Author's notes: I'm back a little earlier than anticipated. The healing process from the surgery has been quicker than anyone thought, so yay. Thanks to everyone who sent messages and have continue to support the story. It really means a lot.

Okay, here comes a four-chapter arc. I've done with three chapters and will probably begin the fourth in a week or so. But since these chapters are, like my others, denser, I will stick with a week to 1.5 week release. I will warn you that the content is going to get progressively darker. There is nothing graphic, but as some of you have already guessed, it will deal with certain historical issues. (I'm being intentionally cagey as some have not yet finished through chapter 30.) Feel free to PM me with questions or concerns. I do promise, however, that I will mix it up with some fluff to lighten the mood. It won't be vore or constantly depressing.


Chapter 30: Aliases

Despite the taxi pulling up to their small house in Eltingville within minutes of Mario's phone call, Lucia Masciarelli, née Bianchi, had managed to pack an overnight bag with a change of clothes for both of them and make a phone call to both Maria and Lucy to let them know of what was happening. She climbed in the cab, which already had Peach's address in Manhattan, and noiselessly sobbed throughout most of the drive. Lucia arrived at Peach's Manhattan apartment building at 10 pm; her anguish quickly morphed into fury and resentment at Giuseppe's insistence that he was "fine." In between wheezes, he attempted to make jokes and engage her in conversation, but all he received was the look that, had they been in Staten Island, meant he was sleeping on the couch. Left alone in the guest room, he started to chatter again, only to be handed his toiletries without a word.

The next morning, Giuseppe fidgeted in the nondescript medical exam room chair as he unsuccessfully attempted to avoid his wife's angry glare that had been unyielding since the preceding night. She spoke, albeit briefly, to Mario and Peach at breakfast, and then to the medical staff at registration, yet patently refused to utter a single word to him. "Look, Lu, I'm … I'm sorry. I shouldn't have … gone to Brooklyn." No response. "I … I needed to know … some things from … Salvatore." Still no response. "For fuck's sake, what else do you want?!" he exclaimed, coughing into an already used tissue.

Turning her head to face him, the middle-aged dark-blonde hissed, "Goddamnit, Joe! I'm worried about Luigi, too. But you can't go off alone anymore! You … you're in no condition! Had Mario not been there, anything could've happened, stunad!"

Before Joe could argue back, there was a knock at the exam room door. A second later, a tall Middle Eastern man dressed in a lilac button-down shirt, swirly tie, and tan dress pants entered the room. "Hi, you're Giuseppe Masciarelli?" he asked with a noticeable Canadian accent.

The plumber tried his best not to scowl at the obviously Arab man. Was this a joke? he sneered in his mind. Was this Peach's revenge, to get a second opinion from one of those murdering bastards? Peach claimed that he was going to see her colleague, Dr. Gauthier; she neglected to mention that he was a fucking beduino."Yes," Lucia answered for him. "And I'm his wife, Lucia Masciarelli."

"Pleased to meet you both; I'm Dr. Salim Gauthier," he said, offering the Italian his hand, which he weakly took. The man frowned for a moment, extended his hand to Lucia, who accepted it more readily, and took a seat at the opposite side of the room. "Cristina filled me in on her examination of you last night as well as the biopsy and CT scans your oncologist had done in Staten Island. I, uh, compared them to the scans done this morning. Mr. Masciarelli, this is … quite advanced for someone with no history of smoking. I saw that you listed plumbing as your profession?"

"Yeah," replied Joe tersely.

Dr. Gauthier nodded. "I see. Forgive me; I don't know much about plumbing, but, um, I don't recall that plumbers were routinely exposed to asbestos or silica powder. Did you work in construction or were otherwise exposed to airborne particles over a period of time?"

Sensing her husband's discomfort around the man, Lucia answered, "He's always been a plumber. Um, Dr. Gauthier, did you read the oncologist's notes?"

He nodded again. "I did, Mrs. Masciarelli, which is why, frankly, I'm stumped. Dr. Grayson just noted that the tumor found in your lung was," he flipped open the faxed file, "idiopathic. As I said, even here at Presbyterian, we only see this in chain smokers or those exposed to environmental toxins."

The husband and wife exchanged shocked and incredulous looks. "I … Are you sure that's what he wrote?!" demanded Lucia.

"Yes, ma'am. Is there something that he left out?"

Lucia answered "Yes!" while Giuseppe growled "No!" The oncologist watched with an odd mixture of amusement and frustration as the couple silently quarreled in a manner that had come with decades of practice. At the end, Lucia gave him a piercing, almost threatening stare as her husband crossed his arms and tilted his chin defiantly.

"Okay," he managed awkwardly to his patient. "Look, Mr. Masciarelli, if you want me to treat you, I need to know what isn't being said here. I can't successfully treat an illness if I don't have all of the facts."

Giuseppe directed his stony blue eyes to the man. "Dr. Grayson gave me … year or two. His approach ... was to wait and see. I don't know how you can treat me."

"Yes, your tumor has grown since last December, but it's what we call Stage IIIA, not Stage IV. It's still very treatable if we move quickly. The good news is that it hasn't spread to other organs; it's what we call regionally centered. Unless, again, he has information that I don't?"

"Chemo … ?" he asked the oncologist breathlessly.

"Yes," he affirmed. "In your case, I would recommend a combination of chemotherapy and radiation therapy to start. Hopefully, we can reduce the size of the tumor, which would then allow us to get the remainder with surgery."

Giuseppe rolled his eyes. "Grayson … said all of this."

"Fine, then why haven't you done it?" asked the doctor firmly. "It's not a death sentence – at least not at the moment. I can't promise you that it won't come back or metastasize, but I'm confident that we can extend your life."

"Don't want … be sick at the end. Sister-in-law … sick at the … end."

Dr. Gauthier sighed in understanding. "It must not have been easy. Cancer's one of those nasty diseases that, once it gets you, really gets you. I won't lie; the chemotherapy will be brutal, though we have newer drugs that … minimize classic side effects like hair loss, nausea, and loss of appetite. I can't cure cancer. But here's the deal: if you don't opt for the chemo and radiation, you will die, and it won't be a painless way to go. It's up to you."

"What are his chances if he opts for the treatment?" asked Lucia, glaring at the now petulant Giuseppe.

"Well, the official statistics are thirty-five to forty percent chance of survival up to five years. And I'm quoting the general statistics for NSCLC lung cancers that are Stage IIIA without external irritants or factors. Are you currently being exposed to anything like what I had mentioned – asbestos, silica, fine particle dust?"

Joe shook his head. "No. I haven't been exposed to … that in years."

"Alright. At least that's in our favor. I'll go with those statistics – thirty-five to forty percent with chemo versus zero without it. So, Mr. Masciarelli, what do you want to do?"

The stubborn Giuseppe stared into space while his wife, who gave him a nudge with her elbow, fumed at his reticence. Sighing sadly, Dr. Gauthier stood up and, reaching into his pocket, took out a small piece of cardstock. "Here's my card with our office phone number; if you change your mind, give us a call. Just don't wait too long." Handing it to the visibly irate Lucia, he extended his hand to her, and exited the exam room. As he approached his staff for the next patient's file, the exam room door shut soundly, and everyone in the back office heard the shouting between husband and wife in Italian and English. Salim, whose first language was French and who learned a fair amount of Spanish in his medical career, could follow some of what was being yelled by Lucia: "Fucking idiot," "self-punishment," "Why couldn't you tell him?" and "I'll divorce you!" He was equally as savage: "My decision!" "What the fuck's he gonna do?!" and "Fine, g'head!"

While the couple continued to argue, a fuchsia dress and white coat-clad Peach approached her colleague and gestured to the closed door. "What happened here?"

Salim laughed a little. "Doctor-patient confidentiality, Peach; you know that. Besides, I'm sure you can understand what they're saying better than I."

Suddenly, the door swung open, and a crying Lucia, who was throwing a small purse over her right shoulder, stormed out of the consultation room and to the exit. The blue-hoodied Giuseppe timidly stepped to the staring office staff and he met Peach's questioning blue orbs. His normally sapphire-colored eyes were the faded gray of defeat. He then slowly ambled to the exit. Peach followed them, traversing the waiting room, and out to an empty hallway where the plumber had sunk into an empty caramel-brown armchair in an equally vacant carpeted hallway. There was no sign of Lucia. She quietly approached the broken man.

"Giuseppe, what happened?"

He shrugged. "Your colleague … didn't tell me … anything new."

Peach nodded once. "Okay, but that wouldn't have triggered … what we heard back there." At his silence, she then asked, "When are you beginning chemotherapy?"

"I'm not."

"Why? Salim's the best there is. Just by his demeanor, he seemed confident that …"

"That what?" interrupted Joe harshly, coughing and spitting into a fresh tissue. "That I won't die right … away, but spend … days in agony?"

"Giuseppe, chemotherapy's given in cycles. Moreover, the drugs on the market now are less noxious than what had been available for Mario's mother," responded Peach, who had pulled the opposite armchair to sit closer to him. Exhaling a shaking breath, she added more softly, "I know that it's … scary. But Salim's the best. He wants to help you. As do I. Whether you know it, you mean so much to Mario and Luigi. Don't do this to them – don't give up. Per favore."

The man cast his penetrating gaze upon Peach who wiped a tear from her cheek. "I'm tired! I tried so hard … to find him. And I've run outta time. I gotta protect Luigi, and I can't … do it … if I'm sick from … chemo."

"You can't protect him if you're dead. And while I'm a pulmonologist and not an oncologist, I know this cancer will kill you in a matter of months without any intervention. I saw the CT scans; your doctor was too optimistic." Grasping his hand in hers, she said in Italian, "I know that you haven't approved of me. Perhaps my opinion is meaningless, but I … I know how much Mario and Luigi love you. I can see how much Lucia loves you. And with treatment, there's hope. If Salim thinks he can get it, then he can. I know how you feel about Arabs. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or offend you, Giuseppe. I brought you to him because he doesn't give up."

Though he remained speechless, the plumber squeezed her hand in response. Rising from the armchair, Peach used their joined hands to pull the lanky man upright. As she began to talk again, out of the corner of her eye, Peach noticed that another blonde was approaching them. Giuseppe, who was coughing into his tissue, looked up to his teary-eyed wife. Momentarily forgetting his nephew's girlfriend's presence, he spoke in a rasp to Lucia, who stopped a few feet from them, "I'm a coward and a fuck-up, Lu. But … I'll do it. For you. For … the girls. For … Luigi and … Mario."

Peach willingly let go of Giuseppe's hand as Lucia ran into his waiting arms and whispered in his ear, "You fucking stronz', you drive me crazy. But you're the bravest man I know. Now it's time to save yourself."


A tired Luigi tossed his green backpack on the kitchen table, then went to the refrigerator for a can of lemon-flavored Pellegrino. Since his video call with Miles and Uncle Joe, the rest of the week had been eerily quiet, save for a few calls and constant texts from his lioness. It was just as well; as the next week was the last of courses before final exams, he was occupied with finishing projects, studying for his exam in Machine Learning, and organizing his suitcases for his return to New York. Regrettably, Dr. Czernin cancelled her appointment with him on Thursday due to her babysitter being sick and promised to meet with him the next Thursday. He had not heard from Lucas in nearly a week, leading him to conclude that he would not be flying home on his private jet. Though many of the commercial flights were sold out due to college kids and their anxious parents moving to and from New York City, he managed to locate a first-class, one-way ticket from San Francisco to JFK International on August 15. Thankfully, his finals concluded the day before, so he could vacate the apartment that evening and find a hotel room or Airbnb near the airport. As he began his search for a one-night hotel room on August 14, Luigi heard the doorbell ring. Scowling in case of a Lucas visit, he launched himself from the living room sofa and went to the entrance. Opening the door, he gasped in surprise. Standing in front of him was Pete Morello. Unlike his previous encounters with him, the medium-build Pete was dressed in a pair of jeans, navy blue polo shirt, a gray sports jacket, and a blue Denver Broncos cap with the old-style logo.

"Pete? What … What are you doing here?" asked Luigi.

The older man grinned brightly. "Hi there. Can I come in or is it a bad time?"

"No. C-Come in." He stepped aside for his first cousin who entered the house and walked leisurely into the living room, silently approving its cleanliness and upkeep. "Can I get you something?"

"Uh, no, thanks. I, uh, was in town on business, so I thought that I'd stop by and take you to dinner," replied Pete.

Luigi gave an uncertain nod. "Yeah, s-sure. But how did you know where I was?"

The dark-haired, clean-shaven man laughed. "Son, I own the property. I'd imagine, however, that Lucas didn't tell you that."

He feigned astonishment. "No, he didn't."

"Figures. Anyway, I know of this great seafood place in San Francisco. C'mon – my treat. First, though, we're going to take a little drive."

Immediately, the plumber was on edge. "W-where?" he stammered, as he felt for the phone in his back pocket.

Pete put a comforting, yet firm around his young cousin's tense shoulders. "It's okay, son. Don't worry. We're just going for a little drive to the seashore first before dinner. I would ask, however, that you leave your phone here." Although his posture was relaxed, the Denverite's eyes conveyed seriousness and a hint of danger. Sensing that he had little choice, Luigi reluctantly took his phone out of his jeans pocket and put it on the living room coffee table. The man nodded his thanks and squeezed his shoulders, "Attaboy. Now, let's head out."

The forty-five-minute drive was tense, with Luigi trying not to hyperventilate at the sudden and frightening turn of events. Despite Pete's repeated assurances that they were "just going to get some air and privacy," the plumber felt trapped by the man's very presence. A teenaged part of him wished he had his phone to call Uncle Joe or Mario for help, though rationally, he knew that there was nothing they could do from New York. As for Pete, he watched the young man fidget with anxiety at the lack of control over the present situation, a trait reminiscent of both Giuseppe and his late brother. Navigating the rural, two-lane roads and emerald green forests westward, Pete's black rental car eventually came to a stop at San Gregorio State Park. Pete turned off the engine and simply said, "C'mon, now; a walk will do us both good." An averse Luigi followed the middle-aged man down the path toward the Pacific Ocean which gleamed along the horizon. The walk became a mini-hike, both men silently trekking down the path until they reached sandy beach and few people. After thirty minutes, Pete suddenly took a seat on a sandy rock near a cliff overlooking the roaring sea; he gave Luigi an expectant glance, indicating that he should do the same. The nervous plumber crouched near the mafioso, then waited for him to speak.

"Apologies for the cloak and dagger crap," Pete began while watching the waves. "I didn't want to scare you, but I couldn't risk the house being bugged. You can never be too careful in my line of work." At Luigi's quietness, he continued, "By now, I think you know who I am and what I do. If Lucas didn't tell you, I'm positive your uncle Joe did. That being said, son, I don't want you to be afraid of me. Yes, there are precautions that I have to take to protect you as well as me, however, believe me when I say that I will never harm you or risk your safety." His deep brown eyes met with Luigi's timid blue ones. "Ever. You're my blood – Gabriella's youngest. You're also the son of my best friend, Mario, and the nephew of my other, albeit jackass, best friend, Giuseppe."

Clearing his throat to relax, Luigi quietly replied, "No offense, Pete, but what do you want here?"

He smiled a little. "That's a fair question. I want a relationship with you and to clear the air."

"And you're in town because … ?"

Chuckling, Pete responded, "That I won't answer. But I think you're asking if I have other reasons for contacting you? That I can answer, and yes, I do. I understand that you and your girlfriend went to Cabo recently?"

"Yeah, Lucas wanted to go for his birthday," replied Luigi who also watched the waves ebb and surge.

Pete nodded slowly. "And he didn't bring you back?"

"No, he ditched us because he got pissed off at me." At Pete's encouraging look, the plumber went on, "He was being … disrespectful to Daisy." Pete's eyes darkened, and Luigi felt a pang of icy fear for his former friend.

Recognizing his cousin's distress, Pete put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm not angry with you. Lucas has always been a cocky little prick for as long as I can remember. We have some business with his father, George; personally, I've never trusted that piece of trash, but it isn't my decision, and he is an investor in my interests. Your girlfriend's 'off-limits,' meaning that she's untouchable to members and adjacent members of my … organization. Now, I'll give you a friendly warning: Daisy's neither Italian nor Catholic; your great-uncle Carlo isn't a fan of hers for that reason. I don't care because, in my crew, only the men or fathers need be Italian and preferably Catholic. But that's Colorado and not New York or New Jersey. I'd instruct you to keep your relationship lowkey, for her sake as well as yours. Lucas's a spoiled shit who will use that knowledge."

"Okay," spoke Luigi softly. "I don't mean to be pointed or rude, but it sounds like you assume that I'm already part of your … organization."

The man laughed again and shook his head. "Believe me, I find the directness refreshing. New Yorkers and my fellow guys tend to beat around the bush. While it is true that you're not a made member of the organization, you are what we call an 'associate.' You don't have the protections of a made member, but you're recognized as being under a crew chief. That's me. You're also related by blood to Carlo, Jackie, and me."

His blue eyes widening, the plumber turned to Pete. "The lunch with Vinny DiScala."

He nodded. "Very good. As an Italian, being an associate is the first step to being made – if you so choose it. Luigi, I realize that Giuseppe probably filled your head with a lot of Scorsese bullshit about us. This 'meeting,' if you will, is to clear the air and understand what we really do. It's important that you're informed."

Amused by the implicit carte-blanche at asking anything about the Mafia, a smirking Luigi inquired, "Aight. You're a lawyer, so why do you … ?"

"Why am I involved in … organized crime?" finished Pete, rocking toward him with a conspiratorial grin. "Well, it's familial. You have to understand that, at one time, we were the good guys. Prior to the unification of Italy, we were the only 'organization' to defend regular people's property and homes. The police didn't do shit, and were often on the take – government corruption, son. Our family, the Rigassis, have been part of this particular organization since its beginning. Your grandfather, your great-grandfather, his father, and so forth. Unfortunately, with great power comes great responsibility, and we became the untrustworthy. We murdered, pillaged, and stole from regular people. That's incidentally my problem with the Moranos and the majority of the New York crews – they're greedy sonsabitches with no regard for anyone. Anyway, my crew circumvents the government as the family originally did in Italy: marijuana, gambling, arms, tax evasion, and information. I do not participate in slavery, drug trafficking, prostitution, or murder."

"I've … heard that in order to get … made, you had to have killed someone," the young plumber said diffidently.

Pete nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, that's true. In Sicily and America, it's called 'making one's bones.' That's still true in New York. However," he snickered a little and looked at his cousin, "you've met my son, Matt. He was pre-med until he discovered that he couldn't stand the sight of blood. In truth, that's a good thing. Those who achieve power through murder or violence are always the first to get busted or killed. Unfortunately, people do get killed, and it's nothing to celebrate."

"Did you kill anyone?"

The older Italian's joviality disappeared at the question. Staring out to the pale blue sea for several moments, he finally answered, "I can't say."

"Okay, final question, Pete: why is it important that I be informed?"

He turned to the questioning Luigi and replied, "Because, son, you're about to become the manager of your plumbing shop, one which is owned by our organization. Sal Maldonado served a purpose and now he's retiring, which he has duly earned. When you deal with Tony and Jackie – and you will – you need to understand the written and unwritten rules. You will be expected to pay a tribute to Carlo and Jackie via Tony; I'll teach you how when the time comes. You are my associate; this was done purposefully to give you protection against other New York crews and standing to deal with Jackie's crew on my behalf. Here, I have another instruction: Jackie will not be pleased, mainly because he will see you as a symbol of the rivalry between him and me. Proceed with due diplomacy and caution, as he is a caporegime, but trust that I will intervene if he steps out of line. Understand that while you're family and enjoy extra protections that most associates, such as that idiot Bowser, do not enjoy, you are not made, so you are subject to … replacement if you do the wrong thing or mouth off to a made man."

Luigi curled his lips in sheer distaste. "So Carlo and Jackie are ripping working guys off."

"Unfortunately, yes," affirmed Pete. "However, the more income that you're able to generate, the more say you will have in limiting that rip-off. Think of it like credit cards and predatory loans: once you build income and credit, you can negotiate or seek other loans with lower interest. That's what Sal Maldonado never fully grasped." Inhaling, he continued, "Anyway, I am coming to New York the week after you start to make sure that you're correctly instructed. Carlo has put me in charge. Don't worry; you will not be asked to do anything overtly illegal. However, knowledge of what I have just told you falls under something called omertà – the code of silence. It's no different than a modern NDA or legal privilege. You cannot tell anyone – not Mario, not Daisy, not Joe. And there's a very, very good reason: aside from self-protection and fealty, there are, as I mentioned, rivalries between crews. This type of information can mean life or death."

"Pete, look," interjected Luigi with a heavy sigh, "I'm not sure that I'm the right guy for this. Mario … would be a better fit. If youse would wait a year, he could take the master plumber and deal with this."

"Son, believe me, we did think about Mario. He's a good plumber, has leadership skills, and is a war hero. But your great-uncle Carlo picked you, and it was for a specific reason. Aside from you being a Rigassi, you are very smart. You got into Stanford; had your father survived, you'd have been at Harvard or MIT. Negotiating between crews is an exercise in precision and diplomacy. Mario would have been a better choice in the seventies and eighties during which brawn was a necessity. Now, concepts like security, data transmission, virtual private networks, and applying IT to old infrastructure are the future, all of which require ingenuity, intelligence, and strategic thinking. That's not Mario, son." Pete put his hand on his shoulder once more. "Am I worried that Jackie and the other neanderthals will perceive your gentleness as weakness? A little, yes. Again, that is my responsibility – to help you negotiate some of it. I can't be in New York all the time, so past a certain point, it will need to come from you. What encourages me, however, is how you handled the Slaughter Saga. Despite the disgusting things he said and did to you, your cousin, and Giuseppe, you did not take the bait. You also handled yourself around Vinny like a pro; that takes a certain sang-froid. He's an acquired taste, to be sure."

"And what's the end game for me?"

The Denverite shrugged. "That's up to you. I'd ask that you stay a couple of years – like any other job. You're not indentured, Luigi. I'm content to keep you as an associate. Anything more would involve more active dedication on your part, much as any employee who wants to progress to the middle management or even higher." He added with a smile, "I chose upper management; it's lucrative and I can make the changes that I want to see within the framework. Being an associate has its dangers; however, it also has its perks. Protection, money, brotherhood, and even freedom."

Luigi stared out to the ocean and shivered against the sea winds. "I just … I can pay the money, do whatever, if the guys at the shop and my family will be left alone. Mario, Peach, Daisy, and Uncle Joe."

Pete extended his hand. "You have my word. I meant what I said earlier. I have no interest in seeing your employees, Daisy, or Mario's girl harmed in any way, as they are bystanders. As for Mario and Giuseppe, they are my family, as well. While the latter and I may have had our disagreements, I grew up with him and your father – they were the brothers that I never had. And I don't think Tony or Jackie have any interest in harming them, either."

Luigi cautiously took it. "What about Salvatore?"

His expression immediately became a potent mixture of anger, sadness, and disbelief, which frightened the plumber to the point of leaning away from his cousin. "One day, that story will be told. One day. But not today." He stood up, then pulled Luigi up from their sitting positions on the rock. "That's all for now. Once you get through your finals and return to New York, we'll talk more about the shop and its complications. For now, let's go get some seafood and pasta. I know a great restaurant near the Wharf."


Upon crossing the threshold of his rental in Palo Alto, Luigi breathed a sigh of relief that he had not been 'disappeared' by his caporegime cousin. In fact, he had enjoyed the dinnertime conversation and creamy clam pasta with Pete who had acted like the seaside trip was a figment of his imagination. He considered texting Miles and Daisy about the meeting; yet as he picked up the phone, he remembered Pete's admonition – life or death – and set it down again. The weekend was spent in isolation to complete his remaining schoolwork, save for a phone call with Mario, who seemed more preoccupied and emotional than jokey and foul-mouthed, particularly about "Granola-land." When informing him that he was coming back a day early, his brother oddly exhaled in reprieve and murmured into the phone, "The sooner the better, fratellino."

The following week was equally and eerily quiet as the previous. Except for his lioness, with whom he texted and called every evening, once which consisted of a very uplifting and breathy forty-five minutes for both of them, he did not receive texts or messages from anyone – Miles, Mario, Yoshi, or Uncle Joe. For Thursday evening, he planned his and Daisy's final date before he returned to New York; as fall term at Columbia began on September 2, she would arrive on August 19, which would give her a chance to settle into New York life as well as attend a job interview which she promised to detail on their outing. That afternoon, Luigi had his second therapy appointment with Dr. Czernin, who was extremely apologetic for the last week's cancellation. Apparently, Rosalina had two-year-old twins at home, and the babysitter had come down with a cold. She was pleased that he completed his assignment by attending a few adult ballet classes at a studio just down the street from the campus and added a couple swimming sessions at the recreation center, which, he admitted, curbed his desire for cigarettes. He mentioned his new job in Brooklyn, to which Rosalina inquired if he felt excited. Shifting uncomfortably in the chair, Luigi confessed that he was filled with dread and recounted the two dreams of his father and the faceless Sicilian at the beach. Jotting down the descriptions of his dreams, Dr. Czernin asked if he felt more freedom in California. Luigi emphatically nodded, listing all of the activities which he could not do in Brooklyn, either due to geography, his job, or his close-knit Italian family: surfing, studying at Stanford, ballet, coming and going when he wanted and without his older brother or paternal uncle "up in his shit," and living part-time with Daisy. She remarked his laments were understandable and unsurprising in the sense that they were related to a life transition; he craved more freedom as an adult. At the hour's end, the psychiatrist assigned additional homework to him: could he find 'analogous' Brooklyn activities that would give him the same sense of freedom?

After therapy, Luigi rode his bike back to Menlo Park to prepare for his date with Daisy. Finishing his section of the final project for Machine Learning and sending it to his group members for their input, he showered and arranged several choices of suits and shirts. Feeling as giddy and nervous as he had been on his first formal date with his lioness, he spent twenty minutes weighing the pros and cons between a gray and black Italian suit with a pink, green, or light blue Oxford before settling on the gray with the light blue. Towel still wrapped around his waist, the plumber moved to the entry way to grab his Italian shoes for polishing when he ran into the tall form of Lucas Kariolis, who was standing in his usual purple and khaki suit and giving his friend the same cocky smile.

"My man!" he greeted. "Congrats on a job well done at Stanford!"

Luigi glanced at him briefly before plucking up his shoes and, without speaking a word, walked to his bedroom. Lucas quickly followed him and added, "Okay, you're pissed. But I can explain! I actually had an emergency. A family emergency."

At his bed, the plumber whirled around and angrily retorted, "Yeah, and that's why you've been radio silent for nearly two fuckin' weeks! You could have left both Daisy and I stranded in a foreign fuckin' country!"

Holding his hands up, Lucas gulped and nodded. "Yeah, you're right. I'll admit that I was pissed off at getting blown off by my best friend at my birthday celebration. But the following morning, my father called me back to New York for … business. I had no choice!"

"Oh, fuck you!" shouted Luigi while crossing his arms over his bare chest. "You're not putting this bullshit on me! You crossed the line with my girlfriend and deserved to be left at the club! You could've left me a message! But no, like the selfish prick that you are, you left us dangling in Mexico. Well, good! Now you can fuck right off. Let yourself out before Cousin Pete finds out that you've been trespassing." Lucas's mouth dropped open at his last utterance as Luigi smirked triumphantly. "What's wrong, Lucas? Did your implied threat run out of steam?"

"Okay, you're really pissed," murmured Lucas. "Look, Weeg … You're right; I fucked up and, yeah, I lied about owning the house. Let me … let me take you out tonight – anywhere and anything you want to do. And of course, I'll reimburse you for the plane tickets. As for leaving next week, I'll take you to LaGuardia."

Luigi scoffed. "Well, sorry to all of those things." He began to make a list with his fingers, "First, I have plans for tonight. Second, I don't want your money. Third, I secured my own plane ticket home."

The taller man scrubbed a hand over his face in pure shock. "Okay, so how can I make it up to you?"

"You can't. Now please leave. I need to get ready."

"With Daisy?!" he hissed in a high-pitched voice, stomping his foot.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Luigi answered exasperatedly while picking up his gray suit and light blue shirt. "I'm no longer fifteen. I'm allowed to have a girlfriend and go out on dates with her. And frankly, aside from the girlfriend part, she's been a better friend that you have ever been. Friends, Lucas, don't leave each other to fend for themselves in foreign countries. Friends don't hit on their friends' significant others or otherwise make them feel inferior. Finally, friends don't sell each other out just to be 'number one.' So let's just cut the shit – go be 'number one' in LA. I got my job in Brooklyn as the 'loser plumber.' Congratulations, you've won. Now, if you'll excuse me, my date is waiting." He ambled into the ensuite, leaving a flabbergasted Lucas standing in his bedroom.

Twenty minutes later, a dressed Luigi stepped out of the bathroom to a thankfully empty home. Checking his iPhone, he noted that it was half past five and right on time to make the drive to Pacific Heights. He took his wallet and keys, exited the house, and climbed into his blue SUV. Texting his lioness that he was on his way, he merged onto Highway 101 toward San Francisco. Still upset from his fight with Lucas, Luigi shook his head. How can anyone remain a teenager for ten or more years? He was the first to admit he had a lot of growing up to do, having hidden behind Mario and even Giuseppe for so long; yet he felt that he was making progress and had little to no desire to remain a child forever. He wanted a grown-up job and a happy homelife with one Daisy Abravanel – basic responsibilities. For the remaining half-hour, Luigi cleared his mind and admired the scenery, though he was a bit concerned with the transient cloud cover. Using his GPS, he located the Abravanel house, which was a large white mansion with neoclassical columns and French-style windows in the front. He parked alongside the residence and waited. Suddenly, a visibly annoyed Daisy opened the front door and stalked toward the SUV, followed closely by a thin African vested in a tailored charcoal gray pants suit and a gold-cranberry silk scarf wrapped around her hair. The lioness barked something in Hebrew to the sternly chattering woman. Before she could give the order to drive, the middle-aged woman crossed in front of his vehicle and approached his window. Affixing the best oh-shit smile he could muster for Yael, Luigi pressed the button to lower the window.

"Shalom," she greeted straightforwardly.

"Sh-shalom," repeated Luigi, still forcing a smile.

"I'm Yael Massala, Daisy's stepmother. She has informed me that you are taking her on a date. Where are you going, Mr. …?"

"Lou. Lou Masciarelli. And, um, I'm taking her on a s-sunset cruise underneath the G-Golden Gate Bridge." He fetched the printed tickets and presented them to her. She gently took and studied them like identity papers at an IDF checkpoint.

"According to these tickets, your name is Luigi Masciarelli," she said in an authoritative voice. "And you're, I'm assuming, the man who sent us the kosher cannoli. Italians are not Jews. Also, why are you in California? Do you not live in New York?"

"Yeah, yes, ma'am, I did. And y-you're right that Italians generally aren't J-Jews. My father w-wasn't Jewish. But my mother's mother was Jewish from northern Italy. Her surname was Lu-Luzzatto. I'm studying engineering at S-Stanford for the summer. I'm returning to New York after finals."

Handing him back the tickets, Yael gave them both a suspicious glare and responded, "Bring her back by 10 pm sharp. Shalom."

"Sh-shalom," he muttered with a slight wave as she turned back to the mansion. Pushing the button again to close the window, a nervous Luigi let out a breath as he put the car into gear and drove down the street while an equally anxious Daisy giggled.

"Luzzatto?" asked the still chuckling auburn-haired woman.

Luigi shrugged. "Well, that didn't come out of nowhere. For one, that was the maiden name of Fiorello LaGuardia's mother. It was also the name of the family that my paternal grandmother hid during the war. I figured they wouldn't mind."

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I tried to sneak out, but she caught me in … date clothes. She insisted on meeting you."

The plumber sneaked a peak at her emerald green cocktail dress; it was a tasteful, conservative A-line scoop with an embroidered sequin and lace bodice and tea-length skirt. She looked like a magical princess. "You look beautiful, so beautiful that I'm sure it put Yael on alert. She must've been wondering kind of Italian schmuck would want to raid the kosher chicken coop?" he joked.

Daisy smiled broadly. "Yeah, something like that. But Luzzatto and an Italian-Jewish maternal grandmother. I never would have guessed in a million years."

"Do you think she bought it?"

She sighed. "I'd say that she probably thought some of it was true, as she didn't immediately run in and call my father. But … I was truthful – I did tell her that Luigi Masciarelli was taking me out on the town." Gazing at her gray suit-clad boyfriend, she grinned appreciatively. "You don't look too bad yourself, Mr. Luzzatto."

"You like that, don't you? Maybe one day, it'll be Mr. Abravanel."

Daisy raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? Actually," she leaned into him seductively, "I like that even more."

By 6:20, Luigi had found a parking space near the Fisherman's Wharf and, paying the garage office for three and a half hours, escorted his excited princess to the docks. At half past, they boarded the yacht and were seated at a dining room table next to the window per the plumber's request via telephone. Once the other guests had also entered the dining room, the captain announced to the staff that they would be departing. As a faint jazz tune began to play, the waiter approached them, set down sourdough bread and butter, and asked for their appetizer orders. Since Luigi wanted to make sure that Daisy had plenty to eat, he ordered a butternut squash soup and a plate of marinated artichoke hearts to share.

"So, Mr. L," snorted Daisy, while taking a sip from her water glass, "are you happy to return to New York?"

Luigi shrugged haphazardly in his form-fitting suit jacket. "Yeah, somewhat. I mean, I miss my family, even that red-hoodied cazzone. Thank Christ he's been with Peach this entire time, otherwise I'd be coming home to a mountain of takeout containers, dishes, and pizza boxes." His blue eyes connected with her amber orbs. "I mean, I have a solid job and … yeah."

"But?"

"But," he answered, putting emphasis on the word, "I have a sense of freedom here in California. A nice house, going to Stanford, and … you. Despite my fuck-up of a former friend, I've … I've really enjoyed being able to see and spend time with you on the weekends."

Daisy hummed approvingly while spreading some of the butter on a sliced piece of sourdough. "Speaking of the fuck-up, have you heard from him?"

"Yeah, today, actually." The woman's eyes snapped up in surprise and silently asked him to elaborate. "He claimed that he had an emergency." When she rolled her eyes in incredulity, Luigi gently put up his hand. "I know, I didn't believe it, either. I told him to get fucked."

The waiter returned with the soup, artichoke hearts, and a bottle of white wine. Once they were served, he requested their main course order. Daisy and the plumber scanned the menu again and opted for the lemon garlic linguine and portobello mushroom ravioli. As the waiter left, Daisy took a bite of artichoke heart and, wiping her mouth of excessive olive oil, remarked, "I can't imagine he was happy about that."

Luigi sniggered and ate a spoonful of soup. "Nope, he wasn't. Honestly, though, cat-face, I don't care. He deserved it. Anyway, tell me about this job interview."

"Well," she drawled out the "l" at the end. "Back in Senegal, I made a contact from the Department of Operational Support at the United Nations. She was formerly Doctors Without Borders. We, uh, hit it off, and she all but begged me to get in touch once I returned stateside. It's a data crunching job; it's not a lot – twenty an hour – but I get a decent paycheck for a graduate student and get out of taking two statistics courses. I just have to meet with the director to get a rubber stamp. I didn't say anything because I didn't know that it would be an actual possibility."

Her beaming boyfriend plucked a piece of bread from the center dish and, dipping it into the artichoke olive oil, said, "Congratulations! That's wonderful, sweetie! How many hours?"

"It'll depend on the project; normally twenty-five to thirty, though they may require up to thirty-five. I'd only need to go into HQ a few days per week – three days in Manhattan; two days in Brooklyn."

"Wow, Daisy Abravanel's moving up in the world!" Abruptly, the plumber frowned and took another spoonful while holding it out for her to taste. "So … does that mean you'll need to move to Manhattan, to be closer to the United Nations?"

Daisy swished and marveled at the perfectly sweet and savory combination of the butternut squash potage. "Well … I honestly don't know yet. I mean, I have to get the job first. And as for my roommate, she, uh, brought back a German boyfriend with her. Some heavy metal Rammstein wannabe. So I probably won't be living in Carroll Gardens for the upcoming year."

Nodding a little, Luigi became quiet, and they refrained from speaking more about it through their pasta dinner. The New Yorker was less than impressed at the 'imitation pasta,' although he begrudgingly conceded that the ravioli were decent. However, he cared less about the quality of the meal and more about the beautiful lioness across from him. Why didn't she let him know about her living arrangements? For the past three weeks, he knew what he wanted to ask, yet he also did not want to restrict her sense of independence. He was ecstatic about her new job at the UN and was proud of her for taking those necessary steps; that being said, they were at the six-month mark, and they needed to decide upon their long-term relationship. Engrossed in the lemon linguine in the comfortable peace, she left a little of the sauce on the edge of her mouth. Luigi reached over and lovingly wiped the liquid with his napkin, his sapphire orbs morphing into the familiar black indicating that he was excited for a post-dessert course. Speaking of dessert, they wordlessly agreed to leave room for the chocolate mousse and espresso.

After the three-course meal, the two lovers stepped out to the deck to watch the sunset against the Golden Gate Bridge. Luigi had bought them each a flute of champagne, which he held in his hand and she sipped cautiously. Finding an empty section for privacy, Luigi set his glass down and, without saying a word, wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her neck from behind.

"Sweetie, what's wrong?" asked Daisy. "You're usually an Italian chatterbox at dinner."

The edges of his mouth upturned. "I'm just … nervous. I … well, I wanted to ask you something. Feel free to say no. But …"

Twisting to face him, Daisy traced his jawline. "Tell me, sweetie."

"It's about … once we get back to New York. God, Daisy, I'm so proud of you, being recruited by the United Nations! You have no idea! But … I'm not sure if I can handle Manhattan. I will continue therapy, cat-face. But it's just too soon for me, and I … I need you."

She scanned his anxious orbs and soothingly concluded, "And you're afraid, with our schedules, that we won't see each other."

"Yeah," he affirmed. "I … have a solution. You need a place to stay, and I need you. I know it's only been six months, even though it feels like more than a year to me. You could … be with me. I know the UN's in Manhattan, and it's a bit far, but I can give you a lift to downtown. From there's it's no more than forty-five minutes by subway and …"

Initially confused by his stream of consciousness, her brown eyes soon widened at what he was attempting to offer. "Luigi, are you asking me to … live with you?"

"Um," he gulped, "y-yeah. I mean, I know it's Bensonhurst – south Brooklyn and armpit of New York City. However, it's, uh, actually one of the safest places in the area, and most people keep to themselves. And as for Mario, he spends much of his time with Peach on the Upper East, and I'd be working fifty, maybe sixty hours per week, so it would be like last spring – you'd have the place to yourself. It would be easier to see each other and … m-make plans." Exhaling, Luigi dragged his uneasy blue eyes to her face. "I'll understand if you're not ready. But it's on the table, y'know."

Daisy could not ignore his logic; it would make planning and seeing each other easier, and as their schedules became busier, they would need to work harder to maintain a relationship. While she endeavored to keep Luigi out of her family drama, Harry and Yael had become increasingly suspicious of her weekend outings, and she knew there would be an argument once she returned from their evening together. In case her father decided to take a heavy-handed approach, Daisy started the search for a cheaper apartment and a full-time job to support herself, having resolved to remain committed to her boyfriend. Nonetheless, she did not want to feel beholden to him or take an unequal status in their relationship, which she could easily see happening if she could not financially contribute to the household. "I … I don't know, Luigi," she finally answered. "It is a logical solution …"

He nodded sadly. "But you're not ready."

She shook her head insistently. "No, that's not it. I'm … concerned that you could grow resentful of me. You have a good salary now, you own your home, and are financially independent. I'm … not. Not yet, anyway. And I may not be for a couple of years."

Humming in thought, her boyfriend spoke, "If we could come to an agreement, would that help? Like, obviously, you'd buy your own groceries. That would make sense, too, given that you're a vegetarian, and I wouldn't trust Mario to know what to do with a vegetable, let alone buy one. You could contribute one-third of the utilities – Mario and I usually go dutch. And one-third of the property taxes, to be charged monthly. So all in all, three hundred and change per month."

"That's … more than fair," she responded. "What about Mario? I mean, he should get a say."

Luigi burst out laughing. "Oh, believe me, he'll be fine with it. He might call you 'sfacciata' and gross you out with his peculiar ketchup fetish; if you can handle both of those things, you'll be fine."

"'Sfacciata' – impudent?" she translated while raising an auburn eyebrow.

"Mario has pet names for all of my friends. He calls Yoshi and Miles the 'Twin Dipshits.' It's just how the asshole shows approval." He circled her waist again and kissed her firmly on the lips. "I know it's selfish on my part, Daisy, but … in these past few weeks, I've felt so much better when you're in my bed. Not simply for … sex, although I've, uh, enjoyed it thoroughly." Blushing at the open discussion of their sex life, he forced himself to go on, "The last night that you were with me, sleeping next to me, I … I felt so complete. And I don't want to go back to the beginning where we only saw each other here and there. Don't get me wrong; I love our little dates, and I fully intend on continuing them. I … love waking up with you, eating breakfast, talking, doing things together. As always, though, you can tell me to fuck off."

Daisy observed the bashful Luigi as he swept an invisible rock from the yacht's deck. Remember what the therapist said: nothing ventured, nothing gained. "Okay, but on two conditions." The plumber raised his head in cautious optimism. "First, I'll pay rent like everyone else – three hundred and change is frankly a bargain in Brooklyn. I … Well, my father was paying five times that for the brownstone in Carroll Gardens. Second, I will move in if and only if I get the job at the UN. I need an income to make this work. Deal?" Whereas she extended her hand to shake on it, Luigi seized her lips in the second passionate kiss of the evening. Drawing her body to his, leaving her to yelp in surprise, the young man still kept his lips upon hers for several moments.

Eventually breaking for air, he murmured, "Deal. When do you find out? Also, does your family know … ?"

"I have the interview at the UN Headquarters on August 20, so I would imagine that Friday. Certainly before classes begin at Columbia if I'm going to use it for credit. And does my family know? Not yet. They would definitely be questioning why I would need a job, even if it is a prestigious one."

"Cat-face, I want to make sure … that this is what you want. I know your family's important. Mine, too, which is why …"

"Sweetie," she interrupted firmly, "I had time these past weeks to think. When we were in Cabo and then in Palo Alto, I came to the realization that … in my fear of vulnerability, I was already vulnerable because … I wanted so much to be with you. I could go back to square one where it's comfortable and allow what we've built to fizzle. I could go on to law school and make junior partner, only to be … without you. Independence … means negotiating the tough choices and what we want while remaining true to yourself. I meant what I said to you before: I want to go law school and have you in my life. And this is the best way for both of us."

The plumber grinned brightly and, leaving their champagne flutes, pulled her inside the yacht to the small dance floor where a few couples were taking a turn. As he led their bodies in a slow dance to the piano jazz tune, he whispered in her ear, "Once you get that job, cat-face, I'm taking you furniture shopping."

Daisy laughed against his chest. "You're mighty sure, aren't you?"

Kissing the top of her head, he shrugged. "Why wouldn't you get it? Beautiful, multilingual, physics degree from Oxford, prospective law career. To seal the deal, all you need to do is tell those fancy UN guys that you scored the best living situation in Brooklyn – your handsome Italian super and his cazzone of a bro can fix anything, and you live in the heart of Little Italy. Those old ladies from Napoli will want you to come over for coffee every day."

She hummed teasingly. "My handsome super and his … toolbelt."

"Exactly."

They carried on dancing for another hour when the yacht docked at the Fisherman's Wharf and announced that the cruise had ended. Hand in hand, Luigi and Daisy disembarked and strolled along the darkened seashore, unwilling to part each other's company. By 9:30, Luigi groaned, knowing that Yael would call in a few Israeli ex-pats to hunt him down if he did not deliver the beloved princess back to the castle by ten. Leading her back to the parking garage, he helped Daisy into the passenger side, closed the door, and hopped into the driver's side. Due to the constant downtown traffic, the trip to the Abravanel house in Pacific Heights took fifteen minutes, which neither person minded, as it gave them extra time together. Shortly before ten o'clock, the blue SUV stopped outside of the walkway to the front door above which the outdoor lights were illuminated. "Ten o'clock sharp; as promised," Luigi kidded. The lioness gave him an uneasy smile, to which he took her left hand and kissed the top. "Both the A-frame on 17th Avenue and I will be waiting for you, cat-face. Text me your itinerary, and I'll pick you up from the airport. Even if you land in Jersey."

"Okay," she breathed. He traced her jawline with his fingers, then leaned into give her a kiss. Lips millimeters apart and closing the distance, they did not notice a figure approach the passenger side. The door unexpectedly opened, causing both people to jump. Daisy whirled to her right and cried in Portuguese, "Papai, o que está fazendo?!"

Luigi gasped at the six-foot, slender man in a pink Oxford, gray pants, and wire-framed glasses who was yanking Daisy out of the car. "Out! Vai para dentro de casa while I deal with the ijit here," he said in a heavy Boston accent. "Agora, menina!" he yelled at the obstinate girl. The Brooklynite gave her a reassuring glance before gesturing with his eyes to go inside as her father had ordered. Once the upset woman had disappeared into the mansion, the older man crossed his arms and demanded, "So you must be Mr. Cannoli."

"Y-yes, sir," the plumber managed in a high-pitched voice. "L-Luigi Masciarelli."

"Uh-huh. And is your other alias Mr. Palo Alto?" At Luigi's stunned silence, Harry chewed on his lip angrily. "Ijit, did ya think Daisy's stepmother and I were stupid? Hmm? That you wouldn't get caught? Now, Mr. Cannoli, I want to know exactly who the hell you are and what you want with my daughter. I'll give you twenty seconds, so be brief. And don't bother with the bullshit Luzzatto story."

"I've been dating Daisy since February, back in New York," admitted Luigi while gripping the steering wheel. "I came out here to study engineering at Stanford for the summer session."

The man's brown eyes darkened in irritation. "I see. Given that my daughter didn't say anything to me or her stepmother about you, I can only conclude that there was something to hide. And what might that be? What do you do, Mr. Cannoli?"

He gulped again and gripped the wheel until his knuckled turned white. Even if it made Daisy's father livider, he would no longer lie. "I manage a plumbing shop in Brooklyn. The union sent me to take a few classes here in California. As for Daisy, I met her at a Columbia-sponsored party; my best friends are PhD students and invited me."

"And you thought my daughter was a hoodsie?" growled Harry. "How old are you, anyway, ijit?"

Mouthing the word and quickly searching his memory for the term, his eyes widened once he remembered the definition. "I'm twenty-eight!" exclaimed Luigi in repugnance and outrage.

"Good," Harry scoffed. "I'm sure you can find a twenty-something Italian girl back in Brooklyn to date. Have a pleasant flight back to New York and leave my daughter alone."

As Harry turned away to walk back inside his house, Luigi unbuckled his seatbelt and jumped out of the vehicle. "Mr. Abravanel, please, would you hear me out?" The man impatiently crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "I meant no disrespect to you or your family. I have no ulterior motives. I … I have a solid job, I own my house, I have no debt, and I'm getting my engineering degree to build the business. I know Daisy's finishing up at Columbia and will be going to law school next year. I have no desire to interfere with that. Given all she's accomplished this spring, which is due to her hard work, I think she's proven her commitments to you!"

"Yes, I'm keenly aware of her mind and perseverance, ijit," the lawyer coldly retorted. His stare softened a little, and he added, "It's nothing personal, kid. I'm sure, being from New York, you're familiar with aspects of my family's culture and religious norms. And as such, you know our culture would consider your relationship with Daisy to be deeply inappropriate. If you mean no disrespect to me or my family, then you'll end it here."

Daisy's father began to walk toward the front door when Luigi suddenly cried, "What about what she wants?!"

Without stopping this time, Harry shrugged and tossed over his shoulder, "We all got wants in life; I want a Dunkees in San Francisco. It doesn't mean it'll happen."


Miles sat frustratedly in front of his multiple-monitor set up in his office: the first and second screens featured the payrolls of the Local 2 and Luigi's shop, the third of Lucas Kariolis's Twitter page which had been silent since prior to his impromptu trip to Mexico. Where the hell did he go? A douchebag like Lucas did not just 'disappear' without a reason. His father, George (née Giorgios), was also mysteriously absent, save for a recent high-profile donation to make immunizations affordable and accessible for low-income, immigrant, and section eight families in Harlem and the Bronx. He would have applauded the measure had he not been intimately tied to the criminal underworld in Sicily, Greece, and New York. Bothering him even more was the lack of communication by either Luigi or Giuseppe over the past few weeks. The former was to return to New York later that week, so he wanted his and Mario's Bensonhurst A-frame locked down like Fort Knox, as he suspected both Pete Morello and Jackie Morano would make their appearances known within days of taking over the shop. Though the blond would never admit it openly to his best friend, he wished that he and Daisy would stay in California and live happily ever after; she could be number one at Stanford Law and he would build their home together.

There was a buzz from the outside door. Opening the app on one of his virtual machines, he unexpectedly saw a medium-sized Asian standing on the building steps, his pizza in hand. Upon activating the com link, Miles heard, "Hey, asshole, I've got," the man flipped the box open, "pepperoni, sausage, extra cheese, and a bunch of other green and yellow shit. And I think, yes, yes," he added, holding up a bag in another hand, "we also have a bag of York Peppermints. That'll be two hundred bucks not including a very generous tip!"

Rolling his eyes, he buzzed in his other best friend. A moment later, he heard a knock; Yoshi Miyamoto waltzed into the living room and put the pizza box and mints on the breakfast bar as Miles closed and locked the apartment door behind them.

The Japanese spun around and extended his right hand. "Where's my tip?" The blond engineer rolled his eyes again, at which point his friend walked over to the pizza box and took a slice. "Okay, now, we're even."

"What brings you by on a weekday? I take it you had a nice trip to Tokyo?" asked Miles as he took a bite of pizza.

Yoshi nodded. "Yeah, yeah, it was good. I'm still too American for my family and they still hate Birdo, so nothing's changed. But this time, Birdo and I managed to get to Kyoto and do some sightseeing. We also made a stop in Taiwan. Birdo's still parents hate me, so status quo. Her mother said, and I quote, 'The only worse choice would have been a North Korean.'"

The blond winced in sympathy. "Ouch."

"Eh, I stopped giving a shit a few years ago, and they know that." He swallowed a glob of cheese and went to his friend's refrigerator for a can of melon-flavored soda. "So what have you been up to lately?"

"Work," replied Miles in between chews.

"So who fucked up this time? JP Morgan? Some Wall Street blowhard who thought he couldn't get his ass hacked? Spill!"

Before he could refuse and remind Yoshi of the meaning of and necessity for NDAs, the Japanese bolted toward his office, snickering and skipping quickly down the hall to his multi-monitor set-up atop the black bamboo Jarvis desk. Sitting down, Yoshi moved the mouse to view his screens. Miles smirked as the Japanese was confronted with a password request. Yoshi swiveled toward him and aggressively bit into his slice, "I'm not movin' my ass, Miles, so spill!"

"It's nothing glamourous, seriously!"

"So I could tell Mario about it?" the Japanese responded with a grin.

Miles blinked, and he tried to hide his shifting eyes. "Tell him what?"

Yoshi smiled even brighter. "I knew it! If you don't want Mario to know, then it's something big." Pizza slice still in hand, he slid out his smartphone and made a show of displaying Mario's number. "Tell me!" he demanded in a sing-song voice.

"You wouldn't dare!" gasped the blond.

The Asian pretended to think while chewing more of his half-eaten pizza. "Um, yeah, yeah, I would."

"Oh, Jesus, fine!" growled the hacker as he unlocked his computer.

Yoshi gleefully giggled as he examined his screens. "Okay, so … it has something to do with the unions. Very nice and very crooked. Hmm. This shit makes me regret choosin' Engineering Physics as a profession, but that's for another day. Who's this loser, Lu … ?" The pizza nearly fell out of his fingers, dry crumbs landed near the keyboard which made a whining Miles grab a napkin to protect his several-thousand-dollar machine from cleaning costs. "How the hell do you know Lucas Kariolis?" he questioned in an angry tone.

"Yoshi, you know I can't answer that," he said quietly. "But you can tell me how you know the name."

The physicist's eyes narrowed dangerously and he set the pizza down on the napkin that Miles had provided. "I only know the asshole by reputation. The fucker's a known cheat. A friend of mine from Stuyvesant went to Harvard for Math. Well, she and this fucknuts were both in the Math 55a course – you know, the so-called 'hardest math class in the world' bullshit. The professor was already a dick and wanted to flush out as many Indians and women as he could, claiming that the class 'needed to be of the same background.' She was one of the last standing when Lucas planted a solutions guide on her during the second mid-term. She was administratively dropped, only for the Math Department to discover later that it had actually belonged to him. He was dismissed right before finals, but of course, the administration made sure she could never sue. She ended up transferring to Berkeley to get her degree. Karma helped her out in the end, 'cause she got a Rhodes to attend Oxford."

"The fact that he's a cheater isn't surprising," growled the blond while shaking his head in disgust. "He's, uh, got something to do with Slaughter."

Yoshi's eyes widened, the last bite of pizza falling out of his mouth and onto the napkin. "Okay, fuck this, I'm callin' Mario!"

"No!" The blond snatched his phone and hid it behind his back. "Mario will only go after him – physically!"

"Uh, yeah, that's the fucking point!" yelled Yoshi, who rose from the chair to grab at the phone.

"Yoshi, the guy's a skilled hacker. And I do mean skilled."

The realization fell upon the agitated young man, and he sank into the swivel chair. "Shit. Luigi's phone. He's the one who's responsible for Luigi disappearing to California and … god-knows-where. But how does he know Lucas?" Miles did not answer; instead, he gave Yoshi a meaningful glance to 'think it through,' as he so often did at Stuyvesant and MIT. "Okay, so the only time when they could have met … Brooklyn City! Goddamnit, I knew there was more to Luigi leaving than either he or Giuseppe let on! That motherfucker!"

"I only know bits and pieces, Yosh, but yeah, he's dangerous."

Yoshi glared at the Twitter page on the third screen and hissed, "So what do you want to do about this little fuck?!"

"I had tracked his ass to Mexico, then he became Houdini and went AWOL. I need to draw him out; I suspect he's running some unknown garbage behind the scenes with the union," explained the hacker.

The physicist nodded, briefly leaving the office to get his melon soda can. "Okay, so aside from being a first-class fucker, what does he do?"

"CEO of some lame gaming company. His latest 'masterpiece' is called War Rampage 3, I think?"

Can in hand, Yoshi returned to the office with his own laptop and sat on the less comfortable beanbag chair in the corner. "Aight," he began, bringing the soda to his lips with his left hand, "War Rampage 3," he repeated, typing with his right into a Google search box. "Did you try 4chan?"

Miles shook his head as he took a handheld vacuum to collect the stray crumbs. "I avoid that sewer whenever possible. Gamer bros aren't my crowd. Plus, the IDs can be hard to decrypt – most users are anonymous."

"Nah, see, with a piece of shit, you gotta go into the sewer. That's where all pieces of shit end up. Just ask Mario and Luigi. Did you find any aliases that the fucker uses?"

"Yeah, actually. I think he has two Twitter handles. One's lucaskariolis, which is connected to his LinkedIn page. The other is a guess based on his followers' list, and no, I'm not repeating it!"

"Why?" asked Yoshi. "Dude, it's a fuckin' name. It's not like if you say it three times, he'll miraculously appear! Just tell me the name."

The blond muttered a series of syllables under his breath, to which the Japanese barked, "Jesus, hex me, ya prude!" Miles slid into his desk chair and typed a coded message to Yoshi's phone. A second later, the latter's smartphone buzzed with the hexadecimal: "406d75686c69656e7072706c6562616c7a."

"Figures that a stupid fuck like him would use muhlienprplebalz as his real handle. Alright, let me do a search in Reddit first – first level of shit. Yep, got him! He uses the same addy. Man, does the guy have a history. Bitches this, whores that. Sounds like he's right at home with this crowd. And not surprisingly, he loves PUA. However," Yoshi trailed off as he read some more, "on both 4chan and Reddit, they hate War Rampage 3 – called it a cheap rip-off of GTA and Call of Duty."

"Yeah, I found an article on some gamer website rating it a C- for bugs and a shitty plot," affirmed Miles, who was finishing his slice.

"Okay, speaking of shit, get a load of this, Miles: on r/wargames, he claims that he's a software engineer out in L.A. who works for the almighty CEO. Apparently, he's blaming the bugs all on this chick named Suzy, who's – I quote him – 'a tight-assed, pink-haired bitch who intentionally subverted the project because she was a devotee of Andrea Dworkin.' Femoids, femoids, and more femoids. I don't need to read the rest. Anyway, it's recent, within the past two days."

"Yeah, please don't," interrupted the hacker, who chewed the pizza slowly to avoid stomach upset. At Yoshi's sudden cackling and rapid typing, he raised both eyebrows and inquired, "What are you up to?"

"Ah, I'm typing a little surprise for our friend … Creating a nice … moniker to get his attention. Okay, baka Gaijin, come out and play with Yoshi." The blond engineer walked hesitantly to view what his friend had written and covered his mouth.

Pink-haired_Barbarella 1m ago

Dude, you sound like a purple-pill popper who's too much of a byte-tch to own up to

elementary coding errors. But as the old saying goes, why do blind programmers use

Java? Because they can't C for shit! I'm frankly surprised that the CEO hasn't been sued by Sledgehammer or DMA yet. I'm willing to start a gamer GoFundMe for your legal fees.

"Okay, now we wait," said the Japanese while chugging the rest of his melon soda.

"He won't respond to that!" insisted Miles.

"Oh, yes, he will, Miles-chan! These types of assholes love to argue and show off their superior stupidity. I know because I got one of them on my team; for some fucking reason, my PI loves the dick. He can't code for shit, makes us clean up his messes, yet he's a master ass-kisser. And just like that dick, he'll take the bait."

As Yoshi scarfed down his second slice of pizza and Miles scanned the 'unique accounting system of Local 2,' the Japanese reloaded the Reddit page to reveal an orange mail icon. "Oh, we have a response!" he chortled, then looked up at his friend. "You're so lucky that we didn't bet money." Clicking on the inbox button at the top right-hand corner of the screen, he snickered at the reply and read it aloud:

Muhlienprplebalz 2m ago

Ooh, give me some easy x, darling. I'd love to show you my kung fu anytime you're

up for it. But I'll play it easy for a femoid who's trying to troll a master … debater. And

your legal knowledge sucks hard. You can't sue an employee for doing what the boss

tells you to do. But hey, this is why femoids shouldn't be "programmers." Kisses xxxooo.

"I'm going to vomit now," spoke the hacker from his Jarvis desk.

"Before you reach for the porcelain bowl, dude, what do you want to get from pencil dick, here? You said that you needed him to make a move. To do what, exactly?"

Miles huffed at his friend. In for a penny, in for a pound. "I think he's working with someone who hasn't shown themselves yet. Someone who's also tied to Scott Pichler."

Yoshi stared at him seriously. "Jesus, just what the fuck did Mario and Luigi get themselves into?"

"More like their father and Giuseppe. Possibly Salvatore Rigassi, as well. Previous generation," he explained perfunctorily.

"Fuck," breathed the physicist. "Aight, give me a moment to think." He tapped the computer plastic, then concluded, "Okay, this is going to be a long game. What are your impressions of the guy? Other than being a spoiled rich douche with a penchant for cheating?"

"Well," the blond started, swiveling his chair back and forth, "he's … a showoff, wants everyone to be mesmerized by his wealth. He especially wants Luigi to be impressed with him. He hates Daisy on a personal level. He really hates Giuseppe."

"So he wants a captive audience independent of women and authority figures. Both scare him. Likes Luigi probably because he's actually smart, and there's that part of him that's jealous of authenticity. Freud would have a field day with the prick. Hmm, I have an idea. Let's play … sock puppet … Ready or not, here I come, Lucas the Loser."