, then when?

Hillel's famous quote flashed through her mind. On the surface, one would attribute the message as an invitation to self-care – If one doesn't care for one's self, then how will he or she care for the community? In reality, it was a commentary on one's duty to the community and the role of self-centeredness. Do we care for one's self for the purpose of caring for others and vice versa? It also highlighted an interesting contradiction: do we give all to the community, including ourselves, only to have the individual exhausted and thus cannot form or sustain the community? Mentally, she cursed the two years of Talmudic studies to which her father required her to take for the purpose of being able to lecture on a topic related to Jewish law. Aside his strong belief in understanding one's religion, Harry gleefully came up with the 'alternative' to protest the Modern Orthodox synagogue not allowing bnot Mitzvah.

Even amongst the most liberal Ashkenazi Jews, to say nothing of the more conservative Sephardim and Mizrahim, interreligious relationships were controversial, with one's elders asking if their child or grandchild was ill or, alternatively, asserting that "Hitler was succeeding in the eradication of the Jewish people, even after his death!" While much had been made in the media about Jews prioritizing matrilineal descent, the father's lineage was equally as important, as tribal identity and how the child would belong to the community was patrilineal. The Abravanels were Kohanim, the high priests who were called to read from the Torah first, and moreover claimed to be descendants of King David. About this fact, there was a saying in Judeo-Spanish: "Ya basta, mi nombre ke es Abravanel" – "Enough, for my name is Abravanel." As kohanim and one of the more princely families in the Judeo-Spanish-speaking world, an Abravanel was expected to marry well, and that meant a Sephardic kohan. The surname Masciarelli was decidedly not a kohani name, to say nothing of his religion and the fact that his maternal uncle was a Catholic priest.

Guay de mi – pearl-clutching, indeed!

Nevertheless, Luigi was right – she eventually had to set up to the plate. Part of being a Jew subject to the Torah, the Law, was to recognize not only the responsibilities but the nuances and gray areas. There was a fine line between self-sacrifice and acting in the best interests of one's people and community and denying one's uniqueness as a gift from el Shaddai. Love was an expression of that uniqueness, and any gift from the Almighty should be treated reverently. Like her, Luigi was unique and not just a member of the goyim. Trusting in herself as the holy image meant trusting in Shaddai. Eventually.

After kissing him deeply, which he returned with equal fervor, she said, "You're right. I'm sorry, sweetie. I don't want to lose you. We've just only got started, and I … I want to continue on this path that we're on."

Luigi enfolded her into his arms, nodding. "It'll be okay, amore. You'll see. Let's just finish our pizza and take one step at a time, huh?"

"Okay," she murmured as Luigi tenderly kissed the side of her head. "But … But what about your family? I can't imagine that they're thrilled with a non-Italian. And this … 'fucked-up code,' what's this about?"

He chuckled a little. "Well, the fucked-up code can wait. I'll explain it later. As for you being a non-Italian, it'll be a new experience for them, heh. Rest assured, you being Jewish does not factor into it. Nonna Masciarelli's family hid Italian Jews from the Nazis during the war. It's just that they talk shit about any new girl who's dating the sons." Tilting her head up with a grin, he added, "You should hear the shit that they say about Peach. That's what Joe meant when he talked about introducing Zia Lucia. Everyone's got an opinion. No doubt they're talkin' about you right now."

"Dio, guay de mi," swore Daisy as Luigi laughed.

"Yeah, this is why I wanted to keep you out of their radar for as long as possible. Although," he reflected with a smirk, "cousin Maria might be starting a fan club for you on Facebook."

"Ah, Maria the plumber?"

"Yeah. She's kind of a ball buster and loves it when guys like Bowser or union guys get their asses handed to them by women. Let's just put it this way – and don't repeat this – there are only three women whom Mario's actually afraid of: our late Mama, Peach when she's truly pissed off, and Maria."

"And you?" she asked teasingly.

"Well," he began in nonchalant tone, "I never dared piss her off. My cousins – Joe's kids – are kind of like my sisters. There's Maria who, like me, was trained as a plumber by the Ayatollah; Adriana, who's three years younger, married to a nice Italian guy from Staten Island and has a baby; and Lucia, who's a math teacher at a middle school in Staten – forget which one."

"Heh, so the answer's yes," grinned Daisy.

"'Ey! Maria's … Maria. Anyway," he interrupted in a much lower, seductive tone, "we got a pizza to finish."


Luigi and Daisy spent the rest of the afternoon and evening eating pizza, cuddling, and listening or dancing to Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye, and the Temptations from Mario Senior's old record player, from which the plumber insisted that the music was just somehow better. Daisy's eyes widened as they fixated on Luigi's thunderbird tattoo; her fingers traced the pattern and colors as he told her the story of his dream and the Apache artist in Arizona. On occasion, Luigi would take bites of her pizza, causing her to swat him playfully while he chortled and kissed her. At around eight o'clock, Mario came home, mumbled a buonasera as well as something about G.I. Jane and ragazze sfacciate, and took the last slice of the pizza, much to the younger brother's audible grumbling. The three of them – well, Mario interrupting their cuddling on the sofa – watched television for another hour until Luigi took his girlfriend home in the Red Suzuki.

The following week post-Memorial Day was a whirl of events, with the entire shop snorting and oohing over Luigi's chica kicking the crap out of Bowser. Though most of them had not met or encountered the bartender, or otherwise frequented the Koopa Bar, they did appreciate the humor in the arrogant putz"getting his." The more macho and thus less tolerant of Lou Masciarelli's 'effeminate habits' snickered that the Maricón would of course choose a machorra. To everyone's surprise, Luigi slammed down his tools and marched into their faces, growling that their parolacce would not serve them well, as if he did pass the master plumber's practical, that meant they would be remembered. While Ginsburg and José observed the scene with barely contained mirth, the young journeymen gulped and refrained from saying more in his presence.

At every lunch, he texted or called his lioness who was hard at work preparing for both her trip as well as for her LSATs. She had not mentioned any conversation or 'pearl-clutching' from her family in California. At the end of the week, Daisy texted him 'his birthday surprise': tickets to see Los Lobos in Philadelphia on the weekend of June 7. Although she had to sit the exam at Brooklyn College on the following Monday, she assured him that they would be back be Sunday evening, as it was only a two-and-a-half-hour drive each way. They decided that Luigi would take off work on Friday, drive to Philly, have a special birthday date night, go to the concert on Saturday, and return on Sunday evening. Furthermore, since Brooklyn College was closer to Bensonhurst than to Carroll Gardens, and Mario would be on weekend duty in Massachusetts, Luigi offered to host her for the evening, which she gratefully accepted. Daisy emailed him the Airbnb and Friday dinner reservations as well as his ticket, to which he gave enthusiastic approval.

Sunday's birthday dinner came much to Luigi's mixed anticipation and dread. The family started to arrive at seven o'clock to give Nonna, Zie Maria, Lucia, and Cousin Lucia time to prepare the spaghetti al cartoccio. Luigi looked all over for the cake, but Zia Lucia told him to get out of the kitchen, smacking her nephew playfully with the dishtowel. Giuseppe and Cousin Maria appeared an hour later, with the elder Masciarelli demanding to know "where the hell Mario and the Polentone were." His preoccupation with Mario and Peach was soon channeled into fixing the temperature of the ageing oven; swearing and fiddling with the early 2000s-era appliance, he and Maria managed to improve it somewhat, at least so that it would acceptable for his mother's use. Later that morning, Uncle Tony arrived with the antipasti and grilled vegetables while Pauli unloaded Luigi's birthday presents. Lucia, Vinny, Adriana and baby, Marilyn, and Tony Jr., followed suit; the A-frame became a tight fit, and most took to the driveway and alley for a game of loud stickball, leaving the 'adults' to cooking and bitching even more loudly.

As dinner was about to be served, a black town car pulled up in the driveway. Mario exited the vehicle and, just at the front door, waited for a blonde woman to follow him inside his house. The woman was dressed in a light-pink cady midi dress and carried two small packages in pastel-colored wrapping paper. The interior fell almost silent at Peach's unexpected appearance before 'warmly' greeting her and Mario. Nonna, however, barely acknowledged Peach, mumbling in Abruzzese at the magnagatta – cat-eater – while Giuseppe crossed his arms and refused to leave the table. Since the group was too large for Mario and Luigi's small dining room, and the weather was sunny and warm with very little wind, they set up a larger dining table in the backyard. Luigi's mouth watered in anticipation of Nonna's spaghetti– ragù, clams, clams, squid, shrimp, prawns, tomatoes, white wine. As they began with the antipasti, Cousin Maria smugly took out her phone and began to replay the video, much to Mario and Luigi's audible protests. The antipasti turned into the introduzione and then the primi of the interrogazione. Who is that? How long have they been dating? Should good ragazze be fighting men? She could've been hurt! Luigi, where the hell did you find her?! Does she do Kung-Fu Fighting as a profession? Giuseppe chuckled at Uncle Tony's latter question, even as he and Mario were gently telling the Family to basta. Surprisingly, Nonna said nothing, calmly eating her pasta and chatting with her beloved grandson and birthday boy. At the end of the secondi and the garlic, thyme, and bay leaf-stuffed porchettacame the question: When's she coming to dinner? When Luigi replied that it would not be until at least August, as Daisy would be doing research in Mali, the Family erupted in protest: what the fuck (mi scusami, Nonna) is she doing there? Why the fuck (anche mi scusa, Nonna; che vuoi hand gesture) is she there? Does she, like, have a death wish? Is she trying to cure Ebola or something? Throughout the dinner, Luigi glared at Mario, who, like Peach, tranquilly ate his spaghetti, having none of the Inquisition directed at either him or his significant other.

Well-played, cazzone, well-played, the younger brother thought, as he gave Mario the one-fingered salute underneath the table.

Somewhere and somehow, a large cake appeared with accompanying caffè. Uncle Tony and Aunt Maria proudly announced that the best Italian bakery in the tri-state area, located in Jersey, to which Giuseppe and Mario gave dismissive retorts, did a masterpiece with Luigi's birthday cake – a three-layer Italian sponge soaked in blackberry liqueur, alternating with vanilla and chocolate pastry creams, lined on the outside with ladyfingers, and finally topped with a Swiss buttercream and fresh blackberries. Though a very American tradition, they put birthday candles atop the cake and asked him to make a wish. Luigi smiled, as he knew exactly what he wanted for his birthday, and blew out the twenty-eight candles in one go to his family's applause. Eating the second slice of cake, the first going to Nonna, he opened his various presents, most of which were gag gifts from his cousins. Peach gave him a designer lilac button-down from a boutique in Manhattan while Mario gifted him a Mets cap signed by Dave Murphy, much to the Yankees-loving Uncle Tony's eyeroll and threats "to burn that piece of shit." Similar to Peach, Lucia bought new nephew a deep red dress shirt. Giuseppe's gift was a nice torch and grinder, which "he could use when he was up for his practical." Although Luigi played the innocent, he and Mario exchanged a brief, knowing look.

Once they sipped the final limoncello, cleaned up, and bid Mario, Luigi, and Peach a good night, the elder brother had a bit of the remaining antipasti, and they settled at the television. Luigi checked his phone for the seventh time following the Family's return to Staten Island and New Jersey.

"Are you texting the sfacciata?" asked Mario.

"She has a name, cazzone, and no. She's busy prepping her LSATs. But we're, uh, going for the weekend to Philly."

Mario twisted his head to look at his brother and wrinkled his nose. "Why the fuck are you going to fuckin' Philly? Philly's a rat-infested sewer. Not only do they got shit sports teams, but they think a fuckin' cracked bell is somethin' to look at! Not to mention what they do with Cheeze Whiz. They think that's fuckin' food!"

Without glancing up, Luigi replied, "It's my birthday present. She got tickets to Los Lobos. We're going to see the concert."

Mario huffed, cutting off Peach, who would undoubtedly think that it was a lovely idea. "Some fuckin' present. Next you're gonna tell me that you're going back to California."

Here it comes, Mama mia. "Uh, well, actually …"

As Peach tried to calm Mario, he abruptly rose from the sofa and crossed his arms. "Y-you fuckin' kiddin' me? To do what?! And what about the practical? That's comin' up!"

"It won't affect me takin' the practical, and I'll have a year to do the background and file the business plan for the license! I, uh, applied to Stanford for the summer. Y'know, to do a couple computer engineering classes. Well, I got accepted."

"Congratu-" Peach tried to say, but was cut off by Mario's wild hand gestures. She glared at her boyfriend.

"What the fuck?!" he cried. "What? Stanford? Why? You can take computer shit at BC! It's less expensive and it's in New York! Fuck, the sfacciata's gonna do God-knows-what in fuckin' Africa, so she ain't even gonna be in California!"

"Because it's the best!" shouted Luigi, now also standing. "Because I have never been outside of fuckin' New York! Because I got the opportunity to go! And I'm going, whether you like it or not!"

"Oh, fuck!" swore Mario. "You … You're givin' me agita. I'm going to bed."

As Mario marched angrily to his room, Peach came up to the pained Luigi and kissed him on the cheek. "Buon compleanno e complimenti! Non essere preoccupato di Mario, eh ? Tutto sera bene." He nodded, smiling a little, then she followed Mario to his room.

About ten minutes later, Luigi could hear shouting in Italian coming from his brother's ensuite down the hall. Peach was understandably pissed off at his treatment of her as well as his lack of happiness for his younger brother, who was finally making his own life. Mario told her in English "to stay the fuck out of this, as it was none of her business. She didn't want to be his – their – family," to which she told him vaffanculo, especially he had unresolved issues. He denied all knowledge of these 'issues.' She responded savagely that he obviously had some, as he needed to go down to the Koopa and do God-knows-what with Bowser and Tony Morano every fucking week. At least his brother was attending an elite university and would likely go light-years beyond Bensonhurst! He argued back that San Francisco was full of druggies, hippies, weirdoes, and earthquakes, so he did not believe that was a step in the right direction. Like Luigi, she was, of course, giving him agita and he was going to sleep.

Still in an Italian food coma, Luigi managed to drag himself out of bed to meet the smirking Lucas at seven o'clock. During the ride, thirty-minute wait to be seated, and actual breakfast, the taller man kept asking about Daisy. A Twitter junkie, he had seen the video which had gone viral over the previous week, and had noted both her skill and physique. And being as obnoxious as usual, he repeatedly asked Luigi about Daisy's "perfectly-shaped titties" and whether they bounced as nicely in coitus. Predictably, Luigi indignantly told Lucas to coitus-off, to which he shrugged wordlessly, coolly, yet silently reflecting on the fact that he had already done so to the luscious Amazon. Changing the subject, for now, Lucas announced that he had a couple sweet birthday presents for his best friend. Firstly, he found a place for him to stay in California that was "all expenses paid," so he would not need to worry about rent, just his own personal expenses. Secondly, he was sending his personal tailor to fit Luigi for a couple of nice suits on Thursday morning so that he could attend some of the Stanford functions in style.

Between practicing for his exam in two weeks, getting fitted by the Milanese tailor, and submitting the final paperwork to confirm his attendance for summer session, Luigi found that the week had gone by quickly, if scattered with trifling 'speed bumps.' On the evening of his actual birthday, Miles and Yoshi dropped by his house to deliver a small chocolate birthday cake and a sparkling green gift bag containing a cardinal red Stanford-logo hoodie, which "he would need if he was going to be a full-fledged student." Mario watched on, grumbling about agita and earthquakes. The next day, Wednesday, Luigi received an agitated phone call from Uncle Joe regarding "this Stanford shit" and, like Mario, demanded to know why, if he had to step foot in the goddamned Ivory Tower, he had to leave New York, and whether she put him up to it. Luigi denied it and explained that his contacts in California and Arizona helped open doors, and he was even awarded a partial scholarship. Joe huffed, griping that a "rich fucking place like that coulda paid your fuckin' way if they really wanted to do something,'" complained that it was expensive, and "stupid fuckin' kids put themselves into debt just so they could play for four years." Reaching no common ground, Uncle Joe vowed to continue the discussion "later." On Thursday evening, Luigi found a stack of printed articles laid haphazardly on his bed. He took the first and read the title, "Wildfire Threatens San Francisco's Power Supply." Rolling his eyes, he dropped it next to the pile and read the second: "San Francisco: 1906 Earthquake and Now – In Composite." The rest of the articles followed a similar theme: "Potentially Earthquake-Unsafe Residential Buildings — a (Very Rough) List," "Drug Users' Union in San Francisco Part of Growing Movement," and "Greenpeace's 'Hippie Ship' Open to Public in S.F."

Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ, Mario, he thought with another eye roll.

There were more in his email.

Having received Sal's blessing for his three-day weekend after putting in a few extra hours during the week, the plumber happily found a grinning Daisy outside of his Bensonhurst home, at eight in the morning, driving a red 2013 Mazda CX-5. He locked up the house, tossed his suitcase in the boot, and slid into the passenger seat, giving his girlfriend a slightly-less-than-chaste kiss. She handed him a bagel and cream cheese from Sami's shop; according to her, he said hello and to come back and see him soon. He laughed as he bit into the bagel, and Daisy began the two-and-a-half hour trek to Philadelphia along I-95, also known as "the fuckin' Jersey Turnpike," and its ugly stepsister, the Penn Turnpike. Along the way, Luigi received a text from his older brother containing a map that highlighted a driving route from New York to Philadelphia, with the corresponding note: "Hope the construction ends soon, though expect Saint Peter first." Shaking his head, he wrote back that he was currently at "Exit F U" and could not chat. At Daisy's raised eyebrow, he shrugged and said that Mario was being his normal self – 100% Brooklyn Asshole.

Having checked in to their Airbnb, which was a beautiful loft in the heart of Philadelphia, and deposited their luggage, Daisy and Luigi decided to stretch their legs and try the banh mi restaurant just north. While his lioness munched on a vegetable version of the sandwich, Luigi tore into his shrimp bahn mi, which he considered a concession to the vegetarian Daisy, instead of his usual choice of marinated pork. The trip had suddenly taken a silent, uneasy feeling. The plumber noted that she had rented a two-bedroom loft – one for each of them. They would be sleeping in the same apartment. Although very nice, very modern in its furniture, amenities, and appliances, it felt wanting. For the past couple weeks, Luigi knew his resolve to wait for her had been steadily breaking. Lucas's teasing jibe about her breasts had pissed him off for several reasons, not least being his wish to see them bounce in the very scenario that the man had obscenely suggested. He was above his carnal desires and, unlike Lucas, viewed Daisy as much more than eye-candy. Nonetheless, he was frustrated. As such, he kept a respectful distance, refraining from kissing her as much, though he still held her hand or placed it at the small of her back. His answers during lunch were quiet and shy.

Daisy immediately noticed the change in Luigi's demeanor and asked him repeatedly if he was alright, to which he responded that he was. Soon after a self-guided tour of the city and standing in line to see Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, they returned to the loft for a nap and to prepare for dinner. She was glad, as she could not take Luigi's continued reticence. Was it his brother? Was it her? Did he not like his present? While she wanted to discuss it further, he had closed his door, the universal signal of not wanting to be disturbed. She closed her own door and sank onto the large bed that he had insisted that she take, despite he being the birthday boy. Her parents had indeed found out about the video, and the inevitable questioning began: Why was she in that gym? Didn't she know that Bensonhurst was filled with the Mafia and racist Italians? And who was this 'Luigi'? Was he the 'L. Masciarelli'? Still not ready to deal with the potentially irrevocable consequences regarding his ethnicity and religious background, she answered truthfully that he was indeed the 'L. Masciarelli,' the 'friend of a friend,' that he had grown up in Bensonhurst, and they were visiting his elder brother when this jerk of a man accosted them. Harry did not quite believe his daughter, nonetheless dropping the conversation for the time being. While she initially felt guilty at lying by omission to her parents, she was, in a weird sense, satisfied with her decision following Luigi's odd behavior. Perhaps his own family had gotten to him, as she was decidedly not Italian, and there was the question of the 'fucked-up code.' Perhaps it was for the best that she was going to Senegal and Mali after all.

Later that evening, both of them retreated into their bathrooms to prepare for the special birthday dinner, nervous as they had been on the first date; Luigi to keep from dragging her to his (or her) bed even before the meal, Daisy to keep him interested and happy with her. Luigi had chosen to bring both new dress shirts and dry cleaned Armani suit for the occasion; after spending close to forty-five minutes in complete disarray and indecision, he opted for the light-pink shirt, showered, dressed, and waited uncomfortably in the living room. Daisy took an extra-long bath to soothe her nerves, working up the courage to enact the next part of her birthday surprise. Though two weeks had passed since the fight with Bowser, she still had remnants of a bruise on her cheek. She had not bothered to cover it up, which earned several comments "to leave the bastard" from well-meaning strangers in the subway. However, tonight needed to be perfect, so she added a little cover up to avoid stares and judgments. Fishing into her suitcase, she took out the French black tulle, satin, and silk brassiere and garter belt set and changed into them, latching up the suspenders to hold up the black lace nylons that extended to just underneath her matching panties. Gazing into the mirror, she saw the powerful figure that had confidently stood tall and marched through her apartment in Carroll Gardens. Next, she wrapped herself in her favorite sequined Carolina Herrera black midi dress, whose flowing medium-length skirt had black and silver sparkly flower patterns. As the bateau neck was gemlike in its appearance, Daisy only added silver studs for jewelry. Slipping on black Gucci ballet flats, she puffed her hair in soft curls, grabbed a shoulder bag, and walked out to meet her date.

At the sight of each other, both Daisy and Luigi knew that this would be the stiffest soirée in Philadelphia history. Daisy eyed the Italian plumber appreciatively while he tried his hardest not to blush and stutter over the obligatory and voluntary, "Y-y-you l-l-l-ook a-amazing." (Smooth, cagacazzo!) She chuckled sweetly as Luigi managed to stammer that he was ready to go. Grinning wildly, Daisy suggested that they walk to the restaurant which was a half-mile away from the loft. The plumber, who was very distracted by her shiny, little black dress readily agreed, offering his arm with a hint of a smile. They weaved down the narrower, by New York standards, streets of downtown Philadelphia, lined with several trendy restaurants and bars. They came to a hole in the wall, marked by a long navy-blue awning, next to an adult-BSM novelty store. Exchanging a brief glance, both sniggered like small children, with Luigi teasing, "Hmm, Daisy, are you trying to tell me something?" She threw him an enigmatic smile and calmly replied, "Who knows? You might just get … fortunato." As she entered the restaurant, Luigi whimpered a Mama mia before following her.

The concept was unique, one which Luigi admitted did not exist in Brooklyn or New York: a vegan bar and grille that fit right into Philly's bar culture that had existed since the Colonial Era. They were seated at a booth toward the back. To start the meal, they ordered a pitcher of sangria and a Mediterranean mezze plate consisting of vegan camembert, pine nut ricotta, marinated mushrooms and red grape tomatoes, spiced peanuts, Castelvetrano olives, and crostini.

"So all that's fake cheese, like Cheeze Whiz," insisted Luigi.

"Not so loud," she stifled a snort, "you'd probably get killed for saying that."

"Nah, I'd get killed for proudly admitting that I'm a Mets fan, and the Phillies are a shit, second-rate team," he said, taking a sip of his sangria.

"Not going to comment on that," she snorted. "My second favorite team just won the Series." She gave him a moggy grin at his extended middle finger.

"Keep reminiscing about the past, cat-face."

"Cat-face?" inquired Daisy with a mixture of mirth, curiosity, and mild irritation. "I do hope that's not an insult, plumber."

His blue eyes sparkled at her. "Just a matter of fact. You purr, stalk, and taunt like a bella micina."

The waiter brought out their entrées – faux-beef sliders for Luigi and Korean barbeque tofu for Daisy. Exchanging bites of each other's plate, Luigi and Daisy both decided that the sliders were definitely better, the former snorting that "the Mets have the win," to the latter's eye roll. The banter and trash talk continued for another few minutes; the auburn-haired woman changed the subject to his birthday celebration week, his nonna's spaghetti, and the Italian-style birthday cake, which he described in laudatory detail. After he concluded with his smaller, surprise party with Yoshi and Miles, she cheerfully excused herself to go to the ladies' room; Luigi stopped eating to wait for his princess to return. A few moments later, Daisy returned with a playful smirk tugging on her lips. Luigi's eyes narrowed in suspicion at her as she put the cloth napkin in her lap and resumed munching on the tofu.

"Alright," he began, eyebrow raised and drink in hand, "what are you up to, cat-face?"

"Nothing. Just had a pleasing porcelain deposit," she said innocently as Luigi choked on his drink. Wiping his mouth, he shook his head slowly and glared at the laughing woman.

"Aight, aight, sweetie, wanna be like that, huh?" Smirking back, he took a large bite of the remaining slider.

"Hey!" she retorted. "What about sharing? And besides, gorge yourself now, and you won't …" she murmured, inching closer to his lips, "have … time for dessert."

"Dessert?" he asked in a suspiciously high-pitched tone.

As if on-cue, a group of three servers brought out a molten chocolate cake with a sparkler, singing the birthday song to a blushing Luigi and chortling Daisy. As they finished singing, and the dining room applauded, they audibly shouted "Fuck the Mets!" and "Welcome to Philly, New York Asshole!" to the further chuckles and jeers from several dinner guests. Giving a heart-felt thank-you to the servers and another middle finger to his girlfriend, he put out the sparkler and shifted the cake to the center of the table so they could split it. Bites turned into feeding each other, and Luigi shifted to sit side-by-side with the content lioness. At the conclusion of the meal, she paid the bill and tipped the staff generously, both for the excellent meal as well as, in her opinion, the rightly-deserved reminder of the Mets' ignominy in baseball.

Still warm outside at eight-thirty in the evening, Luigi and Daisy strolled back to the loft arm-in-arm, with the plumber occasionally giving her undecipherable looks. He became quiet, and she noted with some distress that he still had not kissed her since that morning. Breaking the ice, she inquired almost timidly, "Did you enjoy your birthday dinner? Get what you wanted?"

Luigi glanced down at her and smiled lightly. "Yeah, I had a wonderful time, save getting hazed by a bunch of Philly putzes. And as for getting all that I wanted? Yeah, I suppose …" He trailed off at the last declaration, abruptly falling into an unknown reverie.

"What didn't you get?"

He waved his hand, then reached down to squeeze her hand tenderly. "Don't worry about it. I'm a fortunate man. There's always next year."

They arrived at their loft; Daisy entered the keycode into the pad, unlocked the door to let them both inside, and shut it quietly. Walking up the staircase into the marble linoleum floored living room and hallway to the adjacent bedrooms, both stopped to face each other nervously. Luigi gave her that same unreadable glance, his eyes a midnight blue that was very nearly black. He took a small step forward, then his hands fidgeted, and he retracted his foot to its original position.

"I …." he managed, but nothing came out of his mouth. Subsequently, he offered, "I had a good time tonight." Puffing out a breath, the plumber looked upset nearly to the point of tears.

"Hey, what's wrong?" she asked, taking a step toward him, but he recoiled, coughing into his hand nervously. "D-did I do something? I mean, if it was about the song and the Mets thing…"

"No!" he insisted. "Minchia, God no, Daisy, I … I don't know how to express this. This year's birthday was the best that I've had in a long time, and it's in no small measure thanks to you. I just …" Mutely, he gave her that piercing gaze for the third time in an hour. "It's my problem. It's not you. Never you," he mumbled, accidentally dropping his darkened eyes to her bosom and legs. Luigi withdrew again, praying that she had not seen his heated stare.

She had. Oh. That's why … He wanted … thought Daisy with a mixture of glee, surprise, and relief that her imagined scenarios of doom were ultimately incorrect. Carpe diem, Daisy. As she too-excitedly reached behind her to unzip her dress and reveal her final present for the evening, she lost her balance and slipped, smacking her derriere on the linoleum. "Ow, puta mierda!" she cried.

Luigi's eyes widened at the sight, and he immediately rushed to her side. "Jesus, Daisy, are you okay? What happened?"

He gently lifted her upright while she surreptitiously checked her stocking for runs. None, thankfully. "Uh, must've slipped. Don't worry; I'm … I'm okay."

"Oh," he said quietly, stepping back. As he turned away, she once again reached for the bead-like zipper and tried to pull it down. It was stuck.

"Fuck," she muttered, yanking at the back of her dress like a monkey trying to scratch its ass from over its back.

Frowning in confusion and observing the scene of her tugging at the back of her dress and hopping on one foot, he asked, "What are you doing, sweetie?"

"Motherfucking zipper's stuck!" she growled, continuing the impromptu dance.

Gulping and reminding himself that she was innocently asking for his help with a wardrobe malfunction, Luigi discreetly approached the woman and, briefly putting his hands on the sides of each arm to alert her of his presence, reached up to the zipper to pull it down, only to tug unsuccessfully at the closure. "Shit!" he swore as the bit of plastic refused to budge. "Okay, time to call a plumber. Uh, one second, don't move," he enjoined, moving away and going into his room from across the hall. A minute later, he returned with a pair of narrow bottlenose pilers and a piece of soap.

She twisted her head behind her to see what he had fetched. "Pilers? You brought your toolbelt?"

"Yep," he answered, lifting the soap and rubbing it as best as he could in between the zipper teeth. "Never know when you might need it." Bringing the pilers up to the bead zipper, he carefully tugged and pulled down the zipper a little bit. "There you go; I think it'll pull down now," he murmured, tearing his eyes from the bare skin that he spied.

She reached behind her once more and, cautiously, pulled down the zipper down to its end. Shaking from the new state of undress, Daisy inhaled deeply, repeated carpe diem, and let the dress fall to her feet. Stepping out of the black circle, she called out in a sultry voice, "Luigi."

"Yeah?" As he spun around, his midnight blue eyes expanded, and he dropped the pilers to the floor, resulting in a resounding thud. "Cazzo, minchia, Mama mia, fuck!" he breathed at the sight of his lioness – his Daisy – in a matching lacy black bra, panties, garter clipped to a pair of silk stockings, and ballet shoes that accentuated all of his favorite curves and made her shapely, athletic legs look impossibly long. Mouth dry and brain devoid of all rational thought, he gaped at his Brazilian Venus, not bothering to hide his physical reaction to her.

Obrigada, Joana, thought Daisy smugly at her boyfriend's response to his birthday present. "Do you like what you see, Luigi?" she inquired authoritatively.

He swallowed harshly, then nodded once.

Like she had practiced, she sashayed across the room, hips swaying as he gawked silently, until she was just in front of him. His dark blue eyes fell from the swell of her bosom to her heart-shaped hips and slowly returned to hers. Waiting. "Do you want to touch me, birthday boy?" she asked him calmly, yet firmly.

Breathing raggedly and unable to speak, he nodded again.

"Then do so," she ordered. Like a feather, the fingertips of his right hand traced her clavicle, across the top of her bra-covered breasts, and downward along the curve of her hip. Bringing both hands up, he used them to trail fingers along her jaw and quickly dragging them to cup her satin-clad bum. His mouth descended to the nape of her neck, placing open-mouthed kisses as she threaded her fingers in his wavy hair and moaned. Descending her semi-clothed to rest on his knees and play with the suspenders with both his mouth and fingers, nuzzling her midriff, he looked up at her in wait. She raised her eyebrow as he planted more kisses just above her left stocking. Once satisfied with his caresses, she offered Luigi a hand and yanked him to his feet. His eyes were black with desire, though once more, he waited for her commands. Suddenly losing patience, Daisy reached up to slam her lips upon his; momentarily surprised, he returned it with equal fervor, pushing downward to make it easier for her, and licking her lips, begging her mouth for entrance. She broke the kiss, and a growl-whimper-protest emanated from Luigi's throat. Giving him a slow grin, she led him by the hand into her bedroom.


Daisy's amber eyes fluttered open to the daylight peeking in through the ivory venetian blinds. Stretching forward to avoid waking the man beside her, she then leaned her bare back against his chest, the sparse hair tickling it a little. Grumbling, he wrapped his left arm tighter around both the comforter and the woman, tucking his face into her neck. The day-old shadow and mustache scraped against her soft nape, and she fruitlessly tried to stifle a giggle. Daisy heard a low masculine groan and felt dry lips pressing against her, left hand starting to wander up and down the comforter and her exposed curves. Flipping one hundred eighty degrees to look at him, she first spotted bright, yet calm cerulean blue eyes, then a flirty grin highlighting a distinct brown mustache.

"Buongiorno, leonessa," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her and wrap both arms around her back.

"Bom dia, amor," she replied happily, though her eyes were still heavy from the previous night.

Softly bringing her into a tight embrace, he kissed her hairline, nose, and lips, whispering, "Any fuckboys?"

She snorted at Luigi's indirect question and grinned against his body with a leer. "Definitely no fuckboys."

"Molto bene," he answered as he rolled her against the cocoon of black and white striped pillows and began kissing her lips and neck wildly. "I plan on continuing the policy of giving you a no-fuckboy experience, guaranteed."

Arching back to allow him more access to her neck, she retorted in a playful manner, "… Or my money back? I didn't know that you were working as a gigolo." He stopped for a second, temporarily confused, before sinking back on the bed and howling with laughter. Like an expert gymnast, Daisy lifted herself onto her giggling boyfriend, straddling him and running her palms over his chest. Luigi, still chuckling, noticed that her breasts did in fact bounce nicely, not that he would ever tell him that.

"Jesus, Daisy," he said, matching her caresses along her thighs. Then his eyes changed to that midnight blue. "I'd gladly be your … gigolo. Whatever you want, my lioness. For fucking free."

Daisy learned that Luigi had an exceptionally filthy mouth in flagrante. He loved talking to her before, during, and after. In last night's case, he begged her before, during, and after she assented, laughed, and shouted. Immediately feeling the pangs of desire building, she lined slow kisses down his chest and responded, "Good. I like a man who can … go the extra mile."

"Oh, I can, if you'll let me."

She worked her way to his lips and growled, "Proceed, plumber."

As he reached over to the nightstand for one of the small packets, they suddenly heard an audible rumble from Luigi's stomach. "Fuck!" he whined. He gazed up to his waiting mistress and flashed an apologetic smile. "Uh, I think I need to get something for breakfast. I think I told you this before, but I'm a real asshole if I don't eat."

Daisy had not moved, instead she moaned against his lips, "Mmm, I think that can be arranged. I need to use the toilet, anyway. How about we," she kissed him, "get waffles or French toast. Whatever the," she pecked him once more, "birthday boy wants."

"Then afterward? I have an idea about that."

"Oh? Maybe some sightseeing in sunny Philadelphia?" she asked teasingly.

Luigi used his strong abdominal muscles to capture her lips and bring them both to a sitting position atop the bed. "No," he mumbled. "Before the concert, we spent the rest of the day in bed, and I find all of your sensitive spots for future reference."

"Sounds acceptable. But we should get a move on if we want to have fun later," she said in an assertive tone. After rubbing herself suggestively against him, she rose from the king-sized bed and headed into the bathroom. Scrubbing his face to calm himself, he also reluctantly slid out and exited to the ensuite from "his" side. Collecting his toiletries and a set of fresh street clothes, he returned to "her" side and entered the bathroom where she was brushing her teeth. Their combined morning routine felt natural; sharing the sink for cleaning their teeth, with Luigi shaving his scruff and gently trimming his mustache with a small pair of scissors as Daisy threw on a sports bra, cotton panties, blue jeans, and an orange tee-shirt. He ogled her ass while dressing in a similar outfit, save for a green shirt.

Exchanging a kiss and flirty smiles, they walked hand-in-hand around Philadelphia City Hall to the restaurant across from Love Park. The greasy-spoon was in an uptown high-rise and, like many East Coast Italian, Albanian, Greek, or Arab-run establishments, had a complete menu of anything breakfast-related – sandwiches, omelettes, pancakes, French toast, home fries, and even grits. Both in the mood for something sweet and hearty, they ordered coffee, French toast, and Belgian waffles with home fries and an extra sausage for Luigi. Hungry and generally enjoying the mid-morning meal, they managed to keep their hands to themselves until returning to the loft. They spent the rest of the day in bed, save for Luigi answering the door in his boxers, green shirt, and messed up hair to collect the delivery Chinese food and getting up to take a long shower before the concert.

Redressing in the same clothes that they had chosen earlier, Daisy and Luigi ambled toward the concert hall that was roughly a mile away by foot, stopping for a quick dinner at the local market. Luigi rolled his eyes at the cheesesteaks and the "fuckin' not Cheeze Whiz," selecting a pastrami sandwich and a bottled water while Daisy picked up a Greek salad. Since their arrival, both noticed that Philly was not exactly vegetarian friendly, with pastrami, pork, steak, liverwurst, and chicken peppering every sandwich and entrée, even in the take-and-go markets near the University of Pennsylvania campus. Sympathetic to his lioness's limited choices, he rubbed her back tenderly and promised to take her to somewhere nice in Brooklyn where she could eat freely. At seven o'clock, they presented their emailed tickets to the ushers who guided them into the music hall. A half-hour later, the band greeted their fans with cheers and applause, and began the concert with "One Time One Night," a rockabilly tune and one of Luigi's favorites. Holding out his hand to Daisy, who took it, he led her in an improvised mixture of a jitterbug and slow dance.

In the middle of the song, Luigi leaned over to whisper in her ear, "Now I have everything that I wanted for my birthday."