Author's notes: Hello, everyone! A big thank you to those who have liked, favorited, or commented on the story. It means a lot!

This chapter has been in the works for MONTHS, and it's one that I'm especially excited to release. There will be another part to be published on 31 December 2022. From that point, I'll talk more about future chapters, particularly the next one which will come sometime in January 2023. I need a break from writing to charge my batteries as well as to revise the draft to get it absolutely right. I'll write more about it on December 31st.

A final note: I did my absolute best with researching the FDNY, both the entrance requirements as well as procedure. I'm not a firefighter, so please excuse any errors.

Buon Natale / Happy 6th Night of Hanukkah / Happy Holidays!


Chapter 35: The Promised Land '77

Yoshi approached Mario to inspect the pack of several thousand dollars in cash. "Woah, man, is that … real?"

Luigi shrugged slightly, still unmoving from Giuseppe's side. "Yeah, well, I think so. With these, uh, types, you never can tell."

"That still doesn't explain how the fuck you have – theoretically," Mario took out the other stack of greenbacks, to everyone's shock, and flipped through it, "twenty, twenty-five grand in cash. You realize that this is probably drug money, right, Weegie?"

"Yeah, I realize that, grazie!" he sarcastically replied to his older brother. Running a hand through his wavy brown hair, the green-shirted plumber stood up to sit down on the sofa. Daisy followed suit, taking the space next to him. "Jackie brought me to their Poker Night near the Hamptons. I tried to sit it out, but they, uh, somehow knew about my ability to count cards. Or, at least, calculate which hands they could have. They forced me to play. So I did. I actually won around a hundred-k, but they only let me keep twenty-five."

"Then what? They couldn't send you home?" growled the portly plumber. Lucia rolled her eyes and smacked him on the shoulder, which made him recoil from her in self-protection.

"Pete and Jackie kept me there until the afternoon," he answered softly, gazing down at the floor. "I managed to call Daisy to avoid another California. But other than that, I didn't have a choice."

Miles walked over to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. "You did the right thing, Lou. And thanks to that call, we were able to figure out where you had gone. Daisy heard seagulls in the background and that moron let a cell tower ping his phone on the Belt. George Kariolis has a house in the Hamptons."

Giuseppe studied his quasi-son's downtrodden responses and rather blasé description of the poker tournament. He knew that more, much more, had happened at the Kariolis manor. Had he been less nauseated or fatigued, he would have forced it out of him and then tracked Pete down to ram the entire Denver Broncos team, Peyton Manning included, up his mafioso ass. Yet his cancer-stricken body would only allow him to rejoice in his safe and unharmed return.

Lucia glanced at her relieved husband and approached Luigi to hug him once more. "It doesn't matter now. You're safe and back with your family."

"The hell it doesn't!" hissed Mario. Crossing the living room and shoving the backpack and money at his little brother to everyone's shock, he growled, "I'm gonna get some air!" Then he stomped to the door, opened, and slammed it shut.

As Yoshi pushed himself toward the entrance to follow the plumber, Giuseppe rasped, "Let … him go. He'll be angrier if you try to stop him." After several labored breaths, he added, "Mario's … like his grandfather. The Masciarelli temper is nothing to fuck with."

"Zio, Zia, you should go home. He's tired, and I'm safe. I'll be fine, really," insisted Luigi.

Before Lucia could respond, Giuseppe interjected while shifting uncomfortably in the Lazy-Boy, "Like hell! 'M … stayin' here. We'll go in the mornin.'"

Shaking her head, Lucia acquiesced to her husband's stubborn resolve that they remain at the Bensonhurst A-frame for the evening. With no sign of Mario returning for the rest of the evening and night, Yoshi reluctantly took Miles back to his apartment in Borough Park while Daisy and Luigi cleaned up Mario's room for his aunt and uncle. The three of them maneuvered the withered plumber into bed, and Luigi grabbed the overnight bag that Lucia had packed in case of emergencies or an urgent hospital run. By ten o'clock, and despite Luigi's offer to sleep on the couch and be available if they needed anything, his aunt encouraged him to go to bed with Daisy, a teasing smile playing about her lips. At Luigi's flushed face, she chuckled and reminded him that she too was once young.

As Lucia shut the bedroom door and arranged herself next to him, Giuseppe stared at the familiar ceiling. The room used to be his father's and Salvatore's while Gabriella had the upstairs. Though she was clearly ill with the same cancer that would also kill her daughter, Sòggira Audenzia willfully used the little energy that she had to care for the three children underneath her roof. Mario was about to graduate high school with Gabriella; in November 1975, he had folded a piece of gold paper into a Möbius band for his beloved Gabby, promising her that, when they left New York behind, he would buy her a real engagement ring. A few months later, Mario had grown tired of his father's misery and quit both the plumbing shop and the family home on 65th Street to live with the ailing Audenzia and Gabriella full-time. He attempted to take Giuseppe and their sister with him, but their father threatened to report the younger siblings as runaways, pointedly telling him that if he chose to abandon the family, then he would know what it truly meant to be alone. Mario was his mother's son and refused to surrender to the abyss; he became a bartender in the neighborhood while Gabriella looked for work that did not involve being some sleaze's Barbie doll. By late 1976, the City University of New York had ended free tuition, and though she was on the Tuition Assistance Program, it was becoming harder to put food on the table when Audenzia was no longer able to work and Salvatore was still in high school. And whenever their father was particularly incensed or paranoid, Giuseppe would take his baby sister and run to Audenzia's, despite his mother's pleas to stay and keep the peace, adding two extra mouths to feed.

Just after January 1977, a twenty-year firefighter named Paddy McCollough began frequenting the bar with one of his younger brothers and Italian in-laws, the latter of whom went to St. Rosalia's Church and knew Audenzia. One cold Saturday that month, a fight broke out between Paddy's brother and another patron over a game of pool. The quarreling and shit-talking became louder and louder, and the man pulled a gun on the young Irishman. Without a single hesitation, the young, scrawny bartender moved between the men and calmly talked the drunken man down from his premeditated retribution. Thereafter, Paddy became a regular and sat specifically to talk with Mario about life as a firefighter – at first, the positives only. Then he moved on to the basics, what kind of hose to use when, what to have him at all times, and how to avoid a backdraft. Paddy lamented that the city-wide budget cuts had closed several firehouses in the area, causing multiple acts of arson and murder to go unanswered. As a bartender, Mario simply listened, asking questions when it was pertinent to do so. In the spring, he married Gabriella in a small church wedding. He still worked in that dive bar until one terrifying span of twenty-five hours in July 1977. Sweltering summer heat, broken infrastructure, a dearth of police and firefighters, economic corruption, and corporate incompetence gave rise to a massive blackout affecting every street of New York City. No part of the city was safe from looting, rioting, or destruction; while Giuseppe, armed with only a crowbar and a wrench, stayed with his father to protect their 18th Avenue shop, several blocks away, Paddy rushed into the pitch-dark bar and started to drag a confused Mario with him. "You're a probie to anyone who asks – got it? Stick to my ass like glue!" he barked in a commanding tone. The dumbfounded young man mutely nodded. The sympathetic owner told him to go with Paddy; as they arrived on scene, several engines and ladders were vainly attempting to put out the growing number of fires in Crown Heights. "You might as fuckin' well learn it now, kid," said Paddy as they stared at the powerful flames and light, "what we do ain't for the faint of heart. Now grab the hose like I taught ya and get to fuckin' work." For the next forty-eight hours straight, he followed Paddy and his company to put out fires as far north as Queens. Meanwhile, Giuseppe, Maria, Gabriella, Salvatore, Pete and his sister, and a pale Audenzia waited with Father Rosetti, having learned from the bar owner that he had gone to the fires. Two evenings after he had left, the front door opened to reveal a firefighter covered in soot, ash, and bruises. Not knowing what else to say when they cried and embraced him, Mario simply uttered, "I just helped carry the hose."

"Not … just," breathed present-day Giuseppe.

"You need to rest, Joe. Go to sleep," enjoined Lucia as she removed his glasses and put her hand over his eyes to force them closed. Though his surroundings shifted from live color to a photo negative of a Super-8 film.


October 8, 1977

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, NY

8:15 am

"C'mon, c'mon! Not today! C'mon, honey, don't you die on me!" murmured a nineteen-year-old Mario Masciarelli to the pale blue 1966 Plymouth Belvedere, whose engine had started to stall right when its original owner, the kindhearted Audenzia Rigassi, had passed away almost two months ago. He rolled down the window, stuck his head out, and whistled. "Yo, give 'er another push!"

Two skinny teenagers grunted against the several tons of metal. The first wore a green turtleneck, flared blue jeans, and a tan corduroy jacket with black-rimmed, coke-bottle glasses; the second was dressed similarly, save for a black turtleneck and leather jacket. "Jesus, Mario, you're the one who's been chasing fires! Why don't you get out here and push?" gasped Giuseppe.

Mario snickered, "Because she likes me, Joe! I got the magic touch. Keep pushin' 'cause I almost got it. One," he pumped the gas and clutch, "two, c'mon, baby … Three!" Finally, the engine roared alive and the boys' push enabled the bartender to maneuver the large car in the middle of the street. "Aight, get in quick 'fore she changes her mind!"

"I got shotgun!" cried the younger brother, running in front of Salvatore toward the front passenger seat.

"Fangul, Joe! Why do you always get shotgun?" he growled as he slid into the pale blue-colored backseat.

He turned around to face his childhood friend and brother's cognato. "Uh, 'cause I'm older, so yeah, double fuck you back!"

"That's such bullshit, you're only older by two months!" argued the olive-skinned Sicilian.

Mario chuckled as he began to drive toward the BQE. "Oh, I'm so glad youse bambini are gettin' along. That's only the third argument that I had to listen to this morning." Taking his eyes very briefly away from traffic ahead of them, he picked up the paper map and nodded to himself at the outlined route across the Verrazzano.

"Where we goin' anyway?" asked the annoyed backseat passenger. "And why isn't Gabby riding with us?"

The bartender shrugged. "Why? Got plans with Jerry Hall?"

"Well … no!"

He snorted, "Aight then. Besides, Gabby and I thought that this could be, y'know, a guys trip. Just the three of us. She got her homework to do."

Giuseppe turned to his brother and mocked, "Nah, see, Sal's got his laundry to do. With all that black he's been wearin' for the past year, he got to make sure that the colors don't bleed." Spinning around to see his friend's reaction, he guffawed upon seeing the ombrello. Mario merely raised an eyebrow at his two younger companions. Enjoying the last seconds of mirth, Joe faced the windshield and the road heading toward the bridge. "But yeah, Mario, where are we going?"

"Jersey," he replied teasingly.

The teenager's blue eyes widened imperceptibly. "Wait – I exchanged shifts at the shop with one of the journeyman, risked pissing off Papà if he knew what I was doin', just so I could go to … Jersey?"

"Yep!" answered the driver. "And while I know Il Tiranno thinks there are no days off for his beloved shithole of a shop, the rest of America disagrees with his uptight ass. This ain't Pescara, so fuck him!" He shook his head. "Nah, this trip, fratellini miei, is about experiencing the world! And the world is bigger than New York."

"Yeah, I was born in Palermo, so I had already figured that out," quipped Salvatore with a smirk.

"Fuckin' smartass!" retorted Mario. He bit his thin lip over his clean-shaven face. "The city's broke. Almost a billion dollars in the hole. A billion! Can you imagine that – a billion dollars? And it's burnin' and tearin' itself to pieces. The MAC sold us out – the teachers, firemen, police – although I don't mind the last one in some cases. I mean, they made Jimmy-B a fuckin' cop. No pensions, no jobs, nothin'! They're charging tuition for the City-U, so I don't know how long I can keep Gabby in school, even with the assistance fund. And oh, yeah, before OPEC completely fucks us, the fuckin' Yankees could get into the Series. That shop ain't gonna save you, Joe. The future lies elsewhere."

"The FDNY's exam is not even two months away. You just need to take it, pass it like we know you will, and you'll be one of New York's Bravest. So what the fuck are you talkin' about?" demanded Joe incredulously, crossing his arms.

"Yeah, that's true," conceded Mario. "But even if I pass the written and score high enough for a job, I gotta the pass the physical. And then I gotta wait until I'm just about twenty-one. They don't take nineteen-year-old Italian bartenders." He sighed sadly. "It's bad enough that I gotta hide the shifts that I do take, otherwise they'll have Paddy's ass. I'm their fuckin' dog. I'm not even a probie." Plastering a saccharine smile, he raised his shoulders as they spied the towers of the Verrazzano. "Anyway, we're takin' a nice trip to Jersey. And no, saputello," he glanced behind him to the snorting Salvatore, "it ain't Newark!"

Joe grabbed the map and unfolded it, smoothing out the creases in his lap. With a narrow finger, he followed the ballpoint pen marks across Staten Island, then south past Woodbridge, Carteret, Somerset, and finally to Princeton. "We're … we're going to Princeton?!"

Mario leaned over to flip on the radio and twisted the dial, skipping over the goddamned Bee Gees, settling on "Nobody Does It Better" by Carly Simon. He began singing along, albeit off-key, much to Giuseppe's and Salvatore's horror. To drown out the impromptu karaoke, they put their hands to their ears and hummed the Star Wars theme, causing the older brother to croon even louder. "Mario, you fucking asshole!" Giuseppe wailed. This continued throughout the nearly two and a half hour drive into the autumn brown fields of rural New Jersey, with Mario pontificating on the superiority of rock n' roll and rhythm and blues over that "bullshit disco crap" and the "stupid fuckin' stinky polyester suits." Highway soon mutated into the colonial brick buildings of Princeton town and blue-blooded America. The bartender edged the Plymouth into a parallel park just off Nassau Street.

"Aight, it's a little past eleven, ragazzi. Time to get out!" As an excited Mario donned a gray flat cap and locked the door, Salvatore and Giuseppe both rolled their eyes and exited the vehicle. After the oldest brother checked each door to make sure that the car was secure, he unfolded the map and stepped toward the busy two-lane road.

"Okay, so are we doin' a little shoppin' on Main Street, then afterward, ask Grandma Walton for directions to the local feed store?" inquired Salvatore using a mock Appalachian accent. Giuseppe burst out laughing at his friend's wisecrack while Mario ignored it and kept walking. The two seventeen-year-olds caught up with him as he began to cross the street. Mario put his hands in the pockets of his jeans and glanced at the orange, red, and yellow leaves against medieval-style gray and brown brick structures; he grinned as the change in architecture ended the boys' play-fighting. Joe in particular was enthralled, spinning in circles along the sidewalk as they approached the university campus. Salvatore's now-molten brown eyes shifted between the castle-like structure to their left and his best friend's delight.

"Is this … what I think it is?" murmured Giuseppe.

Mario beamed brightly and announced, "Welcome to the Ivy League, ragazzi, where anything's possible! Anything! Presidents, Nobel Laureates, Albert Einstein were all here!" He emphasized the latter with a stomp on the grass with his leather boot.

As the older brother ambled backwards to face Giuseppe and Salvatore, the spectacled kid replied, "So … you're thinkin' of dumpin' the FDNY for … Princeton?"

"No!" he drawled, grinning. "I only got an eighty average. They fuckin' wouldn't let me in the door! However, I know someone who's got above ninety and who, if all goes well, might graduate as number one at New Utrecht. Got a 1550 on the SAT, too. And the folks at Princeton would let the little four-eyed shit in if he were to apply!"

"There's just one problem, cugnatu," interjected Salvatore, putting his arm around the still mesmerized Joe. At the older man's raised eyebrows, he said, "Princeton doesn't take nice Bensonhurst trash like us! We might steal their blondies and have lots a-Italian bambini, scandalizing those aforementioned presidents and politicians!"

Undaunted, Mario kept marching backwards into the campus. "Okay, you got a point. But if they're lettin' women, blacks, and Jews study, they'll let us Italians in, too. In fact, they already have. So what d'ya think, Joe? Should we keep walkin'?"

Giuseppe bit his lip as Salvatore and Mario gazed at him expectantly. Whereas Mario had his secret National Geographic collection, which he threw out shortly before his wedding to Gabby, Joe 'rescued' old books about Yale, Princeton, Rutgers, and Columbia. To that day, he kept them in a safe place where no one, not even his brother or sister, knew their location. They were his dreams; yet he knew that they could only ever be dreams. Despite taking and scoring well on the SHSAT, their father had disallowed his middle child to go to Brooklyn City High or Stuyvesant, even when Joe's teachers and Father Rosetti had pleaded with him, explaining that he would be given a world-class education and admission to an Ivy League school. "Why?" their Papà responded. "My two figli will be plumbers. The world will always need plumbers, not politicians, bankers, or poets. Giuseppe don't need no fancy laurea." After Mario left, their father tightened his control over the family and routinely threatened him with never seeing his mother or sister again if he went with "that mammalucc and his maledetta mafiosa of a wife." He often referred to his eldest son as Mario Rigassi and a gangster-in-training. Whenever their Mama would gently prod her youngest son for information about him at dinner, her husband would cut in and snort, "Of course he's working in a bar, Mia. As a Rigassi, it would only make sense that he keeps criminals and drunks as amici. I may fix toilets, but at least my money's clean!" There was no possibility that Papà would ever allow him to leave Bensonhurst or New York; he was a sore loser, ending up with number two as his successor, and he would steadfastly refuse to settle for anything lower. But that autumn Saturday was one of many, and he could have one to indulge in a fairytale.

"Yeah, we can check it out," he finally agreed.

"Aight, andiamo, ragazzi!" Walking around a bit aimlessly, the three Brooklyn Italians gaped at the brick and mortar against the gold and red leaves. After circling back, they came across the Cannon Green and its most famous of landmarks, Nassau Hall, an ivy-covered, orange-brick, colonial-era building with a smaller ruddy and off-white colored clocktower at its center. As the two seventeen-year-olds stared at the open and meticulously kept lawn, which, like a modern chiaroscuro, contrasted with the dirty, trash-laden streets of Brooklyn, Mario looked around appreciatively at the college students passing by, several carrying books or in an intense discussion of some sort. A couple of blondes in sweaters, bell-bottoms, and designer platform shoes strolled along the path; the bartender pinched the front of his flat cap at them, causing the girls to giggle and point toward the ragazzi. The sound caught the attention of Joe and Salvatore, who waved at them. The first of the two younger Italians flushed into an Abruzzese imitation of a strawberry.

Out of their earshot, Salvatore gave his brother-in-law the side eye and groused, "You do realize that you're a married man, right?"

"Yeah, a happily married one!" insisted Mario. "I got the Sicilian – no, the world's – living Venus de Milo at home, and she's all I need in this life and in the next! But hey, I ain't blind! Besides," he threw a teasing look in his brother's direction, "Il Signore Pomodoro here would sooner fuckin' die if he had to ask a girl out, so someone's gotta be the sensale!"

"Screw you," mouthed Giuseppe, whose complexion had returned to normal.

"Hey, this could be all yours, kid," his brother calmly retorted. "You get into Princeton, you find yourself a blonde bombshell, and you get the fuck outta New York! The world don't end at 65th Street and 18th Av.'" Suddenly, he ran to the middle of the Cannon Green and spread his arms. Facing Joe and Salvatore, he cried, "Both of youse! We need more people who use their heads and not their fists or their guns! Smart people, connected people, change shit! Not the guys on the street and certainly not fuckin' plumbers!"


After an additional two hours of sightseeing and sneaking into the library to check out the amply supplied shelves and reading rooms, where Mario sweet-talked a young librarian into giving them information about the application process, the three Italians made their way back to Nassau Street for lunch. They balked at the rather pricey selections, though Mario insisted that they eat in Princeton, as opposed to a roadside diner near Edison or Woodbridge, for the full experience. Salvatore stuck his tongue out at both the hero sandwich joint and the pizza-and-pasta restaurant, which he described as a choice between "the Greasy Jersey Shit-burger and the Soggy Jersey Shit with Noodles." Five minutes post-bickering and kvetching, they settled on an all-day breakfast diner which, much to Salvatore's howling glee, had several carousel horses in its windows. Taking one of the remaining small four-seat wooden tables, Mario and Joe studied the menu while the Sicilian continued to heave with laughter at the kid-sized horses.

Once it became clear that Sal would inevitably end up on the floor, Mario smacked him on the head with the menu. "Hey, minchione, are you gonna order somethin'?"

"Uh, yeah," he snorted, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Let's see … I'll have the griddle cakes with a side of cavallo ...!" Descending again into hysterics, Salvatore lowered his head onto the square wooden table as his brother-in-law rolled his eyes and swatted him with the menu.

A young waitress approached the men, to whom Mario spoke, "Hey, how ya doin'? Don't mind Space Cadet Brooklyn. I'll have the bacon and two eggs with a tomato juice. Joe, whatcha want?"

"Um, I'll – I'll have a Taylor ham, egg, and cheese sandwich, please," mumbled Giuseppe, flushing slightly.

"And for the idiot here, he'll have the griddle cakes and coffee."

She smiled at the New Yorkers, jotted down their orders with a small pad and pencil, and returned to the lunch counter to give the ticket to the cooks. Mario shook his head in dismay at the menu prices. "Christ, a buck-fifty for a goddamn sandwich and fifty cents for a tomato juice!" he whispered. Twisting his head to Giuseppe, he griped, "At least you can work at one of these places and make some money in your first year!"

The spectacled boy flushed again. "Mario, I haven't even applied. I don't know if …"

He stared at him, crossing his arms. "If what, fratellino? Don't let him get in your head! At the very worst, they say no. Then you say," he looked around the diner and murmured in a low voice, "then you say fuck 'em and attend, I dunno, Columbia or CUNY."

"And what about me? Giuseppe can't take me with him! I can't fit inside his suitcase as svelte as I am," interjected a still teary-eyed Salvatore.

The waitress returned with two coffees and a tomato juice. Nodding a thanks, Mario replied while sipping his drink, "Well, you could go if you went to class more often. I got yet another call from the vice-principal. Truant again."

Within an instant, Salvatore's jokey demeanor changed into a pit of hostility, and he glared darkly at the bartender. The latter faced him squarely to show how little of a threat he actually was. Nonetheless, Mario worried about his young brother-in-law's future; the once happy-go-lucky kid had fallen in with some shady characters on 18th Avenue, whose influence only grew with his mother's illness and passing. Gabby was alarmed when the once sensitive Salvatore failed to shed a single tear at Audenzia's funeral. Instead of staying with her, Mario, Giuseppe, Maria, the Morellos, and the Moranos to receive mourners from the community, he ran away to Tony DiScala's butcher shop where he hacked up his pain. He distanced himself from everyone but Giuseppe, whom he persistently attempted to lure from New Utrecht High and the plumbing shop. However, the diffident Joe feared his bully father more than disappointing his friend, and he resisted the latter's grandiose promises of better pay and hours.

"Hey, I got enough to pass," Salvatore finally answered.

Mario shook his head, taking another sip of tomato juice. "Sal, one bright, sunny day, you're gonna learn that just showin' up doesn't get you a medal. And making easy money don't make you one of them," he gestured toward the Princeton campus. "Education and connections will get ya in the door. And then once you're in, once you've paid your dues, you get to make the rules."

The Sicilian scoffed. "And who do you think's cutting all of those social programs and telling us poor bastards to pull ourselves up? Ford went to the Ivy League, as did all the other assholes on Wall Street and Washington." Grinning acerbically at his brother-in-law, he remarked, "I'm just doin' what they want. Supply and demand. What difference does it make if a working-class kid does it?"

With a harumph, the bartender held his tongue from voicing a pointed retort about what Salvatore could be supplying. He brought the glass of juice to his lips when the waitress returned with the three plates of food and a small container of maple syrup.


Several hours later, Mario sat on the plastic-covered sofa and stared at the photographs sitting atop the mantle in his Bensonhurst living room. Once they had come back from New Jersey, Giuseppe rode his bike back to their family home on 65th Street and Salvatore disappeared to somewhere on 18th Avenue or Bay Ridge – he never knew where. The latest photographs were of his and Gabby's wedding back in April, as she wanted some outdoor photos in her wedding dress without freezing in the New York rain. He regretted that they could neither afford a large reception nor a honeymoon to the Poconos or Hawaii. Maybe when I get my assignment, he thought wistfully. Many of the other photographs were black and whites taken of Salvatore and Gabby as children, both in New York and in Palermo. Bizarrely, Audenzia never displayed any pictures of her husband, Luigi, or her family in Sicily; it was as though they were stories at best and phantoms at worst. He had seen one black and white image of Luigi Rigassi which his mother-in-law had kept on her bedroom night table; she clutched it when drawing her last breaths and was subsequently buried with it. The young man was quite handsome and, unlike his Abruzzese ancestors, was well-to-do.

Abruptly, a shadow passed behind him and he felt a petite hand lovingly caress his shoulders. Smiling, he tilted his head upward to spy a young Italian woman with vibrant blue eyes and curly, near-black hair that cascaded past the middle of her back. The twenty-year-old was dressed in bell-bottom jeans and a red sweater. "Buonasera," he whispered to his wife.

She did not immediately reply; instead, she hopped into his lap, causing him to yelp in surprise until she stroked his scruffy cheek and kissed him. "Buonasera," she finally greeted her husband. "How was the boys' trip to Princeton?"

"It was aight. I think I might have convinced the little stubborn mule to apply. As for Sal," he exhaled in frustration, "I'm tryin', Gabby. But he's got in his head that money's better than freedom. It's hard to fight Tony DiScala's wad of Franklins when a fuckin' bartender's spoutin' shit about the possibilities of the Ivy League!" Snorting, he muttered, "I'm not sure that I'd believe me, either."

"We'll keep trying, Mario. Joe has a chance to get in. I don't want to see him in your father's shop for the rest of his life."

He kissed her left hand, just above her wedding band. "He won't, even if I got to drag him out kickin' and screamin'. Anyway, what about you? How was homework?"

She shrugged. "First, I, uh, found a part-time job doin' some clerical work. It's for an office just a few blocks from Brooklyn College. I meant to tell you yesterday, but you'd left for work by the time I got back home. As for homework," she flashed a toothy grin, "the professor's still recovering from havin' girls in his advanced calculus class. I think this week was the first time that he didn't tell me to go back to my husband's kitchen."

"Fuckin' asshole," he growled, kissing her again. "This is 1977, not 1877! Plenty a-woman mathematicians in history! Like, um, … Gimme a minute."

Gabriella burst out laughing, wrapping her arms around Mario's neck. "Maria Agnesi."

"Aight, yeah, her." At his wife's raised eyebrow, he smirked. "What can I say? I was easily distracted in math class."

"Hmm?"

"Yeah. Between the geometry lesson, two plus two, and other shit I don't remember, I was too busy gazin' at the most beautiful ragazza whose ass is like poetry."

She gave him a shy smile. "Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah!" Mario propelled them both off the couch to a standing position. As Gabriella watched confusedly, her husband crossed the living room to the record player and, flipping through his prized stack of vinyls, put on one of the large discs. Sam Cooke's "Wonderful World" began to play as he took her into his arms. For the next few minutes, they said nothing more, slow dancing to the song in the dim light.

"Mario?" she asked in a soft tone, laying her head against his green and white long-sleeved shirt. He hummed in response. "The clerical job? It'll help you get to Fire School."

"Don't worry about it," insisted the bartender. "I got to pass the test first and, frankly, plenty of people will be takin' that thing. It's offered every four years and I … I'm not a rocket scientist. Not like you or Joe. And I got to wait until 1980 to be given a job if I pass the written, physical, and Fire School."

She lifted her head from his shoulder and kissed his lips. "You're not happy being a bartender. You weren't happy on the docks, as a carpenter, janitor, and certainly not as a plumber. Inasmuch as you facin' danger on a daily basis and bein' away … frightens me, I couldn't bear to see you … unhappy, pinin' away at a life that coulda been. Mama was … so proud of you, y'know? You'd found something. As am I."

He pulled her as close to his body as he could and nuzzled her neck. "God, I miss Soggira – snappin' at me for takin' the Lord's name in vain and tellin' me that I can do better. Gabby, I wanna do better – for you, for us. Don't … give up your dreams, neither."

Gabriella cupped his cheek. "You are my dream, Mario Masciarelli. You have been since you first sat behind me in fifth grade."

March 3, 1978

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, NY

17th Avenue and 62nd Street

Giuseppe gently laid his bike against the brick of the A-frame and bounded up the stairs to check the mail – several bills, but no letter addressed to him from the admissions office at Princeton University. When he had completed the application form and requested letters of recommendation from two of his teachers, the principal of the school, and a sympathetic master plumber with whom his father had worked in Flatbush, Joe used Mario and Gabriella's address to avoid questions from his Mama and a probable beating from his Papà. He was running out of time; the following month, the union would open applications for apprenticeship, and through given his family connections, it would be an unfortunate formality.

"Hello?" he called out to a seemingly empty, though unlocked house. Wandering inside and shutting the door behind him, Joe unexpectedly heard a woman's faint whimper of agony coming from the downstairs bathroom. Yelling Gabriella's name, he broke into the room where he saw his sister-in-law coiled up next to the toilet. He knelt by her and touched the suffering woman with his fingertips. Unsure of what to do, especially as Salvatore was AWOL and Mario was at the physical test for FDNY recruitment, Giuseppe scooped up her nauseated form and carried her to the master bedroom. Laying her down length-wise like a sleeping beauty, he curled up next to her, his body trembling in fear.

Sluggishly, Gabriella opened her eyes and saw the lost boy next to her. She reached out and ran a comforting hand through his thick curly hair. "It's okay, Joe; I think I just might have a cold."

"Gabby, you need to see a doctor!" insisted Giuseppe. "Let me go fetch Dr. Ricci – I don't like this."

"No! Don't – just stay with me, Joe, until Mario gets back." Reluctantly, he nodded and laid his head against the pillow on Mario's side of the bed. "What … what are you studying in math class?"

"Just … sines and cosines. Slide rule this, square root that. Physics is far more interesting, though. We're doing Einstein's Relativity – time runs more slowly at near-light speeds. If there are a pair of twins, and one stays on Earth and the other leaves on a spaceship that moves close to the speed of light, then the twin on Earth will be older than the other once he gets back."

Gabriella stared at the ceiling. "We're … always running out of time." She twisted her head to face the worried teenager. "Don't let that happen to you."

Before Joe could ask what she meant, they heard Mario's voice call out their names. "Here!" he called out to his fratello.

A moment later, Mario rushed into the bedroom, his blue eyes immediately focusing on his sweaty and pale wife. Breathing raggedly, he sat on the corner of the bed closest to her and took her hand. "What … what happened?" Turning to his younger brother, he angrily demanded, "Why didn't you take her to a doctor, Joe?!"

"Mario, I asked him not to, not until … you got home. My choice. I think I just caught something. How did it go?"

The man in blue sweats calmed himself and, patting Joe's leg in a silent apology, replied, "It was aight. Actually, I felt like I was trainin' for the Jets. We had to wear full gear. A couple of the guys laughed at the small Italian scemo running alongside six-foot Irish guys. The results should be available in a month or two." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I, uh, heard rumors that women were tryin' out for the Fire Department. They're kickin' 'em out, Gabby. If they can't do it, then what chance do I got? I ain't much bigger than they are. Only thing I got is Papà's strength. Irish guys couldn't lift as much. So we'll see." Mario scanned his bed with his pallid Gabriella and beloved younger brother. "Vi voglio bene – youse are my hope." Rising off the bed, he kissed her hand once more and told them that he would find Dr. Ricci.

Within the hour, the kindly old physician from Bari followed the bartender home and examined the ill woman. His diagnosis left all three speechless. Thanking the man profusely and attempting to pay him with what he had on hand, which the man refused, Mario then sat on the bed next to his equally stunned wife, interlacing her fingers with his. By Dr. Ricci's rough estimate, Gabriella would deliver their first child sometime in early October. Asking Joe to give them privacy, Mario held Gabriella and kissed her head. Neither of them saw a forlorn Joe by the door to eavesdrop. "What do you want to do? You got school, and I …?"

She angrily withdrew from her husband and growled, "I am keeping the baby!"

Mario sighed and held up his hands in surrender. "I didn't … I'm sorry, Gabby, I didn't mean it like that! But I don't want ya to give up Brooklyn College! And that asshole you work for will fire ya once he learns you're pregnant. You're a mathematician! You can do things!"

"I still can and I will!" she asserted. Kissing him, the Sicilian woman murmured, "With my family history, I don't know … how much time I'll have to bear children. Mama, Nonna, Bisnonna … they only had a few years. And I want to have a child – our child. Brooklyn College will still be there once the baby's born and grown a little. I'll get through the spring if I can manage it. That'll mean I just need another year and a half to finish. And it'll be better – I can save up and not worry about what it's doin' to us. I … I don't want you to keep pulling double shifts. Between the bar and goin' out with Paddy, you're tired, Mario!"

"I don't mind because … I want a good life for you! And once Joe gets to Princeton, he'll be safe and out of his clutches!" Shifting on the bed to face his wife, he grasped both of her hands. "If this is what you want, then … that's what we'll do, aight? I don't care if I gotta work construction or drive a truck! And if I don't get the Fire Department, then I'll figure somethin' out. But wow …" Mario brushed his fingers down her stomach. "A bambino! Or, uh, a bambina! I'm gonna be a father!"

She beamed tearfully and nodded.

As husband and wife kissed and embraced over the future Masciarelli, a sad and bitter Giuseppe walked outside of the house to snowfall. So much for leaving Brooklyn, he thought angrily. The pain at being replaced rose up in his esophagus. Why did he have to leave New York, just to face a lonely, bleak future without his family or friends? Is that what Mario ultimately wanted? On 65th Street, Giuseppe was the workhorse, the replacement for and punching bag in Mario's stead; on 62nd Street, the latter had the beautiful wife, house, child, and, likely in a year or two, flashy civil servant's position. If he were to attend Princeton, he, the second son, would be cleaning tables for future Congressmen and Wall Street tycoons who would no sooner give him a job than their butler or maid.

"Joe!"

Quickly wiping away his tears, the teenager glanced up to see a concerned Salvatore standing on the sidewalk. "Sal?"

"Yeah, you okay?"

He shrugged weakly. "Yeah, fine. What are you up to?"

The olive-skinned teenager grinned. "I was headed to 18th Avenue to get some dinner before I gotta work. Why don't you come along?"

"Sorry, Sal, I don't get paid until next week, so I really shouldn't." Giuseppe's blue eyes darted up to the sky, and he added, "Plus, it's gonna snow, so if I don't leave soon, it's gonna be a cold bitch to bike."

Salvatore, whose black clothes had evolved to include an imitation hairstyle of John Travolta, approached the man in the corduroy coat, green turtleneck, and poof-ball hat. "Then don't. Leave the bike here; no one'll bother it. We'll walk down the street, and I'll buy you dinner. Okay? You're not workin' in the shop tonight?" He shook his head. "Aight then, c'mon! Let your best friend in the whole fuckin' world treat you to a nice meal."

Giuseppe waited five seconds so as not to appear too eager; dropping the bike against the brick house, he began to move with his friend toward 18th Avenue and 65th Street, several blocks from high-end tailoring and shoe stores, gelato shops, an Italian bakery, and right across from his father's plumbing store. He glanced nervously toward the black and white-lettered store front; Mario Brothers Plumbing and Supply was open six days a week from seven to six to sell hardware and high-end faucets, commodes, water tanks, heaters, and other housewares. The elder Mario Masciarelli, two journeymen, and his youngest son also made house calls to Bensonhurst and Bath Beach shops and residences; they were the number one choice in the community, as many of their clients, despite having lived in New York for decades, only spoke Italian. Since it was nearly five-thirty, the lights were still on inside the store; Giuseppe became frightened that his father would see him walking with "that fucking mafioso street rat" and sped up, forcing Salvatore to jog to catch him. The latter guided him across the street toward a cocktail lounge and restaurant.

"Sal, we shouldn't go in there!" hissed Joe while the other teenager moved to open the glass and steel door.

"Joe, relax, it'll be fine," assured the cheery Salvatore. Once again, Giuseppe hesitated, then followed him inside.


October 14, 1978

Maimonides Hospital, Borough Park

8:17 p.m.

Giuseppe walked into the hospital and found his anxious older brother waiting for news on his Gabriella's condition. Because the nine-pound baby had been breech and was showing signs of distress, the doctors had kicked him out of the delivery room to perform a Caesarean. So distraught at this turn of events that he had not noticed his younger brother sit down next to him. They had not spoken since Joe enrolled in the union apprenticeship program, which the angry Mario dismissed as a waste of his talent and a surrender to their father's whims. The disappointed man threw himself into bartending and caring for his pregnant wife, who had indeed been fired by her employer. Salvatore had become permanently truant, uncontrollable, and even violent toward him and his pregnant sister. Fearing for her safety as well as a negative background investigation by the FDNY for his brother-in-law's probable ties to the Mafia, he was forced to kick him out of their house. Paddy had assured Mario that he had done the right thing, and that many firefighters had relatives in prison or who were estranged, himself included.

His heartbreak had been somewhat alleviated by the imminent birth of his child, Gabriella's straight-A report card, and his barely high enough score on the physical for admission to the FDNY's Fire School in August 1979. His twenty-first birthday was not until July, thus the state would not allow any probationary recruits to be trained unless they had reached the full age of majority. That being said, several FDNY academy instructors were sympathetic and knew of Paddy McCollough's personal interest in him. Although the higher-ups quietly asked the captain not to take Mario out on any more jobs, as they were facing more budget cuts and increased political scrutiny over the "woman problem," they did allow him to be 'instructed' at the firehouse, as they had done with their sons, nephews, cousins, and grandsons. The veteran firefighters jokingly took "Rover" out on 'walks,' which consisted in torturing him with the same physical fitness exercises that they had to do on "the Rock," the common name for the training facility at Randall's Island.

"Hey," spoke Joe. "Sorry, I just heard. Got here as soon as I could." Mario gave a single nod, yet did not speak. "I, uh, know that you may not want me here, and I'll go if you want me to, but …"

"Why wouldn't I want you here, Joe? You're my fratellino. My family. You, Gabby, Maria, and the bambino or bambina are all I got in this world."

"What about Salvatore and Mama?" he asked uncertainly.

Mario scoffed, rubbing his face. "Mama's always telling us to make peace with Papà, even though he apologizes with his fists. Mark my words, Joe; he will never be around my child. And as for Sal … Well, he does the same thing. Still, I've got hope that he'll … be different."

A man in blue-green scrubs exited the back rooms, and both Masciarelli brothers stood up to greet and receive news. "Mr. Masciarelli, your wife's resting. She'll need to be on bedrest for a couple weeks, but she'll be fine. You'll be able to take your healthy, nine-pound, three-ounce son home in a day or two." He smiled a little and excused himself to care for other patients.

The elder brother exhaled the breath that he had been holding and embraced his beaming fratellino. "Gabby's okay, and … I've got a son!"

A grinning Giuseppe returned the hug. "Congratulazioni, fratello! Ah, a son! And Jesus, he's big, too!" Once they pulled apart, he asked, "Do you and Gabby have a name yet?"

Tears slid down his flushed cheeks. "Yeah, she wants to name the bambino after me – Mario!" Joe smiled in response. "I, uh, added his middle name. For his godfather."

"Oh?" he inquired with some apprehension.

Mario fixed his gaze at his little brother. "Yeah. Mario Giuseppe Masciarelli." He slapped him on the shoulder. "Zio!"


" … God is the giver of all life, human and divine. May He bless the father of this child. He and his wife will be the first teachers of their child in the ways of faith. May they be also the best of teachers, bearing witness to the faith by what they say and do, in Christ Jesus our Lord," spoke the gold and white-robed Father Rosetti before the blue-suited Mario and Giuseppe, a tired Gabriella in a dark pink dress, and a stern-looking, forties-something Mia Masciarelli in a 1940s pale yellow skirt suit. The infant Mario babbled and squirmed in his white christening gown.

"Amen," they murmured.

"By God's gift, through water and the Holy Spirit, we are reborn to everlasting life. In His goodness, may He continue to pour out his blessings upon these sons and daughters of his. May He make them always, wherever they may be, faithful members of His holy people. May He send his peace upon all who are gathered here, in Christ Jesus our Lord."

"Amen."

"May almighty God, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, bless you," concluded the priest.

"Amen."

Three weeks following the birth, a sleep-deprived Mario and Gabriella, with Giuseppe's and Maria's help, had arranged the infant's christening. Though Mario was apathetic at best about both the Catholic faith and God's existence, Gabriella had insisted upon the ceremony, both to give thanks for her and the baby's recovery and to give her son options over his beliefs as he aged. While he saw it as anachronistic, the bartender could not refuse his wife such a simple, inoffensive request. During her pregnancy, they discussed how to raise their son; they immediately agreed upon most ideas, such as light corporal punishment, emphasizing the importance of a college education, and raising him in an Italian-speaking home, which Mario had enthusiastically proposed after reading an article in the New Yorker about the positive impact of bilingualism on a child's development. Nevertheless, they had to compromise on a few points: the notoriously agnostic Mario agreed to some religious instruction to provide him a moral compass, yet if their son decided that he disliked Catholic school, they would immediately unenroll him; non-violent sports were acceptable, such as baseball, basketball, or soccer, but he would not be allowed to play football or rugby; finally, the Masciarelli patriarch and matriarch and Salvatore would be allowed supervised access to their child.

A celebratory Sunday dinner was held at Mario and Gabriella's house, with Jackie's wife, Angela, Rosa Morano, Sofia Rigassi, and the fifteen-year-old Maria taking care of the cooking and cleaning for the still weak Gabby who was rocking the fussy Mario. As her husband chatted with his boss, DK, Andy, and Father Rosetti, the twenty-year-old Pete "College Boy" Morello, twenty-one-year-old Jackie Morano, Giuseppe, and Salvatore sat outside in the unseasonably warm, sixty-degree temperature. Dressed in an expensive brown leisure suit, Jackie leaned back in the chair and puffed on a cigar. "Fatherhood will suit that uptight bastard – just had mine about three months ago."

"How is little Antonio doing?" asked Pete.

Jackie beamed. "Kid takes after his old man. Keeps my wife busy, anyway." He leered at College Boy, whose accent and manners differed significantly from the Bensonhurst crew's crass language and habitudes. "Got anyone in Denver yet?"

He rolled his eyes. "As a matter of fact, yes. We went out a couple of times. It's still low-key."

Jackie took another puff of the cigar. "Well, that's somethin'. She Italian?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. Well, half-Italian. There aren't very many Italians left in Denver. Jews, blacks, Italians, anyone who isn't a white Jones or Johnson aren't exactly welcomed there. The Klan's still very much alive, unfortunately." Before Jackie could comment further, the College Boy lifted a finger, "And yes, she needs to be from Colorado. Once we get rid of those pricks, I want my kids to grow up in the fresh air and not among skyscrapers or muggers!"

"Aight, aight!" he conceded. "Well, you're ahead of these two," he gestured at Giuseppe and Salvatore with his thumb. The Abruzzese flushed uncomfortably while Salvatore rolled his eyes and put his arm around his friend's chair.

Smirking in his three-piece black velvet suit and cream-colored dress shirt, Sal remarked, "Nah, we're waitin' for the right broads. Y'know – Italian, blonde, large tits, can cook several types of pasta. Besides, we're only eighteen! Let us play the field a while, eh?"

Pete burst out laughing. "You're such a bullshit artist! You got plenty of Bensonhurst or Mulberry Street ragazze who easily meet three, if not all four of your criteria, Casanova!"

"Yeah, well, I've bedded more of them than you, Cowboy," he retorted. "And besides, look at Giuseppe Ludovico here. He blushes so … charmingly at the mere thought of female attention."

Giuseppe flushed again, yet said nothing to the wiseguys.

"Mind if I join youse?" The four men looked up to the fatigued Mario, can of Coca-Cola in his hand.

"Not at all, Mario! Congratulazioni again on the new addition to the Masciarelli famiglia!" said Pete, rising to kiss his cousin-in-law on the cheek.

Smiling, the bartender held up a finger, popped back inside for a chair, and then moved to sit between Salvatore and Giuseppe. The former created space for the new father, flashing a transitory, yet pointed glare at him.

"Getting much sleep?" asked Jackie teasingly.

Mario chuckled. "Fuck, no. The bambino's got a lot to say. And he wants to be up when I'm up. And when I ain't, he wants me to be up!"

Pete, Jackie, and Giuseppe laughed at Mario's apt description while Salvatore put on a phony smile and, when none of them were looking in his direction, rolled his eyes at his brother-in-law.

"So when do you start the Fire Academy?" inquired the Denverite, taking a sip of beer.

"Thankfully, not until next year – August. I have to be twenty-one to enter the probationary period. No exceptions. I heard some talk from the guys about a cadet program, like ROTC. But it ain't gonna happen for a while due to budget cuts. Fuckin' MAC," grumbled Mario as he drank from his soda can. "So the earliest I can be employed by the FDNY is March '80. But at least I'll be twenty-one!" he snorted in good humor.

"So what are you going to do in the meantime? Work in the bar?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "It's a good job. I might pick up some work in construction in the city, too. Always a skyscraper or office building goin' up."

"Yo, Mario," began the man with the short cigar in his mouth, "if you need some extra money, I got a few connections who could …"

"I'm good, thanks, Jackie," interrupted the bartender with the most apologetic smile that he could muster. "I appreciate it, really, but Gabby and I'll be okay."

As the portly man tossed his hand up in a figurati,Salvatore bit out, "What's the matter? Mr. FDNY's too good for us? You'll marry one of our ragazze, let us feed and clothe you, give you a house, yet turn up your nose at our money? You see this lack of respect, Joe?"

Jackie and Pete gaped at the younger Sicilian's sheer balls while Giuseppe avoided eye contact with any of them. Mario, however, bit his lip in visible anger. Inhaling several times to keep his temper in check, he responded in a quiet, yet severe tone, "Yeah, okay, time for you to leave, Sal. I ain't gonna take that shit underneath our roof. Fuori di qui!" He pointed to the door, blue eyes blazing.

His brother-in-law shrugged and rose to leave. "Before I bid everyone a good one, let's remind Mr. FDNY here whose roof it actually is. It's mine. Your roof, Mario, is on 65th Street! Audenzia Rigassi left the house to Gabriella and to me. Not you. I left to keep the family together, because I choose to live in a way that displeases Your Royal Abruzzese Highness. But don't pretend your shit smells like roses, Masciarelli. Because your shit, plumber boy, still smells like Bensonhurst shit, fresh from the sewer at 65th and 18th Av'! You look down at us – even your own fuckin' brother! It's pure irony 'cause Giuseppe's twice the man that you are and ever will be!" He flaunted a wolfish grin at the group and finished with a ciao, then leisurely left the house.

For several seconds afterward, an awkward silence hung over the remaining four men. Ever the negotiator and diplomat, Pete redirected the discomfiture to Mario's newborn son and namesake as well as his unofficial firehouse crew in Brooklyn. Mario immediately loosened up and shared a few stories; Giuseppe, nevertheless mortified over Salvatore's outburst, stayed quiet. For the rest of the evening's celebration, he could not help but notice that his older brother paid little to no attention to him. As the temperature fell with the afternoon sun, he went inside and sat in a darkened corner, forgotten by everyone except for Gabriella who gently encouraged him to tell her again about Einstein's Relativity and Minkowski spaces.


September 1, 2014

Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, NY

3:05 a.m.

"Causal structure …" murmured Giuseppe over and over again, waking Lucia who was lying next to him in Mario's bed. She tried to shake him awake, whispering and then speaking his name, but to no avail. He whimpered again; upon turning on the lights, she noticed that his white tee-shirt was drenched with sweat, and his cropped white hair was stringy against his scalp and skin.

Cursing in Italian and English, she quickly unlocked the door and bolted into the living room for the refrigerated Gatorade. The sound of her feet and shutting the refrigerator door woke the sleeping occupants upstairs. A moment later, Luigi, dressed only in a white tee-shirt and green boxers, came rushing down the stairs. "Zia, what's wrong? Is it Zio?"

"I don't know," she admitted tearfully. "His nightshirt's soaked, and I think he's dreaming. I tried waking him, but he …"

He hurried into Mario's room where Giuseppe had begun to blink awake. "What …?" moaned the middle-aged man. "Luigi?"

The young man sat on the edge of the bed. "Yeah, Zio. What happened? Did you have a nightmare?"

In his weakened state, Joe struggled against the pillows and sheets, attempting to sit up properly. Luigi and Lucia flanked him and, grabbing a shoulder, gently lifted him to lean against the pillows and headboard. His wife handed him a cup of the Gatorade which he took and gulped, causing him to gasp and cough. "Slowly, amore," she admonished. He made a second attempt at drinking the liquid which, that time, was more successful. As he sipped it drop by drop, a sleepy, yet concerned Daisy entered and stood behind her boyfriend, who took her hand and kissed it in greeting. Giuseppe watched the young pair with an unreadable expression until Lucia insisted that he keep drinking.

March 4, 1980

FDNY Probationary Firefighter Graduation Ceremony

Randall's Island, Manhattan

"… Probationary Firefighter Mario Masciarelli, Jr.," announced the commissioner.

From the audience gallery, Giuseppe whirled around to hear the loud cheers from his unofficial Brooklyn firehouse, all of whom had received special permission to attend the graduation ceremony of their equally unofficial mascot, "Rover," several of his fellow graduating classmates, Andy, DK, their sister, Maria, and a couple of his coworkers from the bar where he had formerlyworked. Nearly twenty-two, he was one of the youngest firefighters in the history of the FDNY; many were college-educated and worked in education, social work, law enforcement, or another profession, and were twenty-five or twenty-six on average. Since his scrawny teenage days, the new firefighter had put on twenty pounds of muscle and resembled a fitter version of their father. He had moreover grown a mustache to fit in and avoid age-related teasing from the veterans and instructors.

Gabriella lifted up the toddler Mario who was pointing at his blue-uniformed father marching toward the fire commissioner and deputy mayor to accept his graduation certificate. "Guarda, è il tuo papà," she whispered to the curly-haired child.

As he moved to sit down, Mario sneaked an adoring glance at his wife, son, and younger siblings. Though expected to follow paramilitary rules and formalities, he felt honored by their support and risked a breach in protocol to express his gratitude. Now that he had a stable job and salary, Gabriella could return to Brooklyn College and finish her math degree. While he wanted to leave Bensonhurst and Brooklyn, especially as Mafia-related murders were becoming an almost weekly occurrence, it was unfortunately the safest neighborhood in the five boroughs except for Staten Island; such a move would make Gabby more of a single parent than she currently was. Despite her reassurance and visible pride in his accomplishments, Mario felt bone-crushing guilt for leaving her to raise their son alone. As a probie, he would need to spend much of his time at the firehouse, and due to his class rank, he would inevitably be assigned to the South Bronx and North Manhattan areas. Just hold on for a while longer, Gabby; I'll work toward getting transferred back to Brooklyn.

Mario did not hear the next hour of calling his classmates' names and additional remarks and prayers offered by the deputy mayor, commissioner, and chaplain. Instead, he was trying to process certain rumors that he had heard from DK and fellow firefighters whose family members were long-time NYPD and FDNY. On one hand, they did not tell him anything unknown about his neighborhood; growing up in Brooklyn's Little Italy, he watched mafiosi shake down Italian, Jewish, and Irish businesses in exchange for "protection," which wasan empty proposition per se, given that it had always been a relatively safe and quiet area of New York. The only thing that he had in common with his father was their mutual hatred of their existence. On the other hand, he was shaken to the core over the deeply-routed Mafia activity within his own family. Jackie Morano had just been sentenced to two years for fraud and was being investigated for racketeering as well as orchestrating several murders in East New York. The mild-mannered "College Boy," Pete Morello, allegedly worked with the Moranos on orders of his father, Paolo, the boss of the Colorado-based family. Yet the rumor that disturbed him the most was pertaining to Salvatore, which he had learned from one of Paddy's friends. Apparently, he had worked his way up to the Midwood crew, whose sole existence and specialty were in contract killings, often employing the disreputable lupara bianca to make their mark. The NYPD and FBI might find pieces, but the victim would never be found, thereby denying their families a proper burial. In spite of his and Gabriella's attempts to run interference at Christmas and Easter gatherings, at which he was an inescapable guest as family, Salvatore refused to leave Giuseppe's side. For this reason, he stopped his multiple pleas with his brother to move in with them on 62nd Street; while their father's breaks with reality were still frequent, Mario knew that Salvatore would not dare show his face to the unpredictable man's house. Inasmuch as he loathed the idea, keeping watch on his vulnerable fratellino would soon be impossible.

Following the graduation ceremony and the flow of dress blues and white gloves, he found his beautiful wife in a long-sleeved, flower-printed pink and orange dress, Maria in a light blue dress that she had patterned from a McCall's catalogue, and Joe in his old blue denim suit that their mother had sewn in his freshman year of high school. Maria and Gabriella had made baby Mario a red and blue sailor's outfit, as they could not afford to buy new clothes every three months to accommodate his rapid growth. "Hey, bambino!" he said, taking his son from the beaming Gabriella and into his arms. "How did he do?"

"He fussed a little at the beginning, but for the first time ever, I think he was quiet throughout. He liked the uniforms," answered Maria in a teasing tone.

"È vero? Huh, è vero, bambino mio? Un giorno ti arruolerai ai vigili del fuoco, eh?" In response, baby Mario babbled and left a tiny drop of drool on his father's tie. He smiled and stated authoritatively while kissing the top of his head, "Well, I think that settles that."

"Congratulazioni, fratello," interjected Giuseppe, reaching for his hand.

Giving baby Mario back to his wife, the firefighter threw his arms around his little brother. "Grazie, fratellino!" He reached up and kissed him on the cheek, whispering, "Ti voglio bene. Per me, tu, Gabby, Maria e il bambino siete il mondo."

For the next hour, Mario introduced his family to his classmates as well as some of the veterans from his ladder in Brooklyn. Then they returned to Bensonhurst, where they planned to meet again for dinner later that evening. Their father insisted that Giuseppe return to finish his shift at the shop, much to his eldest son's dismay and indignation. Neither parent congratulated him on completing Fire School and the three-year-long wait to become a probationary firefighter; in fact, he had heard from some of his former regulars at the bar that his father called it "a babysitting job for whiny neri who burn their own houses down." Better that than selling shitty toilets, he snapped bitterly. They decided to move dinner to eight o'clock which was later than normal, yet Mario and Gabriella wanted Giuseppe there to celebrate. In addition to him and several of his firehouse buddies, they grudgingly extended an invitation to Salvatore as family, hoping that he would not attend.

They were disappointed. Salvatore did show up, having followed Joe inside the house. As the mainly Irish-American firefighters observed with mixed mirth and disbelief, the mafioso in a flashy black and green corduroy suit and gold chains around his neck greeted the group with a ciao and presented the Fire School graduate with an expensive bottle of champagne to commemorate his success. Though he behaved munificently to all attendees, even partaking in a couple cigarettes and conversation with several firefighters who lightened up around him as the evening progressed, Salvatore made sure to sit or stand in a spot where it would be more difficult for Mario, Gabriella, or Maria to separate him from Giuseppe. Every so often, he would return to Joe's side and engage him in discussion, filling his drink and luring him out of his shell to socialize with the other partygoers. Mario tried to hide how alarmed he was at the obvious act of territoriality and at his brother's passivity. Yet Sal did what he had not been able to do in years – reach and comfort his brother emotionally.

Enough was enough.

Whispering to Paddy, Gabriella, DK, and Maria, who all nodded, they distracted the wallflower Giuseppe while Mario slapped a hand on Salvatore's shoulder and, smiling toothily to avoid a scene, growled that they were going outside for a chat. Affixing the same counterfeit smile, the mafioso wholeheartedly agreed. They strolled outside into the backyard, Mario shutting the door behind him. He crossed his arms and hissed, "What the fuck are you up to, Sal? What's your angle here? You got money from God-knows-where, a John Travolta get-up, buddies who steal and kill their neighbors, and a pathetic version of 'respect.' You got it all, apparently, so whatcha need from Joe? Why can't you leave him alone?"

Salvatore scoffed and, setting his wine glass down, lit a cigarette. "Oh, look at the new probie. New uniform, new mustache, new man. Congratulazioni on making it through – I mean that. That being said, Mario, Joe doesn't need your permission to have friends – no, famiglia. You've always expected everyone – Gabby, Joe, me – to live according to your fuckin' rules. Gabby needs to go to college, Joe needs to go to Princeton, and I need to do … what? Go to Columbia? Work a nine-to-five fuckin' job for some rich prick on Wall Street who pats me on the head, then brags to his equally WASP tennis buddies about the stupid wop workin' for him? Hmm? At least my boss is family and has my back! These stupid Irish pricks?" he pointed with his thumb, cigarette between his index and middle fingers, "You're the Dago Doggy, cugnatu." He took another drag of his cigarette, flicking the butt to the ground. "And that's your choice. But my business is my choice. And Joe? He is and will always be my business."

"And I'd be glad to stay the hell outta your … business," he spat. "But I hate to break it to ya, Sal: Joe's my brother. He's my flesh and blood. And I will not let him join your little club of thugs and murderers! Giammai! Tell Carlo that, on behalf of the Masciarellis, he can go fuck himself."

He took an angry puff on his cigarette. "So he's your brother? Huh, funny, but you don't act like it."

"And where the fuck do you get off on tellin' me that?" demanded Mario. "You've threatened Gabby enough – your goddamned sorella!"

Salvatore narrowed his eyes. "Oh, fangul, you arrogant shit!" The firefighter glared at him in response. "Ever since '77, you stopped being his frati and became Lord of the fuckin' Manor with your holier-than-thou college and FDNY bullshit. When Joe finally made an adult decision over his own life, for his own reasons, you denigrated him because he didn't do what you wanted! See, here's the thing, Mario: you never went to college and you never tried to get your ass into Princeton. Nah, you rode my sister's and Joe's coattails, so you never truly knew what it takes and what stayin' there would've done to him." He brought the cigarette to his lips and crossly smoked for a few seconds before continuing, "You never cared about him; you only saw his million-dollar brain.And guess what: if Gabby disappoints you as Giuseppe did, you'll leave her, too." He dropped his cigarette in the dirt and stomped it out with his platform shoe while Mario heaved with emotion. "And I'll still be here. I'll be here for both of them. My niputi, too. That's what bein' a man is about. Now, go do what we both know you'll do – fuck off with the micks to the Bronx like a good doggy. Go save the welfare queens and their shitholes for a quick ego stroke. Just do us all a favor and disappear before you really break my sister's and Giuseppe's hearts. Ciao."

As the man in black turned to leave via the front door, a stunned Mario spoke, "What happened to you, Sal? I remember the Goody-Two-Shoes kid who used to come up with the weirdest, funniest jokes. The altar boy who'd make us all laugh until our bellies hurt! Now you're this … gangster who's so full of hate! Why?! What can I do to … change it?"

Without facing him, Salvatore replied, "Nothing, cugnatu. Absolutely nothing. The altar boy died a little at a time, leaving me in his place."

"No! I refuse to believe that!" shouted the firefighter, moving to block his path. "I know that, underneath it all, Salvatore Rigassi is still in there!"

"I am Salvatore Rigassi, you moron!" he hissed. "That's what scares you the most. That the altar boy was a pretense. And maybe, just maybe, it was. I'm done here."

The wiseguy walked inside as the crying Mario screamed in anguish and rage.

August 16, 1980

Prospect Avenue and Crotona Park East

South Bronx, New York

9:45 p.m.

The acrid smell of burning paint, plaster, and wood steadily rose into the air as a couple firefighters from Engines 81 and 47 exited the seven-story low-income housing complex, spitting mucus and soot from their noses and mouths. Other engines – 39 and 83 – immediately move into different positions to put out the fire as quickly and efficiently as possible. In the organized chaos, several bystanders and recently evacuated residents yelled that there were people trapped on the fourth and fifth floors. Sighing, the veterans kept their juniors and subordinates focused on the task at hand, as putting out the flames was the highest priority to avoid killing any or all of the firefighters inside the compromised structure. As they carried heavy, two to three-inch hoses to douse each scorching floor, a few of the rescue crew made their way through the smoky, yet searchable areas of the fourth floor. They had not, thus far, found any victims or remaining people in the building. The senior member, Ron Marshall, provided their position to command at street level, while his two juniors, Jamie O'Dell and Mario Masciarelli, waited somewhat impatiently behind the guys with the hose.

Suddenly, they heard wails of small children from behind a closed door to the front and right of them. The flames rapidly approached the firefighters who held steady with the hose, water being their only tool to prevent their own injuries and deaths. Mario breathed in and out, as much as he could, to keep calm and resist the temptation to rush into the apartment without the green light from the men in front and the experienced Marshall. He looked at O'Dell with a common, knowing glance; they had to try. Sensing that his two probies were a split second from charging in, Marshall yelled, "You gotta wait! If we feed it more oxygen, we all burn! Call out to 'em – keep 'em calm!" Using his walkie-talkie, he requested a look-see from outside for any flames within the general location of the apartment – above or below.

Despite their growing sense of urgency, Jamie and Mario called out to the scared children to keep calm and stay where they were. The former swore when he realized that their only language was Spanish. Mario listened carefully and could make out some of the words due to his fluency in Italian. He spoke back to them in his language, praying that they could understand some of the common words. To their collective horror, the door handle began to rattle and turn; Mario tried to keep the child or children away from the door by yelling in slow Italian to back away. The child screeched in fear, but did not unlock or open the entrance. The Italian took several shallow breaths underneath the SCBA to remain composed. Marshall finally gave them the green light to inch closer to the apartment as the others pushed back the fire. Mario continued to talk to them and realized that the child was crying about his abuela. "Yo, Ronnie, I think there's an old woman in there. Kid's talking about his grandmother, I think." Ronnie mumbled a few obscenities under his breath; nonetheless, he ordered his two probies to hold for a few seconds more.

Timing it right to avoid feeding the fire, they at last entered the apartment, where a small child was coughing violently against the floor, the smoke having irritated his nose and throat. Ronnie quickly picked up the kid and moved as close to the ground as possible toward the open windows – no ladders. Jamie and Mario called out to the old woman who was found alive in the bathroom.

"Is there anyone else?" asked O'Dell to Mario.

The extinguished fire had created thicker black smoke that moved past the door and into the apartment. The firefighters, woman, and child began to cough violently. "Goddamnit!" cursed Ronnie. Jamie stayed with the woman as Mario checked the kitchen and closet; thinking about his own child in Bensonhurst, he rushed into the bedroom and threw off the mattress from the frame to find two little girls. "It's aight, c'mon," coaxed the firefighter. Trembling, the girls wrapped their arms around his neck, and he squat-ran toward O'Dell and Marshall. "Got 'em! We got two more!"

"Aight," breathed Marshall as he opened his safety gear. "The smoke's getting bad, so we gotta go out the window. Jamie, find something to tie off this rope. Mario, grab the girls. Jamie and I will get the boy and grandma out."

Jamie returned a minute later. "Yo, Ronnie, I tied it around the most stable thing there is, but there're no guarantees that it'll hold."

Ronnie shrugged and put a hand on his shoulder. "You did good, kid. Aight, let's go!"

O'Dell trapped the weak sixties-something woman between his body and the rope, wrapping her arms around his neck and carefully repelled down to the gravel and concrete below. The smoke had doubled, and the boy was becoming pallid from the earlier smoke inhalation. Ronnie encouraged Mario to take the boy; however, the girls howled when he tried to take them. "Go, I got 'em!" yelled Mario. Aversely, he nodded and repelled down to the street.

Now it was his turn. Saying certain words that he knew to be similar in Spanish to assuage their fears, Mario maneuvered himself out of the window, the girls around his neck. As he passed the second floor, he felt the rope loosen and muttered a curse word in Abruzzese – he was nearly out of time. He pushed the girls into his body as the rope released fifteen feet above ground, and he jumped toward softer dirt to absorb the impact. Onlookers watched helplessly as the three people went slamming into the ground. Five firefighters, including Jamie and Ronnie, ran toward them. Crying from fear, the little girls were nonetheless uninjured; Mario's right leg was bent inward unnaturally, like a broken stick figure. He was moaning faintly from extreme pain. "You crazy sonofabitch!" shouted Ronnie jokingly to redirect his focus. "You shoulda hopped!"

"S-s-screw you!" he breathed with a grin.


Early the next morning, Gabriella was preparing coffee for herself while baby Mario played with his breakfast. As she moved to turn on the radio in the living room, she noticed Paddy and Giuseppe walking toward the front door. A wave of distress and anguish struck her in the chest, causing her breath to become shallow. She let out a whimper and a sob as she went to open the door. Hearing his mother's sorrow, baby Mario scampered into the living room and began to cry in incomprehension and alarm. She stood like a statue in the exposed threshold, tears in her eyes as she felt Giuseppe wrap his arms around her. "He's okay, Gabby," the weepy man mumbled.

"It's okay; don't worry," soothed Paddy to the disbelieving woman. "He was taken to Bronx Hospital with a broken leg." He gave them both a faint laugh. "Mario saved two little girls while repelling out a fourth-floor window. As the rope gave way, the crazy sonofabitch jumped from fifteen feet to the only 'soft landing' available – dirt and more dirt. Probably saved 'em all from more severe injury."

Laying her head against Giuseppe's chest, Gabriella closed her eyes in relief; the 'Jumpman' would come home alive.