Author's notes: Okie doke, a final chapter before the end of the year! Happy New Year and stay safe in the wild weather (to those in North America).
I will be going on hiatus for a few weeks because I need a break and the next two chapters will be difficult and require more care. Those who have made it this far know what's coming. I've hinted at the demise of Mario Senior / Mario and Luigi's father in several chapters. I did not want to get into that during the holidays for obvious reasons. So I will be issuing a general warning for the next two chapters due to content. They will not be graphic or go through it minute by minute. I don't think that would be appropriate for a variety of reasons. If anyone's concerned, they can PM me.
I haven't decided whether I will be release one or both chapters at the same time. It'll depend on the second, which will be more intense than the first. So I'll suggest a tentative release date of 15 January 2023 - at least for the first.
As always, reviews and kudos are always welcome! Happy New Year!
Chapter 36: The Sins of the Father
September 1, 2014
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
10:17 a.m.
Giuseppe blinked awake for the second time that morning, desperately gasping for air. After he drank another large container of Gatorade, he fell back asleep, dreaming about the 1980 visit the Bronx Hospital – the first of seven times between 1980 and 1985 – with a worried and crying Gabriella, baby Mario on her hip. A feminine hand had reached out to cup his cheek, and his blue eyes met pained brown ones next to him. He leaned into his wife's touch and began to sob uncontrollably. Lucia straightaway slid toward her husband and embraced him. "What is it, Joe? What's wrong?" she whispered. Her husband did not respond except to place his cracked and discolored lips upon hers. Joe allowed the saltwater to drip carelessly upon her cheeks.
February 11, 1982
Near 20th Avenue and Avenue J
Mapleton, Brooklyn
6:35 p.m.
Mario perfunctorily waved to the staff as his tired younger brother followed inside to the warm restaurant, which contrasted to the frigid thirty-degree temperatures throughout the five boroughs. Choosing one of the red-colored vinyl booths closest to the kitchen, the firefighter took the side facing the entrance while Joe sat in the other, rubbing his eyes behind his thick glasses. The waitress excitedly approached them and greeted the shorter, blue-hoodied and mustachioed man, "Hey, Jumpman, the usual?"
"Yeah," he answered, forcing a polite smile. Although he was at times flattered by the attention, he detested the name 'Jumpman' as well as the hero worship by the Italian residents of Mapleton, Bath Beach, and Bensonhurst. He was just doing his job; firefighting was, for him and the guys at his station, like taking orders or flipping burgers. He hated the medals and the photo ops with the mayor's office, politicians, and commissioner, who, with each passing year, managed to justify cutting more money from them in the South Bronx. "Whatcha want, Joe?" he added to cover his discomfort.
"I'll have the same, please," said the plumber, handing the menus to the awestruck woman who gave Mario a flirty grin and left. Once she was out of earshot, Joe teasingly leaned in and whispered, "Yo, Jumpman, do you think they even know your name's Mario Masciarelli?"
"Fuck off, fratellino," he griped, rolling his eyes. Eager to change the subject, he asked, "How's Brooklyn College goin'?"
Giuseppe shrugged in his green, long-sleeved shirt. "It's aight. Night school can be a drag, but it's the only time that I can do it. Papà knows, I think."
Mario rolled his eyes a second time. "Who gives a shit what he thinks? It's your money and you're twenty-two fuckin' years old. So, what's he gonna say about it? He can't ground you or …"
"Basta," interjected the thinner man. "Enough talk about the Papà-Jumpman saga."
The firefighter pointed at him as Giuseppe flashed a shit-eating grin. "You! One more fuckin' time …!"
As they traded insults in Italian and English, two young women walked into the diner and sat at a booth in the row opposite of Mario and Giuseppe's position. Dressed in jeans and corduroy jackets, large gold hoop earrings in their ears, the blonde Italian women became louder and louder in their discussions about the older woman's previous date.
"Lucia, seriously, he was a cute guy! I don't understand what the problem was!" exclaimed Antonella Bianchi, tossing her medium-length dark blonde hair.
Her older sister gave Antonella a hard stare. "Look, Nelly, he could be Mister Universe, and I wouldn't care! I'm not interested in datin' anyone! I want my degree, not to become an Italian mamma with seven kids!"
"You mean, like our Mama?" she countered with a raised eyebrow. "Only she has six."
Lucia sighed and crossed her arms. "What's wrong with having a life outside of marriage? I want to be an accountant – it'll get me out of waitressin' and big dumb schmucks slappin' my ass! I gotta hear this cacca from Mama, Papà, Nonna, Nonno, the cousins, our brothers, and now you!"
Seventy feet away, the waitress returned with Mario and Joe's dinner plates – a Reuben with fries, kosher pickle, and a Coca-Cola. Nodding his thanks, Mario rubbed his hands and picked up one of the triangles, licking his thumb of the thousand island dressing when Antonella's loud cackling echoed throughout the relatively quiet diner. Giuseppe turned in annoyance toward the loud Brooklyn ragazzewhen his blue eyes widened in recognition; swearing under his breath and panicking in his seat, he sunk down to avoid being seen by the women. Mario continued to watch them in mixed amusement and displeasure. Shaking his head, the older brother turned to resume their conversation and to eat his waiting Reuben. Opening his mouth to take a bite, he precipitously noticed that his fratellino, who was nibbling at his sandwich, had slouched four inches, and his feet were nearly atop his underneath the table.
"Joe?" His younger brother hummed while chewing. "The fuck are you doing?"
The man swallowed and shrugged. "Eating."
"Yeah, I can see that," replied Mario evenly. "But why are you slouchin'?"
Joe feigned ignorance and munched on a few French fries. "My back's been killin' me all day." Upon uttering this lie, his eyes shifted ever so slightly, and he avoided eye contact with his now suspicious older brother.
Liar, liar, pants on fire, thought the firefighter. His eyes narrowed, and he twisted to get a better look at the two girls, who were still yammering on about 'Lucia's' bad date. Facing the now nervous Joe, whose glasses had started to fog up, Mario grinned evilly. Rising from the table, taking a few fries with him, and giving him a calling-your-bluff look much to Giuseppe's horror, he proceeded to walk toward the women's table.
"Mario!" the plumber whisper-hissed. "Get back here!"
Nelly glanced just past Lucia's shoulder at the Italian man who was approaching them. Her brown eyes wandered over the man's FDNY fleece appreciatively. Leaning over to whisper to her sister, she quietly spoke, "Don't turn around, but I think that's Jumpman behind us! You know – the ragazzo that was on the news a couple months ago for savin' that firefighter and old couple in the South Bronx! He's coming over here, I think."
Swallowing the last of his fries, Mario stopped at their table, where Nelly giggled and Lucia threw him a distinctly unimpressed gaze, especially upon seeing the wedding ring on his left hand. "Hey, how you doin'? I was wonderin' if you'd like some company. Me and my brother."
Lucia prepared to give precise directions as to how he could shove the nearest fire hydrant up his cheating ass, but Nelly kicked her and interjected, "We'd love some company. Uh, we just ordered."
Mario flashed them a megawatt smile and responded, "No problem; we just got our Reubens. One sec."
Once he was across the room, Lucia growled, "I don't care if he's Jumpman! Did you see the ring on his finger? He's steppin' out on his wife!"
Nelly gave a lascivious grin at his backside. "I don't care; I'll take a completely innocent or not-so-innocent date with Jumpman!"
Before she could lecture her younger sister on her complete lack of morals, Mario returned with his plate and soda, setting them in the middle of the table. Nelly slid over once space, making sure that he would be seated next to her. "Actually – sorry, what's your name?" he inquired apologetically.
"I'm Nelly, and this is my older sister, Lucia," she answered, batting her eyelashes.
"Nelly, why don't we put Lucia next to you? I gotta get my brother. One sec." As he went back to his original table, the girls exchanged a look of confusion, then arranged themselves as requested. All of a sudden, they heard a commotion from across the diner, and Mario waved a laughing waitress over to take the second plate and drink. A moment later, he was physically dragging a tall, spectacled, curly-haired younger man with him. Quickly tossing him into the corner and sliding into their side of the booth to prevent his escape, Mario beamed at the two ragazze. The pink-faced waitress came by with Giuseppe's dinner and soda and set them in front of him; the plumber did not acknowledge the gesture, instead studying the wooden table's surface. Lucia glowered at the two men while Nelly licked her lips in anticipation. Popping the now cooled fries into his mouth, Mario began, "So, my name's Mario. This," he forcibly held up the man's head, "is my younger brother, Joe. Joe, across from me is Lucia, and across from you is Nelly." A trembling and beet-red Joe opened his mouth, yet nothing came out of it. "He says hi. So are youse students at Brooklyn College?"
Lucia crossed her arms and refused to speak. Nelly grinned coquettishly at Mario and purred, "I'm a cosmetology student. Lucia here goes to Brooklyn College."
"Ah," voiced the firefighter, his blue eyes shifting in glee and victory at his brother who was still avoiding eye contact. "So, Lucia, what are you studyin'?"
"Accounting and computers," interrupted Giuseppe softly.
Nelly and Lucia gaped at the taller man who gently lifted his head to face the older sister. Mario smirked and took another bite of his Reuben.
September 1, 2014
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
11:10 a.m.
Yoshi and Miles returned to the brick house on 17th Avenue where they discovered a frustrated Lucia and perplexed Luigi. Inexplicably, Giuseppe was refusing to leave, drifting in and out of consciousness. Moreover, Mario had not been seen since the previous night. The Masciarelli matriarch sent Yoshi and Daisy to the store to buy more Gatorade and supplies, as it appeared as though they would be spending Labor Day at Mario and Luigi's home, while she called her two daughters to tell them that their father may be transported to Park Slope. Debating on whether to call Mia and Maria, she eventually settled on postponing it until they either made the drive to Eltingville or called the ambulance to the hospital.
"No!" Giuseppe screamed, clinging to the pillow and blankets. "No hospitals! I'm stayin' right here."
"Goddamnit, Joe!" yelled Lucia. "You're not well! Why won't you come back home?!"
"'M stayin! M-Mario … Mario … come back."
Miles, Luigi, and Lucia looked at each other with a mixture of bewilderment and dread. "Zio, he left last night," murmured his nephew.
"Three-alarm fire … Harlem. Of course he left. Left me behind. Left … Mario and Luigi."
"Cazzo!" swore Lucia under her breath. Moving the boys out of the room and shutting the door behind them, she put a hand to her mouth and began to cry. "I knew this was a bad idea to come here! But he insisted!"
A distraught Luigi leaned against the hallway wall. Now sharing her tears, he sobbed, "I'm sorry, Zia. This is my fault; he came looking for me. I'm so sorry!"
Despite her tears, she grabbed her quasi-son and, violently shaking her head, enfolded him. "No, nipote mio! This is the fucking Rigassis' doing! The Moranos, Pete Morello, and especially that bastard Salvatore! Mario and Joe should have told you the truth when you were old enough. Mario … would have, I think, had he lived. But Joe!" she rolled her eyes angrily, "he always thinks he knows better! Fucking stubborn stronzo!"
"Mrs. Masciarelli," interrupted Miles gently. She glanced at him questioningly. "I have a … theory. I'm a hacker as you know, but I, uh, studied neuroscience at MIT. I'm not a doctor, so what I'm about to say is conjecture in your husband's case. There's a link between mind and body. He has cancer, and that was caused by exposure to, well, everything. It has a physical, attributable cause. However, keeping secrets, as a stressor, also has a deleterious effect. For Giuseppe, for Mario, and … even for you, Luigi."
Miles walked past Lucia and Luigi to enter the room where Giuseppe was sitting up in bed. Taking in a chair and positioning it in front of the older man, he motioned for the young man to sit. The older man turned to the boys facing him. "Miles … Luigi?"
"Yeah," nodded Luigi. Lucia tilted her head at Miles to signal that they should give the Masciarelli men privacy. Once the door was closed, Luigi spoke again, "Zio, why don't you want to go home? To Eltingville? Maria and Lucy are waiting for you there."
"Mario's gone."
"Yeah, he went AWOL last night, probably to the Koopa Bar or some cage fight," he growled, running a hand through his hair. "I'm done cleaning up his fuckin' messes, Zio. Although I can't imagine … worryin' youse like I did. I didn't have a choice."
Joe started to sob again. "I know, kid. It's our fault – Mario's and mine. And I can't lose either one of youse. I can't! I lost Mario – your father. I lost your mother. And I lost … your Zio Sal."
"Zio, what is it that you're not tellin' me? Please! If you don't … It could kill us both, particularly now. Don't let Pete, Jackie, Lucas, or god-knows-who-else make their version the official one!"
At Luigi's last words, the man snapped his blue eyes to his identical and expectant ones and began to speak.
March 15, 1986
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
17th Avenue and 62nd Street
7:00 p.m.
Following Giuseppe's small wedding to Lucia Bianchi in July 1983, they moved into a vacant house turned apartment next door to his and Gabriella's A-frame. Their daughter, a honeymoon baby, was born in April 1984. Lucia had graduated with her public accounting degree before the wedding and, even while pregnant with Maria, worked part-time with the accountant of the Bianchis' dry cleaning business. Giuseppe dropped out of Brooklyn College a year shy of graduation once the baby came, as working overtime hours at a shop in Crown Heights was far more important. Their father fired him once he announced that he was marrying "that loudmouthed Napolitana." Thankfully, he had just passed the journeyman's exam and, as of the summer of 1983, was making a tolerable income. Though his parents were grudgingly present at the wedding, both made their dissatisfaction known to anyone who would listen, including Father Rosetti who chuckled good-naturedly. Despite the ongoing problems with their autocratic parents and Mario's continued anger toward his father, whom he blamed for Joe giving up his industrial engineering degree, their lives had been stable and blissful. In a surprising turn of events, Bensonhurst became almost overprotective of 'Jumpman' and his privacy, giving him space to be a doting husband, brother, and father. When Mario and Giuseppe were off shift at the firehouse and shop, the four of them went out to the movies, had picnics, went to the local eateries and bakeries, and played baseball with Mario who already had quite the arm. Much to the firefighter's mirth and his little son's annoyance, baby Maria tried to chase and imitate her cousin. Most memorably, for his and Gabriella's seventh wedding anniversary, Mario secretly saved money for two gifts. The first was a ritzy dinner of steak and salmon at the Cellar in the Sky on the 107th floor of the World Trade Center. Between the main course and dessert, he presented her with the second: a small diamond solitaire. "Here's the long overdue engagement ring," he said. "I'd marry you all over again."
Life was good until June 1985. Gabriella had intended to return to school in September 1983, when little Mario could start school, but she suffered several miscarriages and misdiagnoses. Unconvinced of the platitudes proffered by paternalistic doctors who advised her that she just needed to avoid unnecessary stress, Mario spent hours at the public library researching her symptoms as well as saving money for her to see a specialist. When they finally saw a doctor in Manhattan, the news was grim; the cancer that had killed her mother, grandmother, and several Campisi women was likely present in the frail Gabriella. They recommended chemotherapy and oophorectomy. Having another child would be out of the question, they said, so she refused treatment. For the first time in their eight-year marriage, Mario and Gabriella quarreled, and for months, they could not go one day without arguing. It often started with small annoyances – why did he leave the milk out or give little Mario extra ice cream – and evolved into screaming over why "she wanted another child instead of living with her husband and son."He stayed at the firehouse for weeks on end; when he was not blandly investigating false alarms and the occasional fire, Mario curled toward the wall, away from concerned firefighters, and slept on his cot, dreaming of a young Gabriella in her wedding dress and her flirty smile on their seventh wedding anniversary.
In mid-November, the depressed firefighter arrived home to a nearly empty house, except for a pale Gabriella sitting brokenly at the kitchen table with a suitcase at her feet. She had not seen her husband in nearly a month and while Giuseppe had tried to comfort her the best way he knew how, he was no replacement for Mario Masciarelli. She made a decision. Sending little Mario to his aunt and uncle next door, she braced herself for the difficult conversation ahead. Upon seeing her in the kitchen, suitcase at her feet, he heaved with emotion and shook his head at her calm words – things weren't working, he was unhappy, she was unhappy, they wanted different things. While she did not believe in divorce, she would offer him a permanent separation where they would amicably coparent and he could move on with someone else. In response, the normally nonviolent man shrieked in pain, sobbed incoherently, slammed an old vase to the kitchen floor, and punched a hole in the wall. He fell among the pieces and clutched at his hair while Gabriella covered her mouth in shock. After several minutes, he moaned that he could not contribute to her death, that he would sooner burn in a fire, and he refused to love anyone else. At the words that he finally voiced after months of disbelief and anguish, she fell to the floor and held him. She whispered to him that the second child that she so desired was for the three of them – him, her, and Mario. She had been afraid that, one day, one of those fires would catch up with him. Yet a few months ago, the tables had turned. For her, time had run out. Those six words pushed the firefighter over the edge; he coupled with her several times on the kitchen table, gasping into her neck and on her lips that he would burn that fucking clock and God himself could not have her.
That night, they reconciled. He transferred out of the Bronx to Rescue 2 near Crown Heights, spending more time at home in Bensonhurst with his wife and son. Christmas and New Year's Eve were a grand affair, with the happier couple spoiling both little Mario and Maria with more toys than in previous years. The firefighter even allowed their parents to visit; Salvatore had been absent for years, having disappeared into the walls of the Holy Mother Church. Their sister Maria began dating a stocky pizza restaurant owner from Atlantic City named Tony Benevento, who made it quite clear to the older plumber and his housewife that he did not give a single shit about what they thought. Born in New Jersey to Sicilian immigrant parents, he threw his weight around – literally and figuratively – and had little time for drama, as he wanted to be a millionaire by forty. At Christmas, much to Lucia's, Maria's, and Gabriella's eyerolling, Mario, Joe, and Tony had multiple heated arguments over Mets versus Yankees and the Jets versus Giants. For the first time since 1984, the Masciarellis had a semblance of an active family life and Gabriella's health improved.
Then one morning in mid-January 1986, Gabriella collapsed in her kitchen. Lucia found her and called an ambulance, which Mario discovered over the radio. Leaving Maria with Antonella, she met Gabriella's distraught husband at Maimonides. The doctors informed the firefighter that his wife was pregnant, contrary to the odds, and he would need to make a decision whether to terminate. If Gabriella managed to bring the baby to term, of which they were skeptical, then her lifespan would be affected, as the cancer could spread irrevocably. Lucia waited outside; she flinched at Mario's loud arguing and pleading with his wife to live, goddamnit! Soon afterward, a crying Mario took off down the hall, almost in a run, from Gabriella's hospital room. Breaking his wife's heart again, he disappeared for several weeks. At one point, Giuseppe drove to his firehouse and irately confronted the hurting man, who moaned at him to leave. The plumber gave him a black eye and, to the firefighters' collective shock, howled that he would gladly adopt the kid if he's too much of a cowardly fuck! A week later, the stunned Mario received a frigid phone call from Salvatore Rigassi reminding him of a certain discussion that had occurred in March 1980.
That did it.
Mario inhaled deeply as he unlocked the door to reveal an empty house. Did she come to her senses and leave me? As he tiredly dropped his laundry to the living room carpet, he checked the kitchen, then the bedrooms which were dark, cold, and equally vacant. Flicking the lights on in the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator to reveal that it was bare. Letting out a sob, he fell to his knees.
"Well, well, if it isn't Jumpman gettin' what he so fuckin' deserves," he heard a familiar voice bite out behind him. He twisted his body to face the icy blue eyes of his younger brother. "What the fuck are you doin' here? Go back to your fuckin' firehouse!"
"W-where's Gabby? Mario?" The furious man simply crossed his arms. "Please, Joe. I-I know I don't deserve her. I lost that right when … I left. Just … please."
"No," he growled. "I won't tell you. As far as I'm concerned, Mario Masciarelli died in 1985." He made the sign of the cross to emphasize the point. "Jumpman, the hero, the man who could care less about those left behind, is the man before me. Fuck you. You get nothin'!"
"Whatdya want, Joe? D'ya want me to beg?! 'Cause I am! I'm beggin' ya!" cried Mario, who moved to sit on his knees. "Please … let me make this right. She'll get care, anything! I love her – per favore."
"Oh, like that's somethin'! She's still your wife on paper, you selfish asshole! God knows if you've been faithful, but she has! And I'll personally make sure that she stays married to you long enough to get the best care, both for the bambino who's comin' and for the treatment. She ain't got long, which should make you very happy!"
Mario screamed in pure rage at his brother's comment. "I've never betrayed her! EVER! And she's everything to me! I can't … I can't lose her."
"Joe, basta!" cried a woman's voice. Both men looked up to a rail thin, curly-haired woman stood in the living room, baby bump visible underneath her pink shirt. The delicate Gabriella stepped cautiously toward them. Taking several deep, pained breaths, she murmured, "Joe, enough." His lips parted to argue, but her angry blue eyes silenced him. Shifting those same eyes to her prostrating husband, she spoke without malice, "Mario, I … I've always stood by you, always been proud of you. Now I need you." As she walked to him, she stumbled; Mario rushed to catch her before she hit her face in the kitchen floor. The sobbing man then buried his head into her chest, murmuring that he was sorry, he loved her, and he was "too weak to survive without her."
Later that evening, the three of them sat on the couch, with a fatigued Gabriella sitting between the brothers, staring at the ticking clock just above the mantle. They had not spoken since Mario's sobs and pleas for forgiveness, both from his wife and younger brother. The house was soundless, save for the tick-tock marking every second that they could never reclaim. "I want …" she began faintly, summoning her depleted energy. Mario and Giuseppe faced her attentively. "I want … to have the baby. I may die. I … know that." She watched as Mario closed his eyes against fresh tears and Giuseppe chewed on his lip in ire. "But … if I survive, then I'll get the treatment. I want to live for you both. For Mario. For Lucia. For our bambino." She sighed heavily. "For Salvatore, if he can return one day. I have hope. That's what this baby means to me. You both … have my children's best interests at heart. I want … Mario and … Lucia or Ludovico to be raised by those who love them."
By late-April, Gabriella's health was on a steady decline, and it was expected that the baby would be born prematurely within the next month or two. The lieutenant and captain gave Mario as much overtime as was permissible to pay for the extra care, yet his savings were nearly gone. Much to Lucia's revulsion, Giuseppe stayed out whole nights to play poker at illegal gambling rings to put food on the table and to earn fast money for Gabriella's medical care. One night, he won five thousand dollars, which culminated in three angry men beating him savagely and dumping his bloody body in Midwood. He missed three days of work and spent money that they did not have in the emergency room. He pleaded with a furious Lucia not to tell either Mario or Gabriella, although the latter, upon seeing his healing injuries, made him promise never to do that again.
One evening, she prepared lasagna all'Audenzia with young Mario's help, then went to rest in the master bedroom. The little boy followed, dragging his math book with him. Lying in his father's space, he propped himself up while Gabby serenely taught him a better way of solving the problem than his totalitarian teacher's convoluted method. Both occupants had been drifting off to sleep when they suddenly heard a firm knock at the door. Little Mario ran to answer it; however, Gabriella stopped him, knowing that it was neither her husband nor her brother-in-law, who each possessed a key. Mario, who had always been protective of his beloved Mamma, nonetheless flanked her when she looked through the peephole. Immediately pushing her son behind her, she cautiously opened the door to reveal Pete Morello in a pinstriped charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and red tie.
"Pete?" she whispered.
He gazed at her tiredly. "Yeah, Gabby. Can I come in?"
Examining her options, which were limited in her condition, she stepped aside to let him into the living room. As she went into the kitchen to prepare the obligatory coffee for him, Pete put a gentle hand on her wrist and murmured that she should not unnecessarily tax herself. Nodding uncertainly, she waddled back into the living room. Ordering the mistrustful Mario to go to his zia's and leave her and "Cousin Pete" to talk, she invited him to sit in one of the armchairs across from the sofa. After Mario had unwillingly left, she voiced, "Why are you here, Pete? It's been years."
"I caught the first plane from Denver when I heard about … the baby as well as your prognosis," he answered sadly.
"From who?" she demanded, placing a hand on her protruding stomach.
"Around, and let's leave it there," he replied evenly. "Look, I come as a friend, as your cousin. Let me help."
Before she could probe further, the front door crashed open, and a fuming Giuseppe zeroed in on the suited man, picked him up by the lapels, and shoved him against the wall. "What the fuck are you doin' here?!" he screamed in the mafioso's face.
He put up his hands in surrender. "Joe, I come as a friend," rasped Pete.
"Bullshit! Who sent you?!"
When Pete failed to answer, he tightened his grip into a chokehold, and he inwardly rejoiced at the sound of the Denverite's gagging. Finally, he slammed him against the wall, having failed to get anything more. "Piece of shit! Get outta here!" he barked, gesturing to the door.
The man reached for his throat and coughed. "I will … once you hear what I have to say." Taking a few deep breaths, he went on, "Uncle Carlo sent me. He's … concerned about Gabby's health. His niece and his great-nephew or great-niece. He's also heard about your … financial troubles. You're nearly broke. Both you and Giuseppe. Things don't have to end like that. He – we – just want … to make sure that they both survive."
Gabriella's expression was unreadable as Giuseppe scoffed skeptically. "Yeah, the Moranos don't do anything for charity, and we both fuckin' know it. Tell him 'no thanks.'"
Pete retorted in a serious tone, "Carlo does for famiglia. He has no intention of seeing Gabby die! Now stop being such a stubborn ass, Joe, and accept our … charity."
"Alright, who do I have to kill?" deadpanned Giuseppe, crossing his arms.
Rolling his eyes, he countered, "No one. We propose that Gabriella be transferred to Lenox Hill Hospital where their … oncologists and OB-GYNs are the best in the world. Carlo and I will pay for anything you need."
"In exchange for what?" the plumber hissed.
"As I said, there is nothing to be exchanged. This isn't a … favor."
The Brooklynite's eyes narrowed, and he stepped in front of the alarmed, still seated Gabriella. "Cognata, go to bed, honey. You and the baby need rest. I'll deal with this trash."
Gabriella glanced uncertainly at the two men; Pete blinked at her in reassurance, agreeing with his former friend. Slowly, she rose from the couch and headed back into the bedroom. Once she was safe, Joe shook his head in disgust at the man in the business suit. "You got some nerve bein' here. Some real fuckin' nerve. Haven't youse done enough to my family?"
It was Pete's turn to be incredulous. "Your family? Your …? Gabriella's maiden name is Rigassi. My mother's name! Never forget that! And as for your fucking family," his voice dropped to a low growl, "the Masciarellis have done nothing but insult us! First, Audenzia, then Gabriella, little Mario, Salvatore, and now … Gabriella's future bambino. Your irresponsible jackass of a brother abandoned her twice! No, we're done with this. Carlo's intervening before your goddamned brother kills her!" He sighed resignedly. "We have nothing against you, Joe. You've always treated Zia Audenzia, Gabby, Sal, and the bambini with respect. You've acted like a good paesano – a man." He sat down on the couch where Gabby had been.
Arms still crossed, Joe moved to stand directly in his way. "Yeah? Well, as a man, I'm tellin' ya – fuck off!"
"Can't. It's gone way, way too far for that," argued Pete. "Carlo andRosa are worried that, if she … survives the pregnancy, Mario will take off or will die in the line of duty. You're the zio, the petruus. You are, however, not the paterfamilias. That would be, well, your pazzu father who loathed Audenzia and who treats Gabby in the same fashion. The next man, and paterfamilias of Gabby's family, is your brother, Mario. And that puts us in quite the quandary. Carlo wants to speak with him ASAP." Joe shook his head in a silent refusal. "This isn't negotiable. As I said, we have nothing against you. Carlo, in fact, respects you. As did Salvatore. As do I. It's best to keep that relationship. Plus," he shrugged, "we don't want to see you near those gambling rings again. You're lucky that those men didn't kill you."
"Yeah, well, someone's gotta look out for the baby. Mario's doin' what he knows how to do – he's makin' sure Gabby's got medical care and a roof. And I won't allow this," said Giuseppe, gesturing back and forth between he and Pete.
Not wanting to upset Gabriella any further, Pete rose from the couch and made his way to the front door. Opening it, he stopped and turned to the stern plumber. "Joe, you're not hearing me. I'm leaving tonight to avoid putting undue stress on Gabby and her child. But this isn't over, not by a long shot. Carlo won't take no for an answer. Not when it comes to his niece. And as a friend, I am telling you that." With his last utterance, he unobtrusively left the house, leaving the plumber standing in the living room, his belly filling with trepidation.
May 10, 1986
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
2:30 p.m.
Mario and Giuseppe strolled nervously into the cocktail bar and supper club on 18th Avenue, the same one that he and Salvatore used to frequent in the late 1970s. The staff had changed over several times, from the Sicilian family-owned eatery to a more upscale bar that one might find in Midtown or Little Italy in Manhattan. Two bulky Italians in black and navy blue tracksuits escorted them to the back where Pete, who was dressed in what Giuseppe called "the Junk Bonds Prick Suit," sat across from an older, slender gentleman in a short-sleeved, cream-colored dress shirt and gray slacks. He was short by American standards, standing at only five-foot-five, with graying dark brown hair and eyebrows, yet his agate-brown eyes commanded fear and awe, relics of a sharp and brutal sense of power. As they approached the red horseshoe-shaped booth, Pete rose and, with an open hand, gestured for them to sit. Mario, who was in a navy blue men's chamois and beige dress pants, made sure to face Carlo Morano squarely while separating the angry, spectacled man in a green polo shirt and jeans from the Denver mafioso. The older man signaled the barman for four espressos.
The underboss raised his piercing gaze at the two brothers. "Buongiorno. I thought we could discuss the matter like men. As I understand it, my niece's second child could be due in the next month or two. It was a one in a million pregnancy. She is also extremely high risk. Youse have each tried … various means to raise the money and care for her. However, quality medical care is expensive, even with your benefits from the Fire Department. Debts are rising for youse. I trust Giuseppe has told you of our proposal, Mario?"
"Yeah, you want to move Gabby to Lenox Hill," he replied tersely. "World-class medical care for nothin'. But as I have learned, there's no such thing as a free lunch."
Carlo gave a brief look to Pete, who answered for him, "This is for free. We have no interest in seeing Gabby or the baby die. She is our family, as is the bambino or bambina. Don't let your pride affect your judgment, Mario."
The barman returned with the small coffee cups and common container of sugar. Carlo gave a single nod in thanks. Dragging the cup toward him, he added a half-teaspoon full of sugar and sipped the dark liquid. Mario and Joe took a single sip – without sugar – to be polite. The brothers surreptitiously exchanged a disbelieving look. Finally, the firefighter spoke, "It ain't about pride. I love – love – Gabriella with everything I've got! There ain't anything I wouldn't do for her. But you know that. And you also know that I couldn't possibly pay youse back. So if your … help doesn't come with a charge, then what's the catch?" Before Pete could interject, Mario raised his hand, "Don't bother talkin' about respect or famiglia, Petey. Don't. You want to discuss this like men? Fine, let's do that. I hear you're pissed off 'cause you think my family's insulted yours. In some sense, that's true. My parents have their … opinions. Just as you got your opinion about me, Uncle Carlo. And I respect my elders, even if I don't agree with 'em. But you got no right to interfere in my marriage. That ain't your business. That's between Gabby and me." He lifted his left hand and pointed to the gold ring, "And I ain't removin' this. Not now, not ever. So why don't we cut the shit and get to what youse really want."
Carlo deliberately sat his espresso cup on the saucer. "As Pete said, niputi, we want to see Gabriella have a chance at survival. This … Campisi illness has been a plague on our family for generations. It's a product of the malocchio – the evil eye. My wife's sister, mother, two aunts, grandmother, and God knows how many more have died. Many of the babies, too, back in Sicily. Gabriella's condition, I know, isn't good. But there's no way in hell I'll let my nipoti die without a fighting chance. Nor your child. I have the means to give this to you, so let me."
As Mario started to reply, Giuseppe, who crossed his arms dubiously, sneered at the mafioso, "And what if we refuse? Frankly, you waited until an … opportune time to 'intervene!'" Both the firefighter and the Denverite regarded him in dismay.
The Sicilian raised his eyebrow at the younger man's challenge; studying him for a moment and maintaining eye contact, he calmly sipped his coffee. "Do you really want to risk killing your cognata, Giuseppe? And my niece?"
"We resent your help when our backs are against the wall!"
Mario kicked his brother underneath the table and squeezed his leg. Do you want to get us all killed? "Uncle Carlo, look, we just want to … understand our responsibilities. Everything out in the open. That's all. Besides, there's got to be a waiting list."
The diplomatic answer seemed to satisfy the older man, who responded benignly, "It's simple – be a good husband to Gabby and father to little Mario and the future second child." He paused, lost in thought for a moment, then asked, "Do you know the sex of the bambino?"
Giuseppe and Mario exchanged a second, questioning look. "No," the older brother answered. "Gabby and I want to be surprised."
Humming once, he said nothing further, glancing at Pete to take over for him. The man in the suit turned to the skeptical brothers and added, "You heard from Uncle Carlo himself. No strings, no expectations beyond those which are marital and familial. Lenox Hill will give her the best possible care anywhere." He extended his hand to Mario, to which Giuseppe's blue eyes widened in terror. His older brother stared at Pete, as if considering the offer, then tentatively shook it. Putting his other hand atop Mario's, Pete smiled. "Don't worry; she'll be taken care of. Normally, you're right about the list, but uh, we know people there. We called in a few favors. They're already expecting her. I'll call you with her first appointment. They want to see her, if possible, before she goes into labor. Planning's key, and we're short on time."
Signaling to the barman with a flick of his wrist, Carlo spoke, "I've asked Luca here to bring us a little something." At the mention of his name, Luca returned with four shot glasses and poured a coffee-colored liqueur into each one. Raising his glass, he rasped, "Amaro – the drink of good Siciliani since the Middle Ages. They used this for use in treating the sick, to preserve their vigor, as well as for celebrations. Salute!" The other three men murmured salute in response, downing the aperitif which, a normally pleasant taste of herbs, spices, orange, lemon, and pomegranate, burned Giuseppe's stomach like arsenic while Mario avoided eye contact with Carlo and Pete.
Following the meeting at the cocktail bar, Mario and Joe screamed their angst at each other as Lucia went to care for Gabriella, who was feeling particularly unwell. Joe yelled at his older brother, demanding how in God's name could he trust those pricks. An equally distraught Mario shouted back that Joe's opinion would have been different had it been Lucia and Maria. They traded more angry words and insults before falling into each other's arms, sobbing; Mario kissed the top of Giuseppe's head, mumbling, "You, Gabby, Lucia, and the three bambini are my world. You always have been; you always will be. I cannot lose you – any of youse! If I gotta make a deal with the fuckin' Devil to save Gabby and the baby, then I'll gladly do it. Otherwise … what's the point? Vi voglio bene, tanto! You already got the shit kicked outta ya 'cause of me! No more." He kissed Joe on the cheek as the latter clung to him. "I want my family alive – all of youse!"
A crying Giuseppe simply responded, "Yeah, you made a deal with the Devil. I just hope you can pay him."
June 3, 1986
Columbia University Irving Medical Center
Washington Heights, Manhattan
Mario, Giuseppe, Pete Morello, Paddy McCollough, and Rosa Morano waited anxiously for news from the delivery room. Following the consultation from the medical team, it had been recommended that Gabriella be admitted the moment that she had any sign, even a Braxton-Hicks, of an impending birth. As soon as she began experiencing pain, Mario and Giuseppe brought Gabriella to Lenox Hill Hospital, while Lucia, whom both Mario and Joe forced to stay in Bensonhurst, watched both Maria and Mario until her husband returned. Mario was given time off by his firehouse's captain to await his child's birth or, in an equal possibility, his wife's death. The lead doctor, an oncologist, did not hold back from his blunt assessment; she had at best a fifty percent chance of survival due to blood loss which could easily prove fatal for her compromised state. Because of this decision, she was transferred last-minute from the smaller hospital for the wealthy to the major medical campus in Washington Heights, per the demand of both the oncologist and obstetrician. Once she was inching toward labor, Pete Morello flew from Denver to New York and arrived roughly one day before Gabby went into labor in the morning of June 3. The Masciarelli family, including the Pescara-born paterfamilias and Mia, had gathered at Joe's and Lucia's, knowing fully well that they would soon be attending either a christening or a wake. As for Salvatore, who had finished his undergraduate degree in philosophy a year prior and was pursuing advanced study for the priesthood, Mario had decided not to tell him until he had more information; he would not risk the young man's life unless she was dying or dead.
No one had said a word to them since ten o'clock that morning. Even after Mario begged the nurses for an update as anxiety permeated every bone in his body, and Paddy and Giuseppe did their best to keep him calm, they ordered him back to the waiting room and promised that someone would talk to them as soon as possible. The midwife was nowhere to be seen, as she was presumably in the delivery room with Gabriella and the doctors. Pete volunteered to locate a pay phone to provide a brief update to Carlo while Rosa clutched her rosary. Around noon, a nurse came out and approached the small group. She explained that they were in the midst of an emergency Caesarean and asked for volunteers to be on standby to donate blood if needed. Mario and Giuseppe, who were O-positive and had pre-donated blood, both agreed. With a quick nod, she assured the blanched firefighter that she would return when she was able and retreated back to the delivery room. Needing the solace of her faith, Rosa excused herself to the chapel; Paddy, a practicing Catholic himself, happily accompanied her, leaving the lingering three men to sit quietly in the waiting room.
About thirty minutes later, there was increased traffic to and from the delivery rooms, with a nurse hastily talking about patients coding. Upon hearing this, Mario leapt out of his seat, a primal scream ripping from his throat as he tried to run toward the delivery rooms, but Pete and Giuseppe restrained him, despite his incomprehensible pleas. Unable to do anything else, he buried his face into Joe's shoulder while Pete blankly sank into a chair. Eventually, the plumber calmed his brother down and eased them into the waiting room chairs. Mario shut down emotionally and remained unaware of Pete's offer to bring them coffee. Paddy and Rosa came back from the chapel when they learned of Gabriella and the baby having potentially coded. Rosa let out a half-sob into her wrinkled hand as Paddy crossed himself and muttered a Jesus and Mother Mary protect them.
Finally, at a little past two o'clock in the afternoon, the tired-looking obstetrician, Dr. Leibowitz, came out to greet them. Closing his eyes and gripping Giuseppe's hand tightly, for the first time since his confirmation, Mario sent a prayer to a god whose existence he denied or ignored.
"Mr. Masciarelli, your wife's resting. The birth was difficult, as expected. We had to resuscitate her and transfuse your pre-donated blood, so she will need to be monitored closely over the next several days," said Dr. Leibowitz.
Wiping a tear from his eye, Mario nodded. "And the baby?"
The doctor cracked a little smile. "He's a fighter. He was born premature at five pounds and four ounces, so he needed to be transferred to intensive care right after birth. But if all goes well, you should be able to take your son home in a few weeks. You can see your wife in a few hours; it'll depend on how she responds to postpartum treatment." With a friendly nod, he excused himself as Mario broke down, thanking him profusely.
Giuseppe, who had also begun to cry, wrapped his arms around Mario. "Another son!" Grief soon turned to jubilation as he, Mario, Pete, Rosa, and Paddy hugged and kissed each other. Pete then discreetly excused himself to telephone Carlo about Gabriella's survival and second Masciarelli son's birth. Letting loose a relieved chuckle, Mario quipped, "Wow, another son. And Gabby's … alive! I'm, uh, gonna get some air, call Lucia, and give her the good news."
He released a ragged exhale and made his way to the elevators. Scrubbing his day-old scruff with his thick hands, he descended to the ground floor and walked outside to the pay phones. He shivered a little; it was unseasonably cold for the late spring at sixty degrees, especially compared to the previous week, whose temperatures had run in the nineties. It was as if a winter chill had passed through Manhattan to mark the coming of something paranormal and glacial.
"Ah, just the man I wanted to see," called out a familiar voice.
Mario turned to his right to spy Pete moving toward him. The firefighter's smile soon disappeared at the blank, almost predatory gaze that the Denverite gave him. He glanced at his surroundings in seconds, feeling a sense of being trapped despite the relatively open area around the medical center. The other man stopped a few feet in front of him. "Pete," he acknowledged quietly.
Flashing a tight-lipped smile, the man in his ever-present suit approached his cousin-in-law cautiously and mumbled, "Let's take a walk." They stayed close to the deep brown brick of the hospital campus, as the surrounding streets of north Manhattan were somewhat dangerous and prone to muggings and shootings. "I spoke to Uncle Carlo," began the mafioso. "He congratulates you on the birth of your second son and impatiently awaits the christening."
"Oh?" asked Mario in what he hoped was a neutral tone.
"Yeah. Both of your sons are … special. Your first son, Mario, is the heir to the Masciarelli family. You did your father proud; little Mario's … quite the bodyguard, very protective of Gabby. I can see it already. However, your second son is a miracle child. He wasn't supposed to exist, let alone be born. And yet, here we are. Thanks to modern medicine, thanks to our help. Uncle Carlo considers this a good omen for the future."
The firefighter angrily halted his path and growled, "I thought there were no strings attached!"
Pete shrugged. "There aren't. However, it doesn't change familial … let's call it piety. While we don't expect repayment, we do expect gratitude."
"Okay, so what do you want?" he demanded.
The Denverite's brown eyes narrowed. "You know damn well what we want. But since you're going to insult me by playing stupid, I'll indulge you this fake bullshit just this once. A couple months ago, probably over breakfast, you read in the Times about one Paul Castellano getting whacked. Bosses, Mario, are no longer safe from hungry, jackass caporegimes who think they can score one over the family. Or other families, for that matter. So trusting crew members becomes that much more important. You ran off from your responsibilities to Gabby; that was bad enough. But you also took Salvatore from us, and that debt has not been repaid. And you fuckingknew what he was to Carlo. Now he's left with guys who can't stay out of the can or who have … ambitions. Since Salvatore's dead,more or less, like the Bible says, an eye for an eye."
Mario stared at Pete in disbelief. "You … want to kill my son?! A baby?! Are you people insane?! You can go to hell!" he raged.
"Hardly!" hissed the mafioso. "If we wanted that, we'd have let nature take its course. Your baby son – both sons – are half my blood! Rigassi blood! As is Gabby! We'd never hurt them! That being said, Mario, you essentially took Gabriella's brother from , one Joe Masciarelli is not untouchable."
Feeling his knees give out, the firefighter stumbled and fell on the sidewalk, shaking and sobbing. "Please, no-no-no! Please!" he begged. "Please! Just leave my brother alone! He has a wife and daughter! Please … I'll give you myself in his place!"
Pete gazed down at the pleading man and tiredly shook his head. "I have no desire to harm Joe. He's like a brother to me. So was Salvatore. But I guarantee that he will die tonight if you do not do exactly as Uncle Carlo wants. He doesn't want his blood or yours. Rather, you will name your son in the Sicilian tradition. His maternal grandfather, had he lived, would have been the godfather. As the current paterfamilias, Carlo is therefore Luigi's rightful godfather in our eyes. Do you agree?"
Still teary-eyed, a thoroughly cowed Mario nodded. "I'll do as you ask. Just don't … hurt my brother or my family."
"Then it's settled. We'll have little Luigi Masciarelli's christening once Gabby recovers." Glancing up at the gray skies of Manhattan, he exhaled and, lending a hand to a hate-filled Mario, added, "Let's get back to the hospital. I don't want Gabby, Joe, or the others to worry."
Mario slapped his hand away and, crawling to lift himself up, cried, "You go to hell, Pete. Youse all can burn in the lowest pit of hell!"
September 1, 2014
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
1:03 p.m.
Giuseppe rubbed his eyes and carefully studied the adult Luigi Masciarelli sitting blankly before him. "I didn't know Pete had … threatened my life until much later, right when Bowser nearly killed you back in … '95. And no, figlio, that wasn't him just fuckin' around."
"Did … Did Pete try to kill me?" Luigi softly asked. "Jackie?"
The older man shook his head and inched closer to his adopted son. "No. Well, I can't speak for Jackie, but Pete would never have harmed you. Ever. It was someone else. A rival crew, one of the Five Families. Who knows."
"Why wasn't I told by anyone?"
Sighing, Joe lowered his gaze to the white sheets of the bed and fell silent. After several moments, he answered, "Mario – your father – wanted you to grow up as you would've – live a normal life. I agreed with that. You didn't need to know that shit as a little kid! The plan was to tell you when you were old enough to understand. I begged him to tell you right after your confirmation, as that's when they start … preparing you for the life. But he had … other ideas. He thought sendin' you to MIT would take care of that."
Luigi nodded. "Yeah, Pete said something about that. Lucas … was chosen for me. Apparently, Carlo knew that pairing me with a regular street kid wouldn't work. That's probably what Pops suspected 'cause the week before he died, he said we were leavin' New York, for good." The young plumber hesitantly looked up at his paternal uncle whose eyes were filled with various blue shades of shock, ire, and melancholy. "You didn't know?" Giuseppe wordlessly gave a single shake of the head. "Yeah, Pete claimed that we were heading to Denver. But given what you told me, I think he's lying about that. I just don't know how he knew about Pops's plan. Even I didn't know where we were going."
A still weak Joe raised his finger. "You listen to me, figlio; your father and I had many arguments about you, but I know that he never would have exposed you to that piece of shit. Mai! He tried to have him barred from Gabby's funeral, for Chrissakes. As for how Pete knew? I … I couldn't tell ya."
"And what's this about Uncle Sal?" he inquired. "Why was he so important to Carlo?"
His blue eyes darkening to a haunted black, Giuseppe suddenly enfolded his nephew-son into his arms. "Even if I knew, that's not my story to tell. That's what I meant before – it's Pandora's Box, figlio mio. Father Sal will come to us if and when he can. But until then," he pulled back to face him properly, "leave it be. Please."
The young plumber, overwhelmed by the story and recent events, began to sob. "How could … my father love me? In spite of … God, I feel like I'm the Antichrist. My birth shortened the life of my mother, he took off 'cause he couldn't deal with her impending death, and I'm … I'm intended to be the fucking heir of some fucked-up Mafia dynasty! I wish … I wish Bowser had killed me in '95. It'd have fixed a lot-a shit!"
"Don't you ever say that again!" roared Joe while shaking Luigi by the shoulders. "Your father loved you with everythinghe had! No, he could never take losing people – even the fuckin' strangers that he tried to save … while he was workin' in the Bronx. He would come home broken every time he'd failed to find someone in time, and all Gabby and I could do is play fuckin' Sam Cooke, just to get him to speak! Same with fuckin' Manhattan in the '90s – 1993! Yeah, he was selfish, and there were times – even now – when I hated his guts for it! But he always … wanted you. Your Mama always wanted you. Your Zie Lucia and Maria wanted you!And me? It took every bit of my self-control not to murder Carlo Morano with my bare fuckin' hands!" Starting to lose energy, Giuseppe sank back on the pillows, dragging his nephew with him so that the latter was curled up against him. "I remember holdin' you when you had a nightmare. Musta been a couple months after … your mother passed. Mario was on shift, so Lucia and I were watchin' you and your brother in addition to Maria and Addy. I think it was less about the dream than … just needin' to be held." Taking a deep, ragged breath, he murmured sleepily, "I wish I could take this on for you, kid. Your nonni and your genitori came to this country, worked, just so youse – you and Mario – could have it better. Not return … to the old country. I don't know why God chose you – you should be runnin' your own shop, settlin' down with your own family, livin' a quiet life. That's what … I want for ya. And if Mario'd pull his head out of his ass, Cristina … Peach … would marry him and give us the next Masciarelli."
Between sniffles, Luigi giggled at his uncle's comment. "Yeah, I've been sayin' that for years. But I don't know if that's gonna happen. She's pissed at him and stopped taking his calls."
He felt his uncle shake his head in dismay against the mountain of pillows. "They gotta work it out on their own time, kid. I once asked your nonna why she stayed with your nonno. After the rages, those … frightening nights, especially after your father left to live with your Nonna Audenzia. Other than divorce being out of the question, she told me that, beneath it all, the happy kid who played soccer, swam in Adriatic, and protected the little ones, the one that we never got to see, was still there. Peach's got to make a similar choice, even though Mario's not as bad as your nonno was. On occasion, I have … seen that happy bambino in your brother."
Luigi watched as Giuseppe drifted off to what he hoped was a peaceful sleep. After a while, he pried himself from the man's thin arms and exited the room, shutting the door behind him. Daisy and Yoshi were sitting in the living room with Miles and Lucia; they all looked toward the stunned plumber who took a seat next to his girlfriend. His fingers interlaced with hers, and his body relaxed at the contact.
"Did he tell you something?" inquired Miles.
"Yeah," he whispered. "Pete Morello's a bastard, possibly worse than Big Jackass. Jesus, the guy seems so fucking normal! He … forced my parents to name the Moranos as my godparents – the same goddamned day that I was born! But it wasn't simply my birth that caused it. It was … in response to something that happened with Uncle Sal." He turned to Lucia and asked, "Zia … Salvatore's not just a priest. Is he?"
Lucia shifted uncomfortably, then shook her head. "No, nipote, he's not. I … I honestly don't know precisely what happened. Your father and Joe would never tell me. Gabby didn't really talk about him, either. Something happened before Joe and I got married, right around December '82. I met him once, prior to him leaving for the priesthood. It was when I first started dating Joe – maybe April or May '82. I remember that … the hair on the back of my neck stood up. The man … frightens me. When he came back in the 1990s, I made a deal with Joe that he could visit him, but that none of our children would ever be around him. Ever. To my knowledge, Joe has respected that request, and Salvatore has never been to the house in Staten Island. I'd rather keep it that way. That being said, your stronz' of an uncle went to see Salvatore when he collapsed."
"What?!" gasped Luigi, open-mouthed.
Squeezing her lover's hand reassuringly, Daisy called out, "Miles, can you see if there are any records on Salvatore Rigassi?" He nodded and busied himself on his computer setup.
"There's something else," he added suddenly. With exception of Miles who was working on a deep dive on the friendly priest, all eyes shifted to the plumber. "Yoshi, remember '95 and one Marco Bowser?"
The Japanese shuddered. "Yeah, Lou. I'm glad that motherfucker's dead. Don't get me wrong; I hate Al-Qaeda. With respect to him, however,they did Bensonhurst and the world a fuckin' favor. Why?"
"It was not Marco simply being an asshole, Yosh. Someone ordered him to kill us. And my guess is … Joe was trying to get that out of Salvatore."
"Shit!" swore Yoshi. " So is your uncle, like, a wiseguy? I mean, I'm not Catholic, so I didn't go to St. Rosalia's. I do remember that he would, with your father, occasionally visit with Professor Omaya. He seemed so … kind and inoffensive."
"Yeah, unfortunately, I think he was," he replied in dismay.
"That makes sense," interrupted Miles while typing at his terminal. "Apparently, that entire side was in it, and now that I've really thought about it, it is weird that Sal was the only one who supposedly avoided it."
"And it's also weird that Salvatore was there in '95, yet didn't really play a role in my life until that time," commented Luigi. "He was more involved with Mario, who had his confirmation in … '91, I think? He wasn't yet the parish priest, but he was there. Anyway, 1995's the year that I was introduced to the Professor. And I recall how … pissed Uncle Joe was at the whole thing. Zia, do you know anything? I know it was a long time ago, but it's important. It's something that Pete said to me recently – that introducing me to the Rigassis was a negotiation between him and Jackie Morano. That being said, I can't believe Jackie would try to kill me as a child."
She rubbed her tired brown eyes and shrugged. "Your zio was always adamant that you be kept at home. I never understood it. Your father certainly didn't. I think the only time when Joe agreed with you going anywhere outside of Brooklyn or Staten Island was when you went to Italy with your class in eighth grade."
"With Father Sal," finished Yoshi.
"Goddamn Masciarellis, Rigassis, and their secrets!" hissed the plumber, standing up to pace and glare at the photograph of Lieutenant Masciarelli atop the mantle.
Lucia chuckled mirthlessly. "Welcome to my life for the past thirty years." Her phone began to buzz from an incoming call, and she excused herself to the front porch to answer it.
"Well," concluded Daisy, crossing her arms. "It seems as though Father Sal plays a key part in this – whatever this is. And I know Giuseppe doesn't want us to ask him directly. He made us – Luigi, Miles, and I – swear not to confront him."
"The question is whether Giuseppe's protecting us or him," spoke Miles from across the room. "He mentioned knowing a pentito – someone who was Mafia, but no longer, usually to turn state's evidence. I wonder if it's him – Salvatore. However, I doubt a guy who's in Witness Protection, even a priest, would return to Mafia central to 'hide.' The feds usually stick 'em in Nebraska, Iowa, or Ohio."
"Sorry, got to ask, but could it be Giuseppe? Was he Mafia?" queried Yoshi, giving an apologetic look to the visibly offended Luigi.
Miles shook his head. "I already asked him; he denied it, and I believe him. Associate? He did have some sort of relationship with a made guy. He confirmed that much."
"Pairs," mouthed Luigi as he dashed over to the pictures. "Pete mentioned something about pairs – when they're looking to build crews, they pair kids together right after their confirmation, and they're supervised by a wiseguy. Lucas Kariolis was intended to be paired with me at Brooklyn City; our 'supervisor' was Jackass, who predictably fucked it up. Pete was paired when he came to New York – it would've been, what, in 1972 or 1973? He's the same age as Pops who was very anti-Mafia. Jackie could've been his buddy? I think he's a year older, so that could work. But Sal? He'd have been too young – eleven or twelve – and wouldn't have been confirmed. However, Uncle Joe's a few months older than Salvatore."
"So they were paired?" interjected Daisy.
Luigi nodded excitedly, showing her a framed, black and white photograph, circa 1976 or 1977. "It's the family business."
Taking it, she glimpsed an empty lot, a long clothes line extending between balconies in the background, and a group of kids in their teens. At the center of the group was a long-haired and clean-shaven Mario Senior with a denim jacket, bell-bottoms, and sneakers, his arm around a long and curly-haired Gabriella in pants, form-fitting tee-shirt, and windbreaker. On their right was a spectacled, curly-haired Giuseppe who wore bell-bottoms and a winter coat. On the other side of them stood Salvatore in a zipped coat, jeans, and new sneakers, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and – whom Daisy assumed – was his aunt Maria in a Catholic school uniform. Yoshi and Miles came over to inspect the same photograph, then exchanged a look of silent agreement.
Yoshi's eyes narrowed skeptically. "So what does that mean? Like, they were going into the Mafia together? And why Uncle Joe? I mean, your father wouldn't have allowed that to happen. I don't know about your grandparents."
"My nonni weren't keen on the Mafia, either. They weren't the biggest fans of Nonna Audenzia or my mother for that reason. So I highly doubt they'd have approved of Giuseppe becoming a mafioso. And why him? I don't know exactly. My father followed my mother around like a puppy dog when they were kids. If I remember right, Pops met Mama first. Joe and Sal, I think, were in the same class, but didn't really start hanging out with each other until Pops introduced them."
Before anyone could ask further questions, Lucia opened the door and returned inside the house. The group of four youths quickly tabled the conversation about her husband and his association with Salvatore Rigassi. "I just got off the phone with my daughter, Maria. She's holding off the rest of the family, but won't be able to for much longer. I need to wake Joe up to go." She pivoted her head to Luigi and requested his assistance, to which he agreed. As they headed to Mario's room, Miles went back to his laptop while Yoshi accessed his iPad to check social media for anything related to Lucas Kariolis. Daisy sat back down on the couch, still clutching the frame. A minute later, there was shouting between Giuseppe and Lucia, with the former refusing to leave and the latter insisting that they needed to head back to Eltingville. They overheard Luigi calmly pleading with his paternal uncle to let Lucia take him home to his own bed and the girls, yet the man steadfastly held his ground. "Not without Mario!" his voice boomed.
Which one? they all wondered.
After five minutes of intense arguing in Italian and English between spouses, Lucia tiredly exited the room, shaking her head. "Luigi, I … I think we need to make alternative plans. I don't know how long this will last. I've never seen him like this!"
"Should we call a doctor?" inquired Yoshi.
"They're all on vacation until at least tomorrow. And I'd call Peach, except that she and Mario are on a break. I want to respect her privacy. Zia, you're free to stay as long as you like," replied Luigi. "I can be here in the afternoons. I'll, uh, work the morning shift. It's not a problem."
She put her hand on his cheek. "Oh, nipote, I know. And I thank you, but with Joe's medical bills, I can't afford to miss work. And I'd prefer someone be here with him at all times, especially now. I can be here nights, but who's gonna be here throughout the day? Maria's in the shop, Lucy's teaching, and your aunt Maria can't drive here all the way from Jersey!"
"I, uh, passed my quals, so I'm just working on a conference paper and my doctoral dissertation. I'm self-employed, as you know, so I don't need to be anywhere during the day," offered Miles quietly, much to Luigi's and Yoshi's visible surprise.
"Birdo won't mind if I come here in the evenings and weekends," said Yoshi to Luigi and Lucia. "My thesis advisor's a jerk, so I can't be here as much as I'd like. But I'll do what I can."
"Same, Mrs. Masciarelli," seconded Daisy. "I just started a job in Manhattan, but I'll come back here in the evenings. If Luigi will be here, then I'll be here, too."
"Daisy," her boyfriend began, worriedly shaking his head. "What about your parents? They don't want you in Bensonhurst, sweetie."
His lioness smiled a little. "Kerido, I doubt Papai will object to the circumstances, which are … exceptional, to say the least."
He turned to his teary-eyed aunt and shrugged his shoulders. "And when my asshole brother turns up, we'll have plenty of people to watch him, Zia. At the first sign of trouble, we'll take him to Mount Sinai or Park Slope. Someone will always be here." Grasping both her hands, he murmured, "He wouldn't have come here if it hadn't been for me. Please let me fix this, even a little. Per favore." Letting go of her, he went over to his green backpack and brought it to her. "As soon as Miles makes sure that the money's clean, it's yours. I don't need it – Joe does."
Lucia pulled Luigi into an embrace and lowered his head to press her forehead against his. "Grazie, nipote. You and your friends are worth gold. Alright, this will work for now." She turned to face Miles, Daisy, and Yoshi. "Thank you."
The previous night, Mario had intended on using the cage fight circuit to beat the crap out of some nameless Russian, Irish, or Tatar in place of several of his dead and living Masciarelli and Sicilian relatives as well as one Lucas Kariolis. Before he could descend the short steps to an unmarked basement in Canarsie, the blank look of his little brother and disappointed gaze of his beloved Peach made him ashamed for leaving them and Giuseppe. Mustering his pride to apologize and beg her for forgiveness at her doorstep, he stopped in front of Peach's apartment building on 5th Avenue. As he parked his car and moved toward the entrance, he spied Peach laughing and walking with a tall man, who placed his hand on the small of her back and whispered something flirtatious in her ear. The plumber's blue eyes burned, and he tried to swallow against the painful lump in the middle of his throat. With his right hand, he felt around his waist and on his jeans pocket to make sure that he did not have his gun or anything else that could be lethal, as he was afraid that he would injure the man in a frenzied jealous rage. So she needed time, just to fuck other guys?! he hissed mentally. Why didn't she just take her fucking scalpel and cut out my heart?! The lump having doubled in size, he gripped his curly hair and stifled a yelp. Turning toward the now vacant sidewalk and access, Mario made the ombrello and screamed, "Vafanculo, Peach!"
Unable to face Luigi, Giuseppe, Lucia, or the others, he ended up driving around aimlessly through Manhattan, the Bronx, and parts of New Jersey for the rest of the night. Eventually, he pulled into a vacant shopping center in Ocean City to catch a few hours of sleep. Rising just after sunrise to avoid a ticket from the local police, he picked up a breakfast sandwich from Burger King and resumed the heavy-traffic drive through south Jersey. "Peaches and Weegie both givin' me fuckin' agita," he growled to an empty car as he circled back through Vineland. That was bad enough; however, thirty, likely forty-year secrets were giving him hemorrhoids. He wished that his father were still alive so he could, for the two-thousandth time, lash out at his fucking thick-headed idealism and underestimation of the Mafia. "Bravo, Pops! Handed Weegie right to the goddamned Mafia! You deserve another medal from the Fire Department for stupidity!" he yelled to his father's ghost.
In his mind and memories, Mario heard his father's sarcastic voice echo, "Aight, figlio mio, then use your fuckin' smarts instead of your fists for once! You think you know better? You get Luigi outta this! You gotta protect him now."
He scoffed and retorted, "How the fuck am I supposed to fight Sicily when I don't know its rules? Nah, wait, I do – the Louisville Slugger! And you used to bust my balls for that!"
Crossing his arms over his black and yellow fireproof jacket, the middle-aged ghost replied, "Pete Morello and Carlo Morano won't respond to a wooden bat. He ain't the Bowsers, kid. Find out the rules from someone who knows."
As he was about to tell his father off in Italian, his blue eyes widened. Muttering several swear words in both Abruzzese and Sicilian dialects, he realized that his father's voice was right; while useful against street gangs such as that of Marco Bowser, the Louisville Slugger would hardly generate fear in cold-blooded mafiosi who had spent three or more decades casually executing anyone who interfered with their schemes. Moreover, Pete would not make any deals for Luigi, not unless he had a better offer – and a colossal one. The little that he did know about Sicily came from his mother who taught him the language, daily customs, food, and religion – the basics. He was more Abruzzese than Sicilian, even if his knowledge of the basics was greater than his little brother's; the basics hardly explained the unwritten rules of vendettas and patronages dating back hundreds of years on a rock in the Mediterranean Sea that the mainland too often ignored.
The drive from the southern tip of New Jersey back to Brooklyn took roughly three and a half hours due to traffic. Unwilling to have this particular conversation on an empty stomach, Mario made a quick stop at a pizzeria on 86th Street for a couple slices of pepperoni and sausage pizza. He chomped on the pizza for the remaining ten-minute drive to St. Rosalia's Catholic Church. Parallel parking on the side street to finish his lunch, Mario exited his Honda, licking his fingers of the grease, and walked into the empty hall after half-haphazardly crossing himself with the holy water. He sat in one of the frontmost pews and waited. Though he was decidedly a lapsed Catholic, Mario appreciated the stillness inside the church, one of the few places in Brooklyn where he could hear the echo of his thoughts. His father felt the same; while he was nearly an atheist, he once told Mario that even he, on occasion, visited churches just to hear clarity, usually in the form of Gabriella's voice.
Minutes, then a full hour passed; Mario closed his eyes and the nervous exhaustion caught up with him. He was dreaming about a sunny day on a California beach with Peach, Luigi, and Daisy when he felt a man's hand shake him awake. Blinking, his blue eyes focused on a middle-aged man dressed in a priest's black and white frock.
"That's twice in so many weeks that I've found you here, niputi," spoke Father Sal. He looked behind and around him. "I don't see any more of your … friends." He sat next to his eldest nephew in the pew and faced the altar. "It's nice place to nap."
"Yeah, sorry," he answered while trying to stifle a yawn. "I was up all night. Tryin' to figure things out." At Father Sal's questioning eyebrow, he shrugged. "When my life became something else. Peach wants a break. Now that's my screw up. And there's Luigi." He turned to his maternal uncle with a serious expression. "I'm trying to figure out just why the hell he became Jesus Christ."
"What do you mean, Mario?" asked the priest carefully, turning to his maternal nephew.
"Well," began the plumber in a neutral tone, "as far as I can tell, he was born to be sacrificed. But the only difference is that it wasn't for humanity's sins. Was it, Zio?"
His face blanched, and he recoiled from him. He heard Mario's now angry voice echo throughout the empty hall, "I didn't get to resume my conversation with youse. See, here's the thing: yesterday, after worrying the shit out of Daisy, Giuseppe, Lucia, his friends, and me, Weegie came home from Poker Night with twenty-five big ones. Now, I'm getting sick and tired of the secrets and the lies! Because they will end up getting Luigi killed. And if that happens, Father Rigassi, the whole goddamned Mafia better run back to Sicily – from me!" Before he could angrily reproach Mario for having blasphemed inside a church of all places, dark, rage-filled blue eyes appeared in his sight. "I don't care!" the younger man yelled, anticipating the reprimand. "Because bearing false witness, murder, sacrilege, and terrorism are worse sins! Infinitely! If I'm burnin' in hell, I'll gladly take the Moranos and Morellos with me!"
"What do you want, niputi?" rasped the priest, as he spun away to stare at the altar and wooden cross.
"Information," he bit out to his uncle. "I want to know about Pete Morello and the Moranos. Sicily."
"And what makes you think I have that knowledge?" he snarled, his brow now covered in a cold sweat.
"Because you put the fear of God – pardon the expression – in John Bowser. Now, he's a useless schmuck, but he wouldn't have just spilled his guts to anyone. Giuseppe also came to you. Why?" responded Mario.
He shrugged irritably. "Ask Joe!"
The plumber scoffed and crossed his arms in a movement eerily reminiscent of his paternal uncle. "Well, y'know, I would, Sal. Except that he's incapacitated. Chemo and radiation therapy will do that." The visibly shaken Sicilian spun to face his nephew again, his brown eyes watery. "He's in his second cycle. After he left you, he collapsed. I brought him to New York-Presbyterian. I'm sure that rings a few bells for ya. The oncologist is doin' everything he can, but this chemo that he's undergoing, Zio, is the last-ditch effort to save him from dying. And given that the last time the Morellos and Moranos tried this shit, Pops was dead andI was overseas, it doesn't take a genius to conclude that Giuseppe was the only one standing in their way. If he dies, well, that leaves one Luigi Masciarelli SOL, now doesn't it?"
"Mario," he whispered in a distraught tone, "it's better if I stay away. And that's not easy for me to say. Luigi's … his own man. He has to make his own choices."
"Are you serious?" demanded the younger man. "You would rather Luigi have no guidance, no protection?! Are you trying to give him to the Mafia?!"
"No!" the priest bellowed, his brown eyes blazing. "Tu non capisci! Non posso!"
Shaking his head disgustedly, Mario rose from the pew and blocked the priest's view of the altar and cross. "Unbelievable. You'd rather Luigi get killed, a heartbroken Giuseppe follow him into the grave, and end the Masciarellis than – what – violate your precious seal of the confessional? Except that I didn't ask for someone's confession! I asked for family information about Pete Morello! I asked about Sicily! Why are those secrets?"
"Please leave," begged Father Sal. "Please."
His body reverberated with unspoken rage. "Fine, but if I leave, Father Rigassi, here's what will happen. First, I'll take Luigi to Massachusetts. Second, you'll never see either of us ever again. Third, I'll make sure that you get kicked outta here." He leaned over the back of the pew so that he was inches from Sal's now blank face. "You will lose everyone and everything. I am not my father; in fact, as Joe has pointed out multiple times, I'm more like Nonno Mario, and he could be an unforgiving sonofabitch. I'll personally make sure that you feel Hell while you're still alive."
"You think that scares me?" Salvatore asked in an abruptly and unnervingly calm, almost demonic voice. Mario's blue eyes widened in fear at the change in cadence. "What makes you think that I don't already know Hell?"
