Author's notes: The third and final part of this arc. I have a special present prepared for everyone. There will be a series of chapters to be published for the holidays. More to follow in the next week. I'm giving a warning for strong language for this chapter, as we have a couple of wiseguy characters in it.

There's also a part where a character talks about his "AC1." This is intentional, lol. I'm aware that it's "A1C."

Thanks for continuing to read; reviews and general support are always appreciated and welcomed :)


Chapter 33: Interruptions, Part 3

"Jesus Christ," breathed Lucas as he strolled into the disaster area of a kitchen and living room – dirty dishes covered in ketchup had piled up in the sink, the pizza box from the previous night had been haphazardly tossed on the breakfast bar, pillows on the sofa were askew, and it had been apparent that Mario had slept in the Lazy-Boy instead of his room, as his dirty clothes, undergarments included, were discarded at its foot. "Given how much of a clean freak you are, Weeg, I know this trash heap of a place has to be Sergeant Major Dickerson's work. I thought Army guys were supposed to keep a tight ship. I can thus deduce that means you've been living … elsewhere." He turned to give Luigi a leering grin, which the plumber ignored. The latter nervously observed the man approach the mantle and the arrangement of photographs. Lucas picked up and inspected the frame with the 1982 photo of Mario Senior and Gabriella on their fifth wedding anniversary. "Pity that I never met your father. Never knew what your mother looked like until now. You definitely take after the Rigassis. Hard to believe she was related to Jackie or the Colorado Crazies, though." Setting it back on the mantle, he turned to his friend once more. "The doc will be here any minute now. We'll give you something to take the edge off, get you relaxed and dressed."

At that moment, they both heard a firm knock against the front door. Quickly, Lucas moved to let the forties-something man inside the Masciarelli home. "Hey, thanks for coming, Doc. Luigi, this is Jonathan Gould, M.D. I'll leave you guys to it. I'll be upstairs in Luigi's room getting him ready for the ball."

The plumber opened his mouth to protest, but Lucas had already disappeared upstairs, leaving him with the dark brown-haired man in khakis and a blue polo shirt, his black medical bag in hand. Reluctantly, he sat down on the sofa across from Dr. Gould.

"So," began the physician gently, "Lucas explained a little bit of the situation on the phone. However, I'd like to hear it from you directly."

Luigi shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, uh, I just found out that I have an important lunch to attend. It's for my new job, so I can't say no. And it's in Manhattan, which I avoid whenever possible. I'm worried about a potential panic attack going there. I also promised my girlfriend no more cigarettes, which is my go-to for this sort of thing."

"Why do you avoid Manhattan?" asked Dr. Gould.

Avoiding eye contact with the doctor, he wordlessly gestured to the tri-folded flag that sat encased in glass and wood atop the mantle. Dr. Gould set his bag down and approached the flag. The man removed it and, clutching it with both hands, read the inscription; his shocked brown eyes darted to the photograph of a middle-aged, mustachioed man dressed in the uniform of a FDNY lieutenant from the late 1990s. "Jesus," the man breathed as he repositioned the flag reverently and returned to his patient. "Kid, I am so sorry. Do these people know about this?"

"Yeah," groused Luigi, wiping a tear from his cheek. "That was … kind of the point – to rattle me. These aren't the most empathetic or sane types of people. I don't work with them on a daily basis, but I have to meet with them."

Dr. Gould shook his head. "Evidently. You have my sincerest sympathies, Luigi; I was doing my residency at Mount Sinai when it happened." He sighed, "Unfortunately, since you're not my regular patient, I can't … do much for you. I can, however, get you an emergency prescription for Xanax or Klonopin. Are you going to be drinking at this lunch?"

"Probably," he muttered.

"Shit," cursed the doctor. "Those are fast-acting anti-anxiety meds; assuming that you haven't had any reactions to Xanax or the same family, they'll work if taken within an hour or so of your meeting, but the effects can be magnified if you consume alcohol. Personally, I'd advise you against drinking. Then again, going to this thing sounds like a real shitshow."

At his last remark, Luigi burst out laughing and nodded. "Yeah, no shit."

The physician picked up his medical bag and moved within a couple of feet of the younger man. Taking out his stethoscope and portable blood pressure monitor, he took Luigi's vitals. "Heart rate is eighty-five and BP is one-thirty over eighty. Lungs are clear and heart sounds pretty normal. Since it seems like you exercise, perhaps a little too much, I'd say your hypertension is definitely stress-related. I'd be happy to prescribe the anti-anxiety meds to you, say, a five-day supply, until you can see your regular practitioner. It's your call. Have you ever been on Xanax before?"

Luigi shook his head. "No. I was … hospitalized when I was sixteen, a year after … that. Docs put me on SSRIs, but I did … poorly on them. They turned me into a zombie."

"Well, Xanax is a benzodiazepine, so different family – it's essentially a tranquilizer. SSRIs are prescribed for long-term anxiety disorders. This is a very short-term solution. Honestly, if you were my patient, I'd probably give you a script for a fluoxetine like Prozac in conjunction with exercise and psychotherapy. That's the long-term treatment, mainly because it can take several SSRIs to find the 'right one' for you. Don't take it the wrong way, Luigi; I don't think you're crazy. Rather, I'd guess you have an anxiety disorder combined with post-traumatic stress. However, I'm not a psychiatrist, so I can't substantiate that diagnosis. It's currently," he swung his arm to check his plain Bloomingdale's watch, "well, shortly after nine. If you do want the script, I can call it in to the nearest pharmacy and tell 'em to rush the order. You should have it by the time you need to take it. That being said, you're the patient, Luigi, so it's entirely your choice."

The plumber shifted forward to put his head in his hands and mull his options. He hated drug therapy, especially after being given SSRIs that zombified him during his first semester at Staten Island Tech and caused him to fail several Russian quizzes as well as a Physics exam that would normally have been a piece of cake. Yet he would be unable to get an emergency session with Dr. Czernin on short notice and he did not want to alarm Daisy by calling her to discuss his psychopathic cousin. As for Mario and Giuseppe, he could not tell them, either; the former would go on a rampage to Manhattan and the latter would risk his own health to stand in Jackie's way. Running a hand through his hair and glancing at the portrait of Lieutenant Masciarelli, he murmured, "I'll take the Xanax, Doc."

Fifteen minutes later, Lucas paid Dr. Gould, who informed Luigi that he had put in the prescription to the pharmacy on 60th Street, and escorted him out of the house. The green-shirted plumber moved toward the mantle and spoke to the picture, "Pops, I … Io ho paura. E non sono coraggioso come te o come Mario. Che faresti?" For the first time in over ten years, he allowed his fingertips to press against the glass of the frame.

"Hey, Weeg," called out Lucas who had returned to the living room, "I laid out a few of your suits. They're upstairs. We should leave here in just under two hours, so let's get a move on."

Looking at Lucas, then back at the photo, he nodded in silence. Inhaling deeply, he mustered all of his strength to quell the burning sensation at the pit of his stomach and followed the tall man upstairs to his room.


Luigi sat mutely in the passenger seat of the BMW as his frenemy negotiated the late-morning traffic on their way to his least favorite place on planet Earth. Thankfully, the driver took the BQE up through Williamsburg and Greenpoint to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel so that they would not travel near or around Lower Manhattan. He had taken the Xanax a few minutes prior and was sipping a takeout coffee that Lucas had thrust in his hands before departing Bensonhurst. Dressed in one of his new charcoal gray Italian suits, ivory shirt, and navy blue silk tie, an outsider would undoubtedly describe the plumber's appearance as smart, even elegant. Yet instead of feeling empowered, he felt a mixture of anger, nausea, and fear. While the weight of the iPhone pressed into his pants pocket, he resisted the temptation to send a cry for help to Mario, Giuseppe, Daisy, or even Miles; doing so would only put them in danger, as he did not know whether the Manhattan Lunch was Jackie's or Lucas's idea. Keep it together, Luigi, he thought to himself; find out what Jackie wants and then get the hell out of there.

The black BMW emerged from the yellow-tiled underground tunnel to the red and brown brick high-rises and gray pavement of Midtown which resembled the budding Brooklyn skyline. Luigi pretended that he was not in Manhattan, but in the northern edge of his borough, and they were travelling to Williamsburg instead of a restaurant just a few blocks from the Empire State Building. As the streets were both narrow and maxed out with cars, Lucas opted for a parking garage off East 33rd Street and 5Th Avenue. Luigi downed the coffee as the tall man shut off the engine. Reaching street level, Lucas guided the trembling Luigi at a leisurely pace down 5th Avenue toward the steakhouse. The Brooklynite reasoned that the medicine was starting to take effect since he was not crying or vomiting upon seeing the Empire State Building or the recognizable yellow taxicabs zooming down the Manhattan city blocks. Halfway to their destination, Luigi forced Lucas to stop by gasping to the point of hyperventilation. He squeezed his blue eyes shut, the internal mantra echoing that he was a coward, he was not his father or his brother. When he twisted to run back to the parking garage, a red FDNY truck with the bold white letters "Ladder 42" passed them, heading south on 5th Avenue toward the steakhouse. Exhaling, the plumber straightened his posture and, to Lucas's relief, resumed the trek to Sirico's.

Lucas and Luigi arrived at noon sharp and were escorted past the vast wooden bar to a private dining area in the back of the restaurant. At a large circular table sat two heavy-set Italians, each in two-thousand dollar Milanese suits, two medium-sized Italians in equally expensive suits and ties, and a tall, thin, and mustachioed Greek man in a shiny gray suit, at whom Lucas forced a conciliatory smile. The older Sicilian looked up at his young cousin, rose from his chair, and greeted, "Youse are right on time. C'mere, Luigi; give your cousin a kiss." The plumber walked to Jackie and obediently hugged and kissed him on the cheek. Next rose Tony with whom Luigi did the same. "Sammy, Joey, this is Luigi, my cousin Gabriella's kid. He's also the grandson of Luigi Rigassi and great-grandson of the Campisis." The two wiseguys in their early forties grinned at the plumber and shook his hand, clapping him on the back. "Last but not least, Georgie Kariolis. I'm not sure if you've formally met or not."

"No, we haven't," replied the gray-suited man in a moderately thick Greek accent while extending his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you." Luigi took and shook Lucas's father's hand.

"Aight, that's enough of that fuckin' shit," chortled Jackie with a grin. He spun toward Lucas and said, "The little shit can sit next to his father. We can get him a bib!" The shocked plumber passively watched as the wiseguys erupted in vociferous laughter at the red-faced junior Kariolis. The caporegime then guided Luigi to sit to his left, with Fat Tony on the man's right. "Let's start with the antipasti." Taking a quick glance at his cousin, he added, "We need to fatten this kid up. Jesus Christ, does Stanford impose a fuckin' monk's diet on youse? They may be egghead motherfuckers, but a hunger strike ain't the way to stimulate brain chemicals!"

Flipping open the menu, Luigi remarked lightly, "Something like that. Finals week isn't fun."

Joey and Sammy looked at each other and nodded. "Yeah, I read about those special fuckin' academies that are poppin' up all around Manhattan. You know, the ones that are tryin' to get around the SHSAT? They feed their rich brats a special diet to stimulate brain chemicals – omega threes or some shit."

Jackie, who had been scanning the list of appetizers, drew his eyes and head toward Joey, retorting, "You read? What the fuck do you read – Playboy? Playgirl?"

Joey put up his hands. "Jackie, I read, y'know! I saw it in the New Yorker." At the capo's incredulous eyebrow raise and the table's silent encouragement to explain, "Hey, it was in the dentist's office!"

Suddenly, Jackie burst out laughing. "The New Yorker to get a fucking root canal? Ain't they the same thing? Double the bada-bing!" Once more, the table exploded into snickers, belly laughs, and chortles as Jackie made a screwing gesture with his meaty fist. The plumber chuckled politely while Lucas buried his head in the menu to order food and alcohol. Wiping his eyes, Jackie resumed the conversation once more, "Now, see, that's the problem with this country – sending kids into fuckin' factories and suckin' out their brains! There was a time when kids went outside to play stickball, ride their fuckin' bikes, and makin' a buck runnin' paper routes and shit. Kids could be kids. Now, it's sendin' them to fancy-fucking-fart-farms to teach 'em – what? Algebra? Computer shit? Nah, life's in the real world. My kid's got enough video games!"

The waitstaff flocked into the private dining room to take the group's appetizer orders: Oysters Rockefeller, crab cakes, thick-cut Canadian bacon, and French onion soup for Lucas. Jackie asked their head waiter, Phil, to double the crab cake order for Luigi and demanded that the "skinny piece of nothin' eat the whole fuckin' thing." At least Daisy and Mario will be relieved that I'm eating, thought the plumber uneasily. As he noshed on the two, one-inch-thick crab cakes, much to Jackie's cheek-slapping approval, the latter swatted his antisocial son for "picking his fuckin' nose at the table like a porco." Finishing one of his oysters, Sammy then made nom-nom sounds at Tony, who rolled his eyes and gave him the finger. Phil returned after five minutes to take their drink order. Luigi began to panic when the entire table chose cocktails, whiskey, or, in Georgie's case, a bourbon on the rocks; quickly forming a bad plan well-executed, he asked for both a Diet Coke and a scotch.

"Hey, Luigi, why didn't you just order a scotch and soda?" inquired Sammy.

Luigi shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm tellin' my doctor to go fuck himself. I got this stomach thing, y'know? He told me no drinkin', no sugar, and no fatty foods. Well, I ordered a Diet Coke, so no fuckin' sugar, and a scotch, so a little bit from column A and column B."

Sammy cracked up again, Georgie raised his bourbon to his son's friend, and Big Jackass slapped his cousin on the back. "Fuckin' doctors. One of 'em told me that my AC1 was high, and I'm pre-diabetic. Well, I says to the doc, 'What's an AC1?' And he explains that it means my blood sugar over three months is too high. Well, then I says to him that if I'm turnin' my fuckin' blood to sugar, then I need to get it drawn and add it to some cannoli!" They group laughed again; Luigi watched Lucas try not to gag at the image. "Stomach thing, though? What's-a matter? Some fuckin' California bug?"

"I don't know. I've had it for a bit, y'know," said Luigi in his best Bensonhurst-Brooklyn accent. All of a sudden, he felt the side effects of the Xanax more intensely from the alcohol, and he blinked against the sleepiness.

"Musta gotten it from the fuckin' Masciarellis." Jackie took a bite of his own crab cake and explained, "Youse never met 'em, but Luigi's nonno and papà were … well-rounded. You know, proper Italiani! His fuckin' brother, Mario, well, that fat Abruzzese fuck probably ate his way through the Army mess hall. I remember he used to screw us at Nathan's every goddamned year. Fucker once ate forty fuckin' hog dogs, and I was out a hundred bucks." Everyone sniggered, including Luigi and Lucas, nodding their agreement. "Now his Zio Masciarelli, Giuseppe, is a fuckin' rail – magro come un chiodo, and in more fuckin' ways than one. Il cazzone ha un chiodo in testa, huh? Probably the same shit." He put a hand on Luigi's shoulder, "Ah, it's okay, kid. Eat a little more good New York cose da mangiare, and you'll be aight. God knows what the fuck those hippie cocksuckers out there eat. Jesus Christ." Jackie was munching on the final bite of the crab cake when Phil and his entourage returned to take their main course selections. Fearful of the alcohol and anti-anxiety drug interaction, Luigi requested a tomahawk ribeye steak with mashed potatoes and garlic spinach. The waitstaff refilled their water glasses as well as their cocktails before sending the entrée orders to the kitchen.

The caporegime sipped his whiskey sour, "Although I feel bad for the guy, y'know? He was the eternal fuckin' understudy, first to his father, who never allowed the poor bastard to have a share in his plumbing business, then to Jumpman who became a fuckin' hero to every paesano in south Brooklyn." He cast his piercing brown eyes at Luigi who managed to avoid being seen to shift uncomfortably in his seat. "Living in the shadow of every fuckin' Mario within the 11204 and 11214. You're his only success, kid. Look at ya – master plumber at twenty-eight and Stanford-educated. That first bit was Giuseppe, but the second? Nah." Glancing at Lucas, he went on, "California's got a lot of sushi-eating, gamer fucks. Somehow raw fish is considered a diet out there!" He took another swallow of his whiskey, "They got Napa out there, so va bene. But youse want to know a real fuckin' culinary desert? Colorado. For all the skiing and fuckin' chalets in Aspen, Steamboat Springs, and Telluride, I think," he turned to confirm the name with Tony, who nodded, "Yeah, Telluride, they don't got shit to eat. A couple years back, I was out visiting Petey-Boy in Denver. Motherfucker brings me to this place – the Buckhorn Exchange. It's this rat-infested piece a-shit near some goddamn train tracks. Him and his cognato, Gennaro. So we sit down, and the first antipasto? Fried cow cocks!"

"Wait, what the shit?" Joey interjected. "Sorry, Jackie, but Petey made you eat … ?"

Jackie gave a single nod. "Yeah, gli coglioni di toro! He thought I wasn't gonna eat 'em, but, y'know, what the fuck? Then I says to him that they taste a little salty, y'know, like the jockstraps of his fuckin' Denver Donkeys." The entire table laughed at the capo's comeback, except for Luigi, who smiled politely and wondered whether this was a passive-aggressive commentary on the Morello-Morano rivalry, and the disbelieving Lucas, whose arms were crossed. Jackie glanced at the tall man in purple and snickered, "Ah, what's a-matter, kid? Never gobbled a cock with extra mayo before? Go figure!" Lucas remained quiet, as the piercing glare from his father warned him not to back-talk the Mafioso. "Ah, fuck. Anyway, so I eat the cow dick, and we're on the second antipasto. So the waitress, with her Rocky Mountain tette," the men alternated between howling with laughter and whistling from Jackie's exaggerated gesture to represent the woman's breasts, "brings out this Super Bowl chile, cheese, and lime dip crap topped with what looked like chicken and with these fuckin' multicolored taco chips. So I says, 'Hey, Petey, what's in the dip?' So what do youse think it was?"

"More horsecocks!" cried Sammy. Joey, who was red in the face, clapped in agreement.

"Ey, fuck youse!" retorted Jackie with a grin. He pointed at Tony who had put his hand over his mouth to keep from choking, "You already know, so keep your bocca shut."

"Animal?" asked Georgie, downing the rest of his bourbon to start his second.

"I think … Yeah, well, sort of. Aight, one last guess! Luigi, you wanna take a stab at it, kid?"

Given a joke that Sam and Matt had told him during his visit, Luigi had a good guess as to what it was; however, if he was correct, Jackie would be angry at him ruining the story. "Uh, a goose?" he offered.

"Well, it wouldn't surprise me – those Denver mountain fucks will eat anything wondering around. But nah, kid. Close, though. So, what was it? Well, Petey leans into me and says, 'Colorado rattlesnake.'"

"Did it taste like chicken?" inquired Sammy.

"Actually, yeah – thankfully. I already fuckin' ate cow balls. Anyway, later, after I got the waitress's number, I asked for a recipe. Then I sent him back something … New Jersey Holstein cock and Maryland snake – in pieces, if you know what I mean!"

The rest of lunch continued with equally crude stories, mainly involving their mistresses, which Luigi found distasteful in the extreme. Luckily, they did not ask him to elaborate on his sex life or make any reference to Daisy, at least directly. Between bites of his large portion of filet mignon, Jackie made an offhanded comment about Luigi being an "ass man" and liking aggressive women. Joey and Sammy descended into a choking fit and, after a sip of gin and tonic, remarked that "certain Irish fucks liked leather and whips." Fat Tony shook his head in dismay, visibly embarrassed at the obvious allusion to the Daisy-Bowser brawl at Mickey's. Contrary to his nature, Lucas again stayed quiet, as if taking in any and all information from the Morano crew. They concluded the meal with a variety of desserts – tiramisu, tartuffo, chocolate cake, apple strudel – and cups of espresso. By three o'clock, Luigi was incredibly drowsy from the medication and massive lunch, which the wiseguys noticed and ordered him another coffee to keep him awake. Jackie paid the bill and provided an extraordinarily generous tip to the staff. The portly man blinked an unspoken request to Joey, who rose with the young plumber.

As the latter thanked his host for the meal and gave him a kiss on the cheek, Jackie gently slapped his thick hand on his face and spoke, "Figurati, huh? We got some business in the City with Georgie, so Joey will take you back to the shop in Brooklyn. Next Friday's poker night; why don't you come along for this one? Lucas will pick you up from the shop at six. Ciao, cosino." Before Luigi could ask further, Joey guided him out of the private dining area and to the waiting car and driver outside.


At around four in the afternoon, Luigi had arrived outside the shop and was just cognizant enough to send a text to Sal, who seemed relieved that he was at worst well-fed, and drive his red Suzuki to Daisy's studio apartment in Park Slope. Buzzing him into the building, she was shocked to find a somnolent, gray-suited plumber at her door. Somewhat alarmed by his different clothes and fatigue, Daisy reached for his phone to call Mario or Giuseppe, but he shook his head, begged her not to call them, and assured her that, following a nap, he would be fine. Reluctantly, she arranged him on their bed and stroked his wavy hair in her lap as he mumbled an apology for not picking up her Thai takeout, and he promised her a feast later that evening.

Sometime later, he darted upright to a darkened bedroom area. Whimpering in a mixture of confusion and fright, the plumber cried out for his girlfriend, who came rushing into the room. "Luigi, hey, it's okay. What happened to the clothes you were wearing earlier?" she asked, turning on the night table lamp.

He put his arms out to examine himself in the suit and remembered the day's events. "I'm sorry, cat-face. I'll get you that Thai takeout. As for my clothes, they're … in Bensonhurst."

She frowned. "Bensonhurst?"

"Yeah. Surprise meeting with Cousin Jackie," Luigi sarcastically responded. As he scrubbed his face and five o'clock shadow with his hands, he added, "It wasn't that bad, even though he dragged me to Midtown. I got put into a steakhouse-induced coma and listened to some really sickening stories about their mistresses and conquests, but that was the extent of it."

"Cousin Jackie? The capo?!" exclaimed Daisy. "And Midtown – as in Manhattan?"

"Yeah."

"Dio, are you alright?" she demanded somewhat angrily. "Why didn't you call me?"

Luigi enfolded her into his arms and kissed her temple. "Yeah, I'm okay, sweetie. This morning, Lucas came to get me in person. I, uh, tried to tell them to go fuck themselves, but no dice. There wasn't a lot of time, and I didn't want to make this your problem. The less they know about you, the better." Before she could protest, he put a finger to her lips and shook his head. "I know you can take care of yourself, cat-face. But I won't risk you. I … I can't face your father and stepmother and do any less. I love you. We're semi-living together now. Ti voglio bene – I want you well, in more ways than one. You need to focus on the UN, getting into law school. Not mafiosi schmucks who I happen to be related to."

"Luigi, we're partners. If they target you, then they also target me. No secrets." He opened his mouth to object, but her harsh glare slammed it shut. "No secrets."

"Aight," he acquiesced. "No secrets. Next Friday, they requested-demanded me to attend their poker night."

"What?! Jesus Christ!" she swore. "So you … passed Jackie's test?"

He shrugged. "I guess, which is wild because I didn't say much, and I was trying to fail it without getting the shit kicked out of me. So, counselor, what do you think?"

"Well," she exhaled sharply, laying her head against his shoulder, "it would help to know their endgame. Are you a pawn in a war of factions between Pete and Jackie? Or does Jackie have something else in mind? And, of course, there's the Lucas question."

The plumber hummed and kissed her temple a second time. "Dunno. However, George Kariolis, Lucas's father, was at the lunch. I don't have a clue why. Same with Fat Tony." He laughed aloud, commenting, "And boy, did they shit on Lucas! I was shocked at how … public it was. Called him a gamer fuck and a baby. I almost think they brought George in to keep him in line, but I'm not sure."

Daisy moved to sit on the couch, with Luigi sinking into the space next to her. "Interesting. I've seen enough Mafia movies to know that there's a pecking order. You might not be made, but they seem to value you above him."

"Yeah, that would make sense. I'm Jackie's first cousin once removed. In Italian families, first cousins are practically siblings; second cousins are still important, but they're like cousins in an Anglo-Saxon American context."

"And," she noted additionally, "you're Carlo Morano's great-nephew and your Sicilian grandfather was a made man, right?"

"Unfortunately," confirmed Luigi who, once more, dropped his head in Daisy's lap and draped his long legs over the opposite arm of the couch. "But it seems like I was Pete's 'pick' to run the shop. And it was pretty clear that Jackie and Pete dislike each other. Jackie told this story about how Pete took him to his weird restaurant in Denver that served … bull testicles."

His girlfriend snorted. "So, a Mafia-style pissing contest? But a pissing contest over what? Succeeding Carlo? He's how old?"

Like a cat, he nuzzled her plush lap and stared at the ceiling while she stroked his hair and traced his mustache. "Yeah, that's my impression, too. I've met Carlo a grand total of four times. He was always … grandfatherly toward me. Never raised his voice or treated me unkindly, unlike Nonno Mario, who could be a real prick and was, well, homophobic. He loved my brother because he was the manly type – Mr. Varsity Baseball, Mr. Varsity Football, Mr. Track and Field in addition to beating the shit out of Marco on several occasions. Nonno, uh, called me a finocchio, especially after I started taking ballet lessons. Pops, the avowed pacifist, nearly got into a fistfight right then and there with him. Uncle Joe held him back while Nonna took me out of the living room for a cannolo. That's why it shocked me that he supported my going to college against Uncle Joe's protests. Anyway, Pete and Jackie are, I think, the potential successors. Unless there's an underboss. Carlo's – what – eighty-three, eighty-four?"

"So he could … pass on at any time."

"Yeah, I suppose," he replied absent-mindedly. "I just … I want nothing to do with this! I'll pay 'em the money every month to leave the shop alone. And I need to get you the Pad Thai before it's too late for dinner …"

As he tried to sit up and launch off Daisy and the couch, she held him in place. "Luigi? I already ate a couple of slices of leftover pizza. You can bring me Pad Thai tomorrow. Right now, you need to rest. You just went to Manhattan of all places and had to deal with the fucking Mafia – all of which against your will!" Gently, she laid his head on the cushion and went to set her iPhone into the music player. Adjusting the volume to avoid angry neighbors above and below, she pushed play, and he heard the opening chords of Sam Cooke's "Good Times." Returning to the couch, Daisy slid underneath his head, and resumed their previous position. They did not talk for some time, focused rather on the soothing voices of Sam Cooke and Otis Redding. Although Luigi continued to stare at the apartment ceiling, he raised his right hand to clasp hers, occasionally caressing her fingers with his. When he did finally speak, he changed the subject to her day; as if right on cue, the iPhone player shifted to P!nk's "Don't Let Me Get Me." She was at first hesitant until he pleaded with her to help him forget the day's events and pretend like it was any other workday. For the rest of the evening, they happily discussed her law school applications and first draft of her thesis introduction.

The next morning – Sal Maldonado's last as manager-master plumber of the shop – was gray and somber, with Luigi wearing the washed clothes that he had worn a few days ago. The new manager kissed his lioness goodbye before driving to work, which, to him, felt like a death march. By the time that he arrived to the shop, Mario had already arranged the chocolate cake in Sal's office, and the entire company had gathered inside or near the small room. Sal shook his head, said a few choice curse words in Spanish, and flipped a double bird at both Mario and Luigi to the chortles and loud applause of José, journeymen, apprentices, and adjunct welders. José brought in a couple bottles of champagne and requested permission from the new boss to overlook the no alcohol policy, to which Luigi gave a loud, yet trembling "Permission granted!" As they divided up the chocolate cake, a tall, gaunt figure in a pair of jeans, a navy blue zip-up hoodie, and scuffed sneakers walked into the shop.

"Jesus, man, what are you doin' here?" gasped Sal at his colleague and friend. The man had lost twenty pounds on an already thin frame, and his formerly medium-length curly hair had been replaced by a Mets baseball cap.

Giuseppe shrugged weakly. "I had it on good authority … that it's your last day, and I ain't dead yet."

Sal smiled. "And what did Lucia think of that decision?"

"Ah … Well, she said she'd come get … my scrawny ass in forty-five. A guy's gotta get out from under his wife's iron fist every … once in a while."

The Sanjuanero burst out laughing and, giving the man a warm hug, escorted him toward the cake and open bottles of champagne. "Ah, Joe, you ain't changed! I'm glad you made it."

Music and boisterous merriment of the group obscured the green plumber's discreet exit toward the side of the shop, where he grasped the red brick of the building in an attempt to pacify the budding panic attack. I can't do this, I can't be in charge! Why did Sal and company pick me? Why? Mario or José were better choices! Luigi then felt a sense of shame; it was Sal's retirement party, and here he was hiding from his employees and making it about himself. In his entrepreneurial studies course at Stanford, leadership was defined as "leading by example; inspiring one's employees to work for company goals." The plumber wondered if he should have given back that A, as he had obviously failed in applying that lesson to the real world. Plastered against the cool brick, tears slipped from his closed eyes, and his ragged breathing drowned out the honking and passing-by of Brooklyn traffic. His mind having gone completely blank to the point of nearly losing consciousness, Luigi had not perceived the approaching footsteps or a pair of thin, strong hands grabbing his shoulders.

"P-P-Please, just l-l-leave me alone," he begged.

"Like hell!" bit out a familiar voice.

He slowly opened his eyes to reveal an expressionless Giuseppe directly in front of him. Breathing harshly, he murmured, "Just … Go back in there! I'll be in, aight?"

"Kid, you can't be like this! You're the manager now! The guys … can't see you break down."

An angry Luigi hissed, "Yeah, I know! I'm the fuckin' manager that nobody wants – the finocchio! Sal, Pete, Jackie, God-knows-who-else made a mistake! Let's just give it to fuckin' José or Mario!" He took a step to escape his paternal uncle when he felt himself pushed back against the wall.

"Get a goddamned hold of yourself!" growled Giuseppe, still clutching his shoulders. "It's not a mistake!"

"Yeah," he insisted, raising his voice, "yeah, it is! This isn't simply about payin' those assholes a cut! They … Jackie dragged me to Manhattan yesterday for a 'friendly lunch.'" Luigi watched with passive satisfaction as Giuseppe's blue eyes widened. "The only way I got through it was thanks to Lucas's personal doctor! Xanax! I kept my mouth shut, omertà and all that shit, played along like Pete asked me to! And guess what? Oh, now, I'm going to Friday Poker Night next week! Sound like runnin' a shop to you?!" Joe let go of his shoulders while Luigi chuckled mirthlessly. "I passed his little test without even trying! No, actually, I tried failing it! But the truth is, I'm not brave like Mario or Pops. That's who this shop needs! Me? I'm not them. And I hate myself for it!" Wiping his eyes of fresh tears, he faced the stunned man. "You can't protect me from realities of life. So don't tell me how to feel, Giuseppe."

As he began to walk away again, taking out his phone to text Sal a message that he was feeling unwell, his body was yanked backward by his hoodie and slammed against the wall, cornered by an irate Giuseppe Masciarelli. "I … may have cancer, but I can still … beat your ass!" he rasped furiously. "You're … right. You are not … either Mario Masciarelli!"

"Bene! I'm glad you've conceded one argument in your life, Zio!" interrupted Luigi. "Now let me go!"

"Shut the fuck up!" the older man barked, smacking him against his ear. The green-hoodied plumber started to cry again at his uncle striking him. Bracing himself against the brick, Joe whispered, "I got my chemo in an hour, so I don't … got a lot of time. So shut the fuck up and … listen. You are not Mario – either one of 'em. You're better! You never … turned your back on your family. You … gave us – Maria, Addy, Lucy, your zia, me, Mario – hope! That's what this shop needs, what the union needs! Hope, goddamnit! Yeah, call Mario when someone … needs savin'. You ain't wrong. But hope is … more important. It's the … glue that keeps us together. Family, union, community … together." Straightening his posture, he drew his figlio into his chest and wrapped his arms around him. "I didn't … come here for Sal. I came here … for his successor. My hope."

"Ho paura," the young man murmured into his uncle's bony shoulder.

A single tear escaped Giuseppe's sapphire blue eyes, and he coughed a little in spite of the antitussive medication. "I know, kid. So am I. Jackie, Pete, Lucas … terrify me."

"What … what would Pops have done?"

He crushed his nipote against him, refusing to share his adopted son with the ghost of his elder brother. Sono sempre stato il suo papà, Mario. "I don't know, kid," he ultimately answered. "I just know that … you're never alone. No matter what happens, you'll never be alone. I won't allow it."

"The hell's going on here?" boomed a third voice. "What'd you say to Luigi?" Giuseppe, who kept his nephew in his arms, narrowed his eyes toward the approaching red-shirted Mario and said nothing. "Zio?" he demanded. "I asked what the hell is this!"

"Mario, go inside," whispered Luigi. "I'll be there in a minute. Please."

Incensed, the older brother rapidly closed in on the embracing pair. "Nah, nah! I'm sick of the cloak and dagger shit! I know somethin' happened 'cause Sal was smoking yesterday! He quit years ago! Was it that Lucas fuck?!"

"Kid, this doesn't concern you," warned Giuseppe with a finger.

"The hell it doesn't!" yelled Mario. "I still haven't forgotten the shit with Bowser and Uncle Sal! I want to know what's going on – now!"

Immediately relinquishing Luigi, Giuseppe stepped toe to toe with the equally irate, fist-clenching Mario and jabbed his finger at him. "You selfish fuck! How're those … split knuckles healing, hmm? The Marios – all selfish fucks … whether it's with a firehose or … their fists!"

"Basta!" cried the younger brother.

"Oh, I'm the selfish fuck?" he hissed incredulously. "I'm not part of the generation who decided to sacrifice the next, a fuckin' bambino, to the Mafia! Youse – you, Pops, Pete, Jackass, Salvatore – all youse sold us – Luigi and me – out in some chickenshit game to save your own asses! Yeah, well, I've had enough." The Army staff sergeant pushed his paternal uncle aside and clasped Luigi's hand, interlacing their fingers and squeezing it. "Vafanculo, Joe! Weegie paid the price for my choice a decade ago and your choice three decades ago. It ain't happenin' again!" Before a breathless Giuseppe could respond, Mario led his fratellino by the hand and, tossing a final warning glare to the older man, led him back into the shop.


A sweaty Lucas sat at his glass computer desk, fuming from the previous afternoon's – previous week's – humiliation. After running a half-marathon to clear his head and come up with a plan to play the Woodland Critters against the Moron Moranos and their band of assclowns, all the while avoiding the Bowser Bitch and stealing Luigi away from the Plumbers and Succubus, he was no closer to accomplishing the second part. Despite Big Jackass's calm, yet pointed threats over the other half of the heist money, he easily orchestrated a melancholic melody of obfuscation and crocodile tears to convince the New York wiseguys and his father that Pete Morello had taken the entire one hundred-fifty million dollars. Lucas inwardly relished the flash of pure rage in the caporegime's brown eyes. Although Georgie was partly persuaded, he ostensibly saw the wisdom in going along with his son's dangerous game. However, neither he nor his father hadforeseen Jackie's poker game invitation to his young cousin. Usually, Jackass contented himself with inspiring either awe or fear in friend and foe alike. What the fuck was he up to? As for Luigi, it would take a concentrated game of best-buddy – more so than in the past – to regain his trust. That would, of course, require him to be the most reliable of all the people in his life; except for Daisy, that part would be easy. The Sergeant Major's and Joe the Plumber's numerous lies had screwed them into eternity. Daisy would be the most difficult problem; he could not seduce her like some of Luigi's crushes, and she absolutely loathed him. Luigi would also remain loyal to her, so tempting him with pretty women would fail. But his father, who was, to Lucas's respect and dismay, keenly perceptive, and taught him an important lesson: everyone has a price. He just needed to find out what Daisy's price was.

He logged onto his usual social media haunts – 4chan, Twitter, Reddit – and checked the current feedback for War Rampage 3. While the game was continuing to receive negative feedback in the press and online, it was taking a backseat to even more disparaging commentary on Twitter regarding Lucas's treatment of female and minority employees over the course of several years. "Fuck PC culture," he muttered angrily. Reddit and 4chan, ever the guardians of 'men's work' and 'real bros against the Stacies and Chads' of the universe, defended him against multiculturalism, feminism, communism, fascism, hacktivism, sadism, masochism, onanism, and other -isms. He savored the flame wars between the "cyberfemmes" and "bros" over the merits of Mister Eggplant. So emboldened by his fans' nickname that he changed his Twitter profile picture to a giant shape of the fruit. He left the computer to shower, change into a pair of black khakis and a plum-colored polo, and order a late lunch from his favorite Italian café. Once returned with his orecchiette baresi, he growled at the official warning by Twitter for inappropriate content and request to reset his profile pic. "Ah, Jack, you motherfucker! I paid you extra this month!" Rolling his eyes, he changed the pic back to his G-rated black and white photo and submitted it for review.

Lucas logged off Twitter and, eating his pasta, moved onto 4chan. The majority of posts either ignored his game altogether or complained of a lackadaisical experience – save one post. To the man in purple's glee, a user expounded on the merits of War Rampage 3, that while there were bugs, it was not an entirely bad game: it had a greater variety of NPCs to murder, crimes to commit, and the cinematography for the Benghazi and North African scenes seemed totally legit. The best part was that, with enough points, one could unlock the ability to read Susan Rice's CIA talking points; at least, the user argued, the CEO had a sense of humor. "You flatterer; tell me more," Lucas smirked as he typed a laudatory response to the anonymous user who bothered to play the game to its fullest. He rose from his desk to get a lemon water from the dispenser in his kitchen. As he opened one of the top cabinets for a small glass, he heard a feminine voice behind him, "I trust Big Jackass is suitably angry over that faker Peter Morell's 'possession' of his one-fifty-mil?" Slowly, he spun around to discover the Bowser blonde sitting on one of the breakfast bar stools. She wore a black and white collar blazer with gold buttons, black slacks and tunic, and Milanese gold high heels.

"How the hell did you get in here?" demanded Lucas.

"That's not important," she replied indifferently. "What's important is that I am here. So, tell me, partner, how was lunch yesterday?"

He shrugged, intentionally displaying his wrapped hand. "It was as expected; Jackass wants to kill Pete, though that's nothing new. However, we – or rather, you – will need to plant the money on Morello to make it look legit. Otherwise, Pete will run crying to Carlo about a setup. From the little that my father shares with me, the Don would be more likely to believe Pete than Jackass."

The blonde sipped a lemon Pellegrino which Lucas recognized as having originated from his refrigerator. "Hmm. Well, I can do that. I'll supply a combination of real and counterfeit cash and with your hacking skills, you can create a bank account that would be plausibly owned by Morello. But make Jackass and his goons work for it; if it comes too easily, Carlo won't believe it. Give it a month or so. Once he finds it, he'll then order a hit, and Pete will have to … disappear," she reasoned with a hearty chuckle. "Arrivederci, cowshit."

"Fine. What about Jackass, Tony, and Carlo?" inquired Lucas.

"Let's call this a … division of labor. You take care of Pete Morello and his crew, and I'll handle the Moranos," said the woman cryptically. "Speaking of partnership, I hear that your puppy dog was also at this meeting. Did you have a good visit?"

"Yeah. He, uh, has no interest in either the Moranos or Morellos."

"Good." The blonde drank a bit more of the lemon-flavored soda and added, "Make sure it stays that way. Marco never liked him. In fact, he tried to kill him – well, he was ordered to kill him, though he didn't need much convincing. Anyway, long story short, the puppy doesn't interest me. He's a weakling. His brother and uncles? Now, they are far more dangerous."

Lucas's eyes widened at the woman's statement about her husband. Someone ordered Marco Bowser to kill Luigi? It couldn't have been either Pete Morello or the Moranos; his bloodline and intelligence were far too valuable. And Islamic terrorists wouldn't have wasted time on a no-name plumber or firefighter's kid. "What – what do you mean, 'uncles'? Mario, I get, although I don't think he lives up to the hype, and Joe the Plumber's a perpetual coward. There's another uncle, but if I remember right, he's a fucking priest."

She giggled, finishing the can of Pellegrino. Standing up from the stool, she began to search along the walls of his spacious kitchen. "Do you have recycling?" A puzzled Lucas weakly pointed toward the blue bin in the corner next to the pantry door. He watched her move toward it, the click-clack of her gold heels against the wood floor, and toss the can into it. She raised her hands and cried jubilantly, "Three points! Better than the fucking Knicks!" Resuming her seated position on the stool, she spoke, "So you don't know the … rumor? Of course you don't, you're just an associate of the Moranos. Well, the Rigassis are old Mafia. And I do mean old – hundreds of years, long before Italy had a name to give to its newspapers. That's why Pete's always been holier-than-thou about his lineage – his mother is a Rigassi. Your puppy's grandfather was his uncle."

"This is a fascinating genealogy lesson, but what's …?"

"Do not interrupt me!" the blonde Bowser shouted. Lucas's mouth clamped shut, suddenly feeling the throb of his impaled hand. "Where was I? Oh yes, the Rigassis. Your puppy's mother's a Rigassi. She died, but she had a surviving brother, Salvatore. As you mentioned, he ran away into the priesthood. But before he became a priest, he was into some very unholy things. And as for … Joe the Plumber? He apparently hid behind Salvatore and his older brother. While Jumpman was busy saving the South Bronx of all places, the young apprentice Giuseppe Masciarelli, still living in Mommy and Daddy's basement, was the confidant of a made man. The New York books had been closed for some time, but the Rigassi name was enough."

"Holy shit!" breathed Lucas, slapping his uninjured hand over his mouth. Then he blinked furiously and glared at the nonchalant woman. "Wait a minute – how do you know this? Why should I trust what you're saying?"

The blonde chuckled and calmly approached Lucas. "I told you; I'm a consultant. As a professional courtesy, I am sharing this information because knowing one's enemies is the first step toward victory. You can trust it or not; it's up to you. My advice is not to underestimate Mario, Giuseppe, or 'Father' Salvatore. If they think you want the puppy, they will fight you tooth and nail. However, puppies are helpless without their mother or caretaker. You want your puppy? Make sure it has a new caretaker. For Carlo Morano's business empire, which is worth billions, I'll gladly set the ball in motion. Call it a concierge service. Besides, I have a personal vendetta with that piece of shit Mario." Her eyes sexily wandered down the tall, skinny shape of his body. "I'll send you a number to call when the bank setup's done – I'll take care of the financials. Quid pro quo; once Morello's in the shit with Carlo, I'll get rid of Father Salvatore and the Masciarellis. Then you'll have your pet back."

Lucas nodded, gulping. "Okay. In the meantime, uh, … Sorry, what do I call you?"

Smirking, she replied, "Mrs. Bowser will do."

"Right, Mrs. Bowser. There's an additional problem." She raised an eyebrow. "Luigi has a girlfriend – Daisy Abravanel. Even if you bump off Army Dick, Joe the Plumber, and the Pretending Priest, he'll go right to her."

"Ah, the girl who beat up my backstabbing twat of a brother-in-law and humiliated Fat Tony. Frankly, I owe her one, so … you will not harm her. It won't be necessary; strong women inevitably tire of weak men."

"And if she doesn't?" he asked, crossing his arms skeptically.

She huffed and rolled her eyes. "Compared to the others, she's a minor player. I assume she's wealthy, smart, pretty?" He grudgingly gave a single nod. "She won't stay with an associate, let alone a mafioso. Comari – Mafia mistresses – are poor neighborhood or immigrant women who are drawn to masculine money, sex, and power." Mrs. Bowser giggled again and remarked, "I'll make an assumption that you tried to fuck her and failed." Lucas's eyes narrowed, and she laughed harder. "Yep, which only proves my point. She cannot be bought in the traditional sense because she has already everything. Or more likely, her family does. And I sincerely doubt her family would approve of her becoming a Mafia comare, let alone wife. The answer to your little problem is obvious: get the puppy obedience training, and she'll go away on her own. And the more broken in he is, the more he'll rely upon you. Patience."

A grinning Lucas asked her to excuse him for a minute to go down to his wine cellar. He returned with a bottle of 1841 Veuve Clicquot; opening and setting it on the bar, he retrieved two champagne glasses.

"1841 Veuve Clicquot? Hmm, thirty-five grand a bottle. I like your taste, Kariolis."

He poured a bit of the pale golden liquid in each glass, handing one to the blonde. Raising his flute, he said, "To a very lucrative business association."

Mrs. Bowser smiled back, clinking his glass with hers.


Subsequent to Sal Maldonado's retirement party, ticket assignments, and the final transfer of keys, Mario insisted on driving the quiet Luigi to Daisy's apartment in Park Slope, where he left him in care of the lioness to nap for the remainder of the afternoon and early evening. He went to their 17th Avenue home to pack a suitcase of clothes and toiletries for both of them, a fire-red sleeping bag, and his Army-issued service weapon, then returned to Park Slope to "keep an eye on his fratellino and Sfacciata." Since it was soon Shabbat, Daisy had her weekly Skype call with her father and stepmother, who seemed pleased that she was in her studio apartment with no sign of Mr. Cannoli. However, because the computer was in the corner of the living room, they did not see the sleeping Luigi in the bedroom. Mario had left a second time for groceries, flippantly announcing to an eyerolling Daisy that he would be "the Shabbos Goy for the fiftieth fuckin' time in his life." After she hung up the call, she checked on the soundless Luigi while Mario prepared pasta agli broccoli siciliani and sliced a single loaf of bread that he managed to procure from a nearby Italian supermarket. The tall, sleepy master plumber awoke when the lioness gently coaxed him for dinner. Though he was far more subdued, calling Mario an asshole twice only, Luigi was visibly glad to be with both his princess and older brother who, to his joy, had made one of Gabriella's and Audenzia's best-loved pasta dishes.

The rest of the weekend was spent at Daisy's, with Mario jokingly appointing himself as the "Shabbos Goy Pontiff of Park Slope." On both Saturday and Sunday mornings, the older brother took Luigi and Daisy to brunch in Williamsburg. In the afternoons, they played volleyball and tennis in Prospect Park, which evolved into an impromptu dodgeball game between the two brothers; Luigi explained to his bemused girlfriend that kill-ball and "Hit Me in the Ass" were childhood favorites of theirs. Mario and Luigi received calls throughout Saturday and into Sunday morning from Lucia pleading with them to attend Sunday dinner in Staten Island. Both exchanged looks of agreement that they were tired of the previous generation's lies and half-truths. With Luigi's consent, Mario responded to Lucia with a gentle, yet firm refusal: "We'll be there, as soon as Zio starts telling us the truth about our father, Salvatore, Pete, Jackie, and him." Following dinner on Sunday, the older plumber attempted to call Peach, but it went straight to voicemail, like his prior seven calls over the past two weeks.

Monday and Tuesday were relatively uneventful; Luigi had woken up at five in the morning to review overnight tickets and prepared the shift assignments for the next two weeks. Mario was no longer on Shit Detail, although both the former and new bosses had each warned him against pulling another no-show; as the third-in-command, he was assigned to gas pipe duty in Brooklyn and Queens. José would supervise the apprentices in Manhattan, and Luigi would monitor the junior journeymen in Brooklyn in addition to his office work. Daisy had dressed in her pants suit ensembles for the first days of the work week at the United Nations; upon learning that she had been hired, Yael mailed her the rest of her red, forest green, brown, black, and navy suits and multi-colored blouses from her closet in California. Mario had left the apartment first to begin his preferred six o'clock shift, and Luigi drove his lioness first to the bagel shop in Carroll Gardens for breakfast and to greet Sami, then to the MetroTech stop, where he kissed her good luck and volunteered to pick her up to attend the beginning of the Santa Rosalia Festival in Bensonhurst. Since Monday evening was jammed with traffic to and from Little Italy, Luigi and Daisy decided to go on Tuesday; they had been glad of their choice, as the late-August heat and humidity were less oppressive than in the previous day. Parking at the 17th Avenue A-frame, they ambled hand in hand to 18th Avenue, where several streets were lined with bright lights of all colors, a large Ferris wheel, live music, and endless food and drink stands of all cuisines – Italian, American, Lebanese, Mexican, Venezuelan, and Chinese. After picking up a few prayer cards for Luigi's paternal family, the thrill-seeking Daisy begged her scaredy-cat boyfriend to ride the Ferris wheel, promising a very sweet reward; unable to resist either Daisy or that certain type of prize, he obliged despite the disturbingly loud creaking of the wheel. Disembarking with a kiss, they proceeded to the food vendors and selected a few appetizers, including vegetarian arancini which the auburn-haired lioness adored. Neither of them heard the footsteps approaching them from behind.

"Luigi! Luigi Masciarelli!" called out a man's voice over the loud music and crowds.

The shocked plumber twisted toward the sound of his name to spot Pete Morello and his son, Matt, coming toward him. Daisy watched Luigi's expression immediately shift from confusion to almost-perfectly camouflaged alarm. Putting his hand at the small of her back, he affixed a smile on his face. "Um, how ya doin'? I didn't know youse were in town?"

Pete and Matt, who were each wearing a tee-shirt and REI hiking shorts, stopped just in front of the pair. "Yeah, we got in this morning," replied Matt, who smiled at his second cousin. "I heard the weather was pretty hot and humid yesterday, so I'm kinda glad. Since it's my first time to Brooklyn, Dad brought me to the Santa Rosalia Feast."

"Yeah, it's been years since I was last at Santa Rosalia in Bensonhurst. A little nostalgia for a middle-aged guy," explained Pete. He faced and, seizing up the woman next to his associate, offered his hand to her. "I'm Pete; this is my son, Matt. We're Luigi's cousins on his mother's side."

Using every technique that she learned from her father and therapist to remain calm and avoid showing any prior knowledge of their existence, Daisy assertively took the caporegime's hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Daisy." A flushed and dopey Matt waved briefly.

"Pleasure to meet you, Daisy," he answered with an authentic smile. "Well, since we're all here, can I treat you guys to an Italian ice? It's kinda warm out, especially for us poor Colorado folks." Though Luigi hesitated, Daisy warmly accepted the invitation. The four gathered at the nearest granita stand, where she and Luigi opted for watermelon and the Rigassis went with lemon. A purist, Luigi stuck out his tongue at cotton candy-flavored ice, which he argued was neither Italian nor an ice. Pete chuckled and reminded the younger man that while some rules were important, others were meant to be broken. Daisy observed the two men with interest; unlike the few Mafia films that she had seen with her father, in which the main characters were all hardened, hypermasculine murderers, Pete and Matt Morello were by all appearances normal tourists enjoying Italian ices and taking in the atmosphere of south Brooklyn. As Matt and Luigi discussed baseball, the former lamenting yet another failed Rockies season, Pete kindly asked about her; much to her surprise, he was licensed to practice taxation and international law in Colorado, New York, and New Jersey. Matt, like Luigi, was an engineer, albeit in software and computer engineering, and was in his last year at the University of Colorado. Mafiosi and college-educated, she thought with a shudder. Daisy could see why both Giuseppe and Luigi seemed particularly frightened of Pete Morello; as a practicing attorney, he knew and could exploit every legal loophole without being charged with overt criminal activity, all the while appearing like the friendly next-door neighbor, cup of sugar in hand. She would not tell her father about this, as he would personally be on the next plane from San Francisco to bring her back to Yael's jail. The lioness needed to be right next to her Italian lion, ready to confront a confederation of Sicilian pricks who might make him an offer that he couldn't refuse.

Soon after they returned to her apartment, Luigi pounced on her, desperate for her intimate touch and reassurance. Even though she tried giving him his special cannolo, he declined it, instead beseeching her to let him see into her amber eyes throughout the night's lovemaking. With every kiss, moan, and caress, he either watched her facial reactions or murmured, "Ho bisogno di te!" She was equally as fervent, growling in English to her kerido that "she would always be right with him." They had tossed off the comforter and turned on the fan, as the HVAC unit had stopped producing air conditioning earlier that day. Kissing her sweaty hairline, the master plumber sleepily promised to talk to the super and would fix it himself if needed, given that he was licensed for all five boroughs.

The next morning, they repeated their developing routine: get up at six, shower together, dress for work, eat breakfast and drink coffee, and, per Luigi's instance, drive to her MetroTech stop before continuing to the shop in Dumbo. In the office, he took ten phone calls for a variety of jobs in Manhattan, Queens, and Williamsburg; when he went to log them into the system, the previous manager's old computer cycled endlessly, causing Luigi to mutter a selection of inventive Italian curses regarding its non-existent mother and sister. He made a mental note to ask Miles for a consult, as the ageing infrastructure would undoubtedly cause delays in service. At around noon, Luigi closed the shop for lunch; deciding to grab a sandwich from the market down the street, he began walking down the street when a black SUV pulled up behind him and, the tinted window descending, its driver called out his name. Twisting to face the vehicle, his eyes widened at the waving Pete and Matt. He scanned around to see if he was being observed, then quickly entered the backseat.

"Hey, Luigi," greeted Matt as his father merged into traffic, heading south toward Tillary Street. "Care to go for lunch?"

"Uh, sure," he replied uncertainly. Not knowing how long they would be in midday Brooklyn traffic, he took out a granola bar. At Pete's raised eyebrow, Luigi shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry, I don't mean to be rude; I, uh, get very, uh, irritable when I don't eat at precise times. I've always been that way."

Pete chuckled a little. "Don't worry about it. You take after your mother and grandfather Rigassi. I never met Luigi, as you know; but Mama used to tell me stories. Well, your bisnonna back in Sicily used to feed him four or five times a day, hoping that he'd gain more weight. He wasn't quite as tall as you or Giuseppe, but he was rail thin like you, Giuseppe, and Matt here. Apparently, he would faint if he didn't eat at least four meals. Gabriella was the same way. She used to get in trouble all the time for keeping snacks in class. Mario – your father – used to sneak her food all the time, then take the rap when she got caught. Back then, schools weren't knowledgeable at all about hypoglycemia, especially for girls. You've had your blood sugar checked?"

"Yeah, I've had it checked multiple times. Pops thought I might have diabetes or be pre-diabetic, so he had a FDNY EMT check it when I was twelve or thirteen. He just thought my metabolism was fast. My physical at Stanford for the master plumber's license was normal, as well. My A1C was 4.9. Mama was diabetic?"

Pete glanced in the rear view mirror as he merged onto the eastbound BQE and shook his head. "Not that I know of. Zio wasn't, either. Anyway, we'll be at our Airbnb in Williamsburg in about fifteen minutes. We're having lunch delivered to save time and keep it lowkey."

The plumber shifted uncomfortably in his black leather seat. "Um, Pete, not to be a downer, but I unfortunately have one hour for lunch. Any longer comes out of my time off and would raise suspicion from José or Mario."

"Hey, Lou, chill, dude," reassured Matt. "We cleared the meeting with union beforehand, so you're in the clear. I assume you're taking tickets from your company cellphone, right?" Luigi nodded. "You'll be able to take calls and give 'em to your, uh, journeymen."

"Aight. Sorry, I'm, uh, still getting used to being the boss," he apologized.

The older Denverite burst out laughing. "Jesus, Luigi, you've got to be the first New York union guy I've known who's worried about being honest about clocking in and out! And you'll find your own pace as manager. Even bosses and middlemen have a learning curve."

Twenty minutes later due to traffic, the three men arrived at a modern two-bedroom loft in the heart of Williamsburg; the living room contained two gray sofas with navy blue pillows, a wooden work desk, a large flat-screen television and white home entertainment center, multiple green plants and ferns, and a white wooden dining room table set. As Matt went to bring in their lunch, Pete gestured for Luigi to sit on the sofa, which he obediently did. "The owner's a good friend, so we can talk freely here. Thanks for being discreet yesterday; we honestly didn't think we'd run into you and Daisy at the festival." He flashed his cousin a teasing smirk. "She's, uh, not what I expected. On one hand, I knew that she wasn't a shrinking violet, given what she did to that idiot Bowser. On the other hand, she's extremely intelligent and assertive."

The front door opened, and Matt entered with two restaurant bags. Locking up behind him, he said uncertainly to Luigi, "We ordered from an Italian place down the street. They have pretty decent gnocchi. Is that going to be okay or too light a meal?"

"No, that's perfect, thanks, Matt," replied the plumber.

He set the bags down on the dining room table and divided the gnocchi with pork sausage and saffron and a family-sized serving of grilled swiss chard, pine nuts, basil, and fiore sardo between the three of them on recyclable paper plates and cutlery. Pete rose to bring a pitcher of water and three glasses for them. The first few minutes were silently dedicated to enjoying the meal; normally, Luigi would attempt to fill the lack of noise, but he knew enough about Mafia etiquette to keep shtum until the head – Pete – spoke first.

"Good?" he asked both Matt and Luigi, who each gave a nod of approval.

"Unfortunately, Denver's … not known for its ubiquity when it comes to cuisine. It used to be that we had French, Italian, Spanish, even a kosher deli, but … property taxes are going sky-high thanks to California and Texas assholes invading the state and bringing their six, seven-figure salaries with them. So it's a treat to actually experience those types of cuisine," spoke Pete between bites. He glanced at Luigi, "I hear you got treated to a monstrosity of a steakhouse recently."

Luigi wiped his mouth and took a sip of water. "Yeah, I was given an impromptu invitation by Cousin Jackie."

"In Manhattan of all places," deadpanned the Denverite.

"Yeah. It wasn't my choice."

Matt stayed quiet, though he shook his head in disgust while sipping his own water.

Pete put a hand on his shoulder. "I knew Jackie would make himself known, but I swear to you that I did not know he'd pull that garbage. As I said to you before, he and I have our … issues. But that's between him and I, and he should have left you out of it." Smiling brightly, Pete squeezed the top of his shoulder. "That being said, you made quite the impression on him, and I mean it in a good way. You were invited to the poker game on Friday."

"Can I ask what the subtext is? It's not standard procedure for a shop manager to go to Friday night poker with … wiseguys."

Pete and Matt exchanged a knowing look and chuckled. Taking another bite of the gnocchi, Pete responded, "No, it's definitely not. In the twenty-odd years that Sal Maldonado was the boss, neither Jackie nor I ever invited him to do much of anything except pay us. As for the subtext, it means that he and his guys want to see if they can really trust you. It's a test. You know how to play poker?"

They noticed Luigi hesitate a little and shrug. Instead of giving a verbal answer, he focused on eating, which caused a puzzled Matt to glance at his father.

"Son, is there anything we need to know?" prodded Pete. "Don't worry; we'll be there, too."

The plumber wiped his mouth and inhaled to give him time to formulate a response. "Am I obligated to play? I don't have anything to bet with, and it's been a long time."

Pete studied the young man next to him. He knew for certain that Luigi was holding something back that he felt could compromise him or them. Whereas Jackie viewed the plumber as a finocchio due to his sensitive, placid nature, the Denver caporegime instead characterized it as restraint to the point of obsessive-compulsion. One might have concluded that Luigi was afraid of losing large amounts of money and thus being indebted to Jackie's goons, which he had undoubtedly witnessed happen to many paesani in Bensonhurst. However, Pete wondered if he was in fact afraid of winning. While Mario tried to keep the Moranos from knowing the extent of his son's gifts, he had nevertheless heard from Father Rosetti about his cousin's extraordinary mathematical mind. Upon learning of this bit of information, Pete himself remained quiet. Despite being gifted in engineering and science, Zio Luigi did not have his grandson's prowess in mathematics; he had been sufficiently advanced to attend liceo classico and La Sapienza, yet his superior performance was not distinguished. Pete was a firm believer in inheritance and determinism; his many years in the Mafia, where bosses and families meant everything, had only solidified his conviction. Within the 65th Street crew, he knew of two people who possessed similar abilities, from at least one of whom the plumber had certainly received his mathematical talents. "Yes, you will be required to play. But Matt and I will spot you whatever you need – win or lose," he finally answered. "The object here is to play along with whatever game Jackie has in mind. And about that, Luigi, I haven't the damnedest clue. My advice is to use your intelligence to navigate the issue. As long as you are not disrespectful or show weakness, you'll be fine. Remember that you're protected."

A still unsure Luigi sighed and breathed, "Okay. I guess Lucas's picking me up from the shop. Where is this thing, anyway?"

Once more, the capo exchanged a glance with his visibly irritated soldier-son. Upon seeing the brief interchange, the plumber recoiled in his seat, afraid that he had inadvertently said something offensive. However, Matt filled his cousin's water glass and gave him a reassuring smile. "Luigi, don't worry; we're not angry at you. As Matt here is fond of saying, 'Chill, dude,'" soothed Pete. "We're not fans of Lucas's, which you already know. Aside from that little stunt he pulled in Cabo, he's been an irritation for some time."

"How long?"

Matt, who had nonverbally been given permission by Pete, spoke, "A long time. His father's a close business partner of Jackie's, though he also works with Uncle Carlo. He's a top moneymaker."

Setting down his fork, Luigi swallowed bits of the gnocchi and saffron uneasily. He blankly stared at his paper plate for several moments, then lifted his eyes to a now concerned Pete and Matt. "Was … Was Georgie a business associate of Jackie's in the early 2000s?"

The capo's and his soldier's identical eyes met in a triumph of saying the unsaid. "Yes," the older man finally said. "Georgie has worked with the Moranos since the 1980s, though behind the scenes."

A glassy-eyed Luigi began to mutter the few Sicilian curse words that Mario had gleefully taught him out of earshot of their father, causing Pete to raise his eyebrow in amusement and unease. Matt, whose Italian was limited to three years of undergraduate study and two years of private tutoring, looked at his captain uncomprehendingly. The Brooklynite abruptly stood up and paced, head in his hands. Pete signaled for Matt to take care of the leftover food as he cautiously approached the distraught man. "I get the sense, son, that there's something that we don't know. And that's fine, if that's how you want to play it. However, that leaves us all wide-open if there's information missing."

Angrily, the plumber faced the stone-faced mafioso. "How much of my fucking life was predetermined? All this time, I thought … I thought that shit just happened to me. But that's not the case, is it, Pete? The Rigassis lied to me, the Masciarellis and Moranos lied to me … Did Pops and Mario lie to me, too?!"

Pete crossed his arms. "Why don't you be a bit more specific, son?"

"Lucas!" he hissed. "Lucas being my friend at Brooklyn City wasn't a chance meeting, was it?"

The older man took a deep breath, then answered, "No. We usually start … well, let's call it 'apprenticing' kids shortly after their confirmation." He motioned for Luigi to sit on the couch; once the agitated young man was seated, Pete took the space next to him. "You were fourteen, which is standard in the American families. I myself was apprenticed at your age; that's, uh, why I went to high school in Brooklyn with your parents and uncle. My father, Paolo, sent me to live with Uncle Carlo. We lived a couple streets from Audenzia's – your nonna's. Mario lived with her to finish his last semester of high school. Your, uh, nonna was very strict; she only allowed it if he received his high school diploma and followed through on his proposal to Gabriella."

"Sorry, what?" interrupted the plumber quietly. "Pops lived with Audenzia?"

Pete nodded. "Yeah. He was more or less living with the Rigassis from his junior year of high school, though giving his father the final screw-you by quitting the shop made it official, I suppose. Your nonno was, uh, messed up from the war. His favorite target to vent his rage was Mario, so there was no love lost. Anyway, when you're apprenticed, they usually try to find a peer, a buddy, much in the same way that soldiers have 'battle buddies.' Normally, they pair up street kids with a made guy as the commander. But you … you were unique, and Uncle Carlo knew that pairing you up with a regular street kid would've immediately backfired, as Mario, Giuseppe, and even your nonno would have put a stop to it. So, Georgie offered up his son, Lucas, to serve in that capacity. But Lucas," he shook his head in recollection, "was a colossal disaster. He was way too cocky and, worse, public. Mario caught him and you in that stupid arson at the school. That's why you and your father were leaving New York, son. Then … he … died, and Jackie got custody. The plan went ahead, and that kid fucked you up."

"Where were you and Gene? Why didn't you …?" asked Luigi in a detached, disbelieving voice.

For the first since they had met in April, the plumber saw the normally stoic Pete blink back tears in his dark brown eyes. "I can't answer that."

"So why now? Why not leave me to live a normal life? Jackie and his wife didn't even want me in the house! I didn't ever interfere with youse, just worked, so why?"

Pete motioned for his son to enter the living room. Unobtrusively, Matt sat down on the opposite couch facing the men. "Because it isn't his choice anymore; it's mine. I do things differently. Matt here was apprenticed at seventeen, as was his cousin, Sam. Just like any job. Matt became full-time last year; Sam shortly after he was discharged from the Navy. You were given extra time due to the … unforeseen circumstances with your family – your father, your brother coming back from Afghanistan. The truth is, son, I've been watching for a very long time. We in Colorado felt that you had reached the prerequisite level of independence and maturity a couple years ago. However, approaching you in February was the result of … let's call it negotiations."

"With Jackie," finished Luigi.

"Yeah," confirmed Pete. "And I'll leave it there. However, we never abandoned you. Never. I meant what I said in California, Luigi; all we're requesting for you to do is regulate the payments and make the shop a profitable enterprise. That's it, nothing beyond what would be normally required of a manager. But we need someone in the shop whom we can trust."

"Alright," the plumber agreed. "So how do I pay the pizzo to youse and Fat Tony? Also, I'll need to know precisely when. Sal's, uh, computer is pretty slow. I'll need to get a replacement."

"Dude, he's still using that Windows 95 piece of shit?" interjected Matt. "Our neighbor's two-year-old could hack that." The green-clad plumber sheepishly shrugged. "Yeah, um, Dad, should we show him and then get him squared away with a new laptop?"

He nodded. "Yeah, let's go ahead and do it that way."

Over the next hour, Pete and Matt taught Luigi more than he had ever wanted to know about hiding money. Gone were the days of thick envelopes stuffed with greenbacks or money laundering operations via paper-only construction companies; the Colorado crew had devised a system of fraudulent transactions against the company expense account for incidentals such as pencils, pens, lunches, and even welding equipment. The criminal genius in the pizzo setup was upcharging each item so that they totaled a cut of twenty percent per month. His mouth fell open at the sheer usury; including the expenses of ten apprentices, fifteen journeymen, five welders as well as utilities, equipment maintenance, and taxes, the pizzo left the shop at slightly in the red. The business was left functional, though it could go under at any time. No wonder why Sal refused to hire additional apprentices, let alone journeymen for the past three years, he thought. Brooklyn Plumbing and Mechanical Works was a union shop, meaning that it had to hire and pay employees according to the collective bargaining agreement: eighteen an hour for apprentices; thirty or thirty-five an hour for journeymen plumbers and welders; forty-five for master plumbers. These were mandated rates for forty-hour weeks; overtime could be time-and-a-half or even double. It also made sense why Matusz and Ferenc were sent to shake down the shop, especially if Sal and Scott the Shitbucket rebuffed paying Tony and the Morellos. He pretended to be at ease with his cousins, pledging to let the transactions be; Matt jubilantly promised him an awesome laptop which he would deliver before he and Pete returned to Colorado on Tuesday morning.

As they drove him back to Dumbo, Luigi found himself contemplating his new fate. While the discovery of Lucas's manufactured friendship was hardly a surprise given his sense of superiority and noxious ambition, he lamented with an absent Sal Maldonado that his extended family were nothing but usurers and prostitutes whose delusional self-justifications harmed the community rather than "protect" it. Yet he knew that refusing to do what they asked would not only put himself in jeopardy but those working for him – thirty men and their families, not including his own. More than a hundred people. His normally sapphire-colored eyes paled, and he could feel the first wrinkles etch themselves in his skin.