Author's notes: Firstly, thanks to all who've sent kudos and reviews. Especially after the last chapter, they were very welcomed.

Okay, now for another chapter. Due to work commitments, I'll probably post every 2-3 weeks, unless I'm particularly inspired. So if you don't see an update every week, don't panic - I just have a full plate right now. I promise that I will post regularly and finish this story. (Yes, it has an ending, LOL.)


Chapter 39: Phoenix Rising

Following Father Sal's mass, the group of mourners chatted in discreet pairs before going their separate ways in the early evening. Cousin Maria had clearly been sent by Lucia to take Giuseppe back to Eltingville and refused to take no for an answer. Retreating into an unreadable mask, Salvatore did not utter a single word at the young, curly-haired woman forcing a reluctant Joe into her car. It was only after Yoshi, Birdo, Miles, the firefighters, Joe, and Maria had departed that the priest allowed the flicker of an emotion to escape his indolent exterior. The kitchen table having been returned to its natural place, the downhearted man picked up his box and exited the Bensonhurst A-frame. Only Luigi and Daisy remained in the now empty house. As Luigi stuck his hands in his pockets and brushed an imaginary speck of dirt with his dress shoe, he suddenly felt a slip of paper. He pulled out to reveal a precisely written message: "Vieni in chiesa – sabato alle 17."

As he fiddled with the paper, Daisy moved to side hug him. "You okay, sweetie?"

"Yeah, cat-face," he rasped, stuffing the scrap back into his pocket. "With everyone – you, Father Sal, Uncle Joe, Yoshi, Birdo, Miles, and even Cousin Maria – it made September 11 … a little easier to live through." Kissing the top of her head, Luigi added, "I have an appointment with my therapist on Tuesday."

She nodded slowly. "Despite the general … horribleness of the situation, I'm honored that you allowed me to share it with you."

The plumber turned to her. Placing a grateful kiss upon her lips, he laid his forehead against hers. "I love you, Daisy Abravanel. I'm glad you're here with me."

They stayed in each other's arms until noises from both of their stomachs echoed throughout the living room. Chuckling as one, Luigi and Daisy nonetheless broke apart in search for food. Encouraging her boyfriend to go out for some fresh air, the pair mutually decided to have dinner at a kosher café in Borough Park. While the prices were, in Luigi's estimation, too steep for bistro food, he did not complain, as they straightforwardly accommodated her vegetarianism and served edible eggplant pizza and Greek-style salad. As they made small talk, the restaurant's music system began to play Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road;" Daisy reached over to wipe Luigi's fresh tears, and he muttered a soft apology – it had been his father's favorite song. In between teardrops, he told her of the last concert that Mario Senior had attended with him, his eldest son, Giuseppe, Lucia, and Cousin Maria; Joe had traded a few favors to score floor tickets to see the Boss and the E Street Band at Madison Square Garden. The plumber laughed through his brief story of how his father had used his 'lieutenant's prerogative,' much to the envious cussing of his captain and several veteran firefighters who had themselves tried to get tickets, to get that night off. Daisy did not reply; she simply kissed his hand and ignored the blue hue of twin lights emanating from Lower Manhattan.


Mario blinked awake to a dimly-lit, blue-walled hospital room. Despite the intravenous fluids, his temples throbbed from a vague tapping, and his stomach heaved from a lack of food and too much alcohol. Moaning slightly from the pain, his eyes then focused on the blonde sleeping in the visitor's chair next to his bed. Upon hearing his groan, Peach stirred awake and fixed her angry, yet worried blue orbs on the man before her. Neither spoke; Mario avoided his gaze in an attempt to avoid both her reproach and desolation. Not trusting herself to refrain from crying, shouting, or screaming at her lover, she took his hand and squeezed it. Although she tried to hide her tears, she sniffled, causing him to look at her. When he saw her anguish, he winced and bit his lip in quiet shame.

"Peach, I …" he finally began, searching for the right words against the aching in his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to … take you away from your life. I'm fine. Really."

"Ma non dire cazzate!" she spat furiously. "You're not fine, Mario! You're not FINE!"

"'Ey, I can …"

"Shut up!" she yelled, interrupting him. His mouth snapped shut, shocked at her sudden outburst. "In spite of your suicide attempt, I will not let you off the hook so easily!" Peach took a deep breath to calm herself before saying in a quieter, yet harsh voice, "Yoshi and Luigi gave me the backstory – as much as they know. You were at Ground Zero, weren't you? And don't bother lying or denying it."

The plumber sank down on his pillow and closed his eyes. Tap, tap, tap. "Yeah. Now, please … leave it be."

She crossed her arms and glared at him. "No, I have to, Sergeant Masciarelli. I'm your physician, so I need to know to what you were exposed."

"How the hell should I know?" he bit out in an increasingly agitated tone.

Nodding, her blue eyes turned icy. "I've ordered a few X-rays and a CT of your lungs. You need to be checked."

He sighed irritably. "The Army already did in 2010; they didn't find anything."

"Yeah, well, I don't hold Army doctors in high esteem, so as the saying goes, 'Trust, but verify.' How long were you down there?"

"Peach …" At her enraged stare, he grudgingly answered, "Thirty-six hours."

"Doing what?" she demanded. He turned away from her in a wordless refusal to respond, even after she repeated the question. "Goddamnit! Why? What has you so … I don't even know! Angry, afraid …? Why do you need to hide in a bottle every goddamned September 11?"

"Isn't it fucking obvious?" Mario retorted heatedly, sliding up in the hospital bed to argue with her. "Huh? Are you so fucking thick-headed that you can't put two and two together, Doctor Venier? Let's see," he began as he extended his thumb to list his points, "my lover's – not my boyfriend or husband – father died in one of the goddamned Towers. Second," he then flicked out his index finger, "said lover's a fuckin' plumber, so maybe, just maybe, he was in Manhattan on a job. And third," he counted with his middle finger, "he spent thirty-six hours of sheer fucking hell in the aftermath! Does that clarify things for you, Doc?"

"How the hell should I have known?!" growled Peach, rising from her chair. "Every fucking time I ever asked, you shut me out!"

"Yeah, I shut you out, Peach!" screamed the plumber, both at his lover and over the tapping that echoed within his mind. "Because … no one needs that in their fuckin' head!"

"I do!" she shrieked, petite hands fisted at her sides. At his incredulous look, she hissed, "Can't you see that this is literally killing you? And it's killing us!" She sank back in the chair. "Mario, maybe … I'm not the right person for you. I've … had that thought now for a few months. I've tried! But sometimes, it feels like you're more attracted to women whom you have to save than those who don't need or," she chuckled mirthlessly, "no longer need saving. And if that's the case, then I'm willing to … let you go. I love you enough to let you find the love you need. However, I do promise you one thing: if you don't deal with this, then you'll never find it."

A horrified Mario watched the sobbing woman rise from her chair to leave his room. As she stepped across the threshold, he spoke in a high-pitched, almost childlike voice, "Per favore, non lasciarmi! That's … not it! I'm afraid!"

She turned to face him again. "Afraid of what?"

Exhaling loudly, he sat up straight in the bed, as if to jump out and physically stop her from departing. "When we first … met, the first thing I remember about you is how scared you were. I wanted nothing more than to reach into your mind and erase those memories. You deserved happiness, joy! Not fear or being resigned to your death. Then as we talked and wrote, I … fell more and more … in love with you. You. Not because I saved you from terrorist motherfuckers, but because of your intelligence, wit, and warmth. And then … I found out about Marco, and I …" he turned away and wiped a tear from his eye. "I went out of my fuckin' mind, Peach. Because I couldn't protect you! Every time I couldn't … keep him from touching you, I died a little more. But then, I got you back. Just a brief reprieve from hell."

As she processed his words, Peach returned to her chair. Reaching for a tissue to blot her running mascara and tears, she croaked, "Hell's not being able … to save me, Luigi, the people you love. And in those … thirty-six hours, you couldn't save your father."

The plumber's eyes became glassy and detached. "Peach, just … don't ask me. Please. Please let me remain Sergeant Masciarelli – your hero – even if you don't want me anymore."

"Mario," she began tiredly, "I will always want you. But I can't watch you self-destruct. I can't sit by while you refuse help. I can't sit by and wonder if the next September 11 will finally kill you. Or the next cage fight. And I … don't think your father would want that, either."

He started to laugh and cry simultaneously. "Ah, Peaches, you know how to guilt trip a guy!" Eventually giving a single nod, he said, "Weegie told me the same thing. I … I don't want to lose you – either of youse. You, my fratellino, and …" he sighed again and rolled his eyes, "that fuckin' Sfacciata are my family. I don't want to end up like my nonno, Peaches. He lost his entire family when he was a teenager and became withdrawn and angry to the point of constant misery." Blinking back tears, he added, "And like him, there are days when I think death would be a fuckin' mercy. But … I gotta live with this shit. Somehow."

"But that's just it, amore," she replied, taking his hand once more. "You have to talk to someone. If not me or Luigi, then someone – a therapist, psychiatrist, priest. If you don't, then you can never move forward. I don't know what this is – guilt, anger, a misguided sense of failure? But whatever it is, it's eating you alive. And it will claim you as its pound of flesh. Meanwhile, Luigi and I … are left wondering while we grieve."

At her last words, the plumber tried to remove his hand from hers to obscure his wet cheeks. Peach moved from the chair to the bedside and lay against his heaving chest. Snaking toward his face, she gently took his hands into hers and kissed his lips, allowing her tears to mix with his. His eyes closed as he attempted to ignore the incessant metallic tapping in his mind.


Luigi and Daisy slept in the next morning, emotionally exhausted from the previous days of mourning and worrying about Giuseppe's health as well as Mario's whereabouts. After making love during the first hour that they were awake, they showered together and came downstairs for leftover pastries and coffee. The plumber had two voicemails: the first was from Peach, who informed him that Mario would be discharged from the hospital later that afternoon and he would remain at her place on 5th Avenue until he was healthier; the second was from Lucia to let him know that Joe was resting comfortably at home. As Daisy checked her own emails and voice messages, he phoned José for a brief update, completed the ticket assignments for the morning and afternoon, and perfunctorily noted Mario's absence as a medical emergency. Over the course of the day, they worked on their individual projects in a comfortable stillness, exchanging sly smiles every so often. As Luigi was on partial time off, he stepped out for a grocery run and returned with a cheese pizza for lunch which was met with approval from his hungry lioness. Once she was finished with re-writing the introduction to her thesis, per the twenty pages of red ink from her advisor, Luigi drove them to Park Slope to use her gym for a badly-needed workout and for a change of clothes. To give him more time to sleep and benefit from the extra space in his home, they mutually decided to return to her apartment on Sunday evening.

After yoga class and a five-kilometer run, the pair came back to Bensonhurst for another steamy shower. While Luigi prepared a simple pesto alla Genovese for dinner, which he had learned to make from Nonna, Daisy skyped with her parents who were less than pleased that she was still in that Mafia rathole. Even as Yael complained to her father, the auburn-haired Brazilian found that their lamentations bothered her less and less; with recent exception of Bowser and possibly Father Sal, the Mafia seemed to have left them alone. Then came the announcement: Harry and Yael would be coming to New York for the High Holy Days in roughly two weeks. She inwardly growled; there would be no chance in hell that they would permit the Italian Catholic Luigi to attend synagogue with them. Harry's light smirk conveyed his plan: this was penance for spending so much time in Bensonhurst. The lioness narrowed her eyes; she would not give an inch, even to her lion Papai.

Saturday was spent similarly; Luigi in particular found that he enjoyed the quiet domesticity. He cleaned the house as Daisy studied for the next month's final attempt at the LSATs. Since she had completed the bulk of her schoolwork the previous day, she helped – or rather, distracted – her boyfriend from his chores. Her playful nips at his neck and fluttering of eyelashes eventually led to them passing several hours in bed. At around four in the afternoon, Luigi carefully pried his loose body from hers to take a quick shower before heading over to St. Rosalia's Church. In spite of his gentle escape, Daisy surprised him under the hot spray of water and made her displeasure known. Afterward, pledging to her that he would tell her everything, he calmly, yet firmly prohibited her from following him. In response, she laid her head against his chest and expressed her concern about Father Sal's clandestine request, especially given Mario's and Miles's shared belief that he was a made man. Promising to be safe via his cellphone which Miles could track, he dressed and kissed her goodbye.

Even though St. Rosalia's was a fifteen-minute walk, he took the car for extra safety and arrived at the church at five minutes to five. Luigi pushed past the red doors and entered the empty hall. Dipping his fingers into the holy water and crossing himself, he moved to sit in one of the middle section pews. Though he was neither devout nor an express believer in Catholicism as the truth, the plumber was not an atheist like his brother or father; in matters of religion and spirituality, he acknowledged the existence of some version of a higher power and felt a deep, ethereal connection with the natural and mystical worlds. What comforted him in the years subsequent to his father's death was the thought that the latter met his beloved Gabriella in some form of an afterlife and he would be reunited with them at his own end. Eternal life. As his blue eyes focused on the wooden crucifix on the altar, he heard a voice speak, "I miss them, too." He turned his head to the left, watching Father Sal kneel, cross himself, and sit next to his nephew in the pew. "I remember we used to occupy those two pews – three ahead of us." Rolling his eyes, he added, "Your father only went to mass to ogle your mother. She didn't mind, 'cause they married right out of high school."

"I can't even imagine being married at nineteen," replied Luigi, shaking his head.

Father Sal shrugged a little. "It was a different time. Most of the kids we grew up with were married by twenty-five at the latest. Even your uncle Joe was married by twenty-three."

"Except you," the younger man pointed out without malice.

He nodded sheepishly. "Except me."

"Zio, no offense, but I don't think you asked to see me just to chat about marriage back in the day."

The priest cracked a smile. "No, kid. I didn't." Sighing, he said quietly, "It's time."

Luigi frowned in confusion. "Time for what?"

"You've been … approached by Cousins Pete and Jackie. You're working for Pete now, more or less."

"Yeah," affirmed the plumber.

"And what do you think about them?" he asked. "Be honest with me, niputi."

"I … I don't know, Zio. On one hand, they seem normal, caring even. Especially Pete. But on the other hand, they're killers," he whispered.

Salvatore nodded again. "They are killers. Once you're in the life, you either kill or are killed. You're no longer a civilian – a bystander. You're a defender of the family – the crime family. If you're inducted into a crime family, then you're obligated to give up your love and life for it."

"I don't want to be a killer. I want to live quietly with a spouse, a child," insisted Luigi, still staring at the crucifix.

"I know, niputi mo. So did your Nonno Luigi. He … wanted to live quietly, too. The life doesn't allow that, and he found out the hard way. As you know, he died when I was a baby; he was a casualty of the Mafia wars back in Palermo."

"So he was a made guy?" inquired the plumber, his voice quivering at the answer.

"For the past couple hundred years, every single Rigassi man has been made," responded Salvatore. "I don't know for certain that my father was inducted, but given that both my grandfathers were made men, it was very likely. The marriage between Luigi and Audenzia was a business arrangement. Being made was originally a position of honor; it meant that you could be trusted to protect Sicily. Then it became something else – a vehicle for greed, lust, corruption, and murder." He exhaled raggedly and continued, "Inevitably, it kills families and souls, niputi. I'm sure Cousin Pete and that little schmuck Lucas made the life sound glamorous. But it isn't. To survive, you can't feel anything. You can't … love."

"Is that what happened to you, Zio?"

The priest wiped his eyes. "Uncle Carlo approached me around confirmation. It started with little jobs here and there. I first became an associate, like you. Since your nonna was sick, there was no money to go around. Mario and, to an extent, Joe, were supporting the family, so we were literally living hand to mouth. I got easily drawn in by quick cash." He laughed cheerlessly. "When you're a kid and can have anything, it's like living in soon, it became … a nightmare. To stay alive and … keep the people I loved alive, I did … terrible, unspeakable things. And the worst thing is that once you're in, there's no escape. The only three options you end up with are to get made, die, or rat. Omertà is for life. It is life."

"Zio, I don't want that!" cried Luigi, horrified at the resignation in his maternal uncle's tone.

The mafioso turned his head to the young man. "I won't lie to you, kid. Uncle Carlo and Pete will not be satisfied with you as a mere associate. You are their last hope to hang onto power against greedy, itchy trigger-finger bosses of other families and capos within their own family. While powerful, the boss's position is tenuous at best. Any capo can whack him or make a grab for another made man's money. Look at Castellano, the Bonnanos, or the Luccheses. Money's the only thing that counts in the Mafia. That's why Pete's opinion matters, even from Colorado. He's a top moneymaker."

"So what do I do?" he enjoined uncertainly.

Salvatore inhaled and faced the crucifix. "You've got to learn the relationships. The politics. But most importantly, you've got to make money. If you become a top earner, then you can – pardon the expression – get away with murder. They won't kill a cash cow. Not unless you mouth off to or otherwise disrespect a member. There's still a pecking order."

"What about Mario? Daisy? Giuseppe?"

"They won't harm Mario – he's their blood and a civilian. As for Daisy and Giuseppe, they are also civilians; so long as they stay clear of the business, they're safe. That being said, Daisy's a Sephardic Jew. The New York Commission does not allow made men to marry non-Italian Catholics because the children won't be eligible for induction. Uncle Carlo will actively discourage your relationship with her."

Luigi angrily faced his uncle and growled, "I will not give her up!"

"I know," confirmed Salvatore. "And I don't want you to. They can't own your soul if it's well-protected and … loved. But she could be perceived as a threat, so be prepared. That's where the money comes into it. Money gives you and her protection." He removed the rosary from his pocket and stroked it. "Does she know what she's getting into?"

"Yeah, she does. She's even met Pete, and she stood her ground. Her family isn't happy about our relationship, but she's made it clear that she's not going anywhere," he replied.

The mafioso chuckled and shook his head. "She's a feisty ragazza. But she obviously loves you if she's willing to stand with you. Jews are not known for tolerating goyim with their sons and daughters."

"Yeah, she is and does," he said with a bright smile. "Daisy makes me feel … brave. When I was at … Poker Night with Pete, Jackie, Tommy, and a room filled of wiseguys who'd probably kill me without a second thought, she's what kept me strong in that idiotic game. She kept me from falling in with Lucas. She saves me every time, Zio."

Though still facing the crucifix, his brown eyes suddenly became misty. "The Mafia's filled with cold, unfeeling men who get off on breaking the rules and amassing millions of dollars to have monstrosities of mansions, dolled-up mistresses whose minds do not contain a single, original thought, and some screwed up version of tradition and respect." He exhaled and sniffed audibly. "They're filling their empty hearts with things. Love, niputi, is so much richer." Wiping another tear from his cheek, Salvatore twisted his head to his nephew. "I used to hate your father. It's one of many things I deeply regret. I hated him because … he got to be with the one he loved. As for me, ultimately, I found the Church and an everlasting love which have nourished me. That love's also helped me … face what I've done."

"Is that why you became a priest?" inquired Luigi.

He nodded. "In part. Before Uncle Carlo … initiatedme, I was an altar boy and was already considering the priesthood. I had a crisis of faith which made it … easier for him to influence me. But at a certain point, I wanted to give people acceptance and hope rather than take them away. I couldn't live a fulfilled life as a member of this thing of ours. I couldn't live with myself. So I left."

Luigi stared at the altar, reflecting upon what his maternal uncle had explained. "Zio … I've seen enough gangster movies to know that people can't just leave 'like that,'" he answered, snapping his fingers. "Did … did you rat?"

Salvatore shook his head. "No. I never ratted and never got pinched, which are exceptionally rare - rarissimi. Some of the guys didn't consider me one of them because I hadn't been pinched or sent to the can. Cousin Pete never did, either. I think it must be a Rigassi thing – we tend to live middle class lives and fly under the radar. That's the way it was in Sicily, though the Rigassis were financially comfortable from legitimate enterprises. And you're right that it didn't just happen 'like that.' It's better that you don't know the particulars. Suffice to say that the Rigassi … discretion saved me. And because I entered the priesthood, Uncle Carlo was reassured that I'd keep omertà, that I wouldn't break my vows to the family."

"What …" The plumber took a deep breath to steel himself for the next question. "What about Uncle Joe? Was he … an associate? I know that kids get paired. Apparently, Lucas was chosen to be mine."

Shaking his head in disgust, the older man bit out, "Lucas was no doubt Jackie's dumb idea. I highly doubt Pete or even Uncle Carlo would've paired you with someone who was so … bereft of loyalty. As for Joe, niputi, he has always been a civilian, though being around me, that line got blurred once or twice. I was paired with Cousin Tommy, then Vinny DiScala. They were a little older – six months to a year and a half."

"So why now? You stonewalled Mario. Why tell me?"

He put a tremoring hand on Luigi's shoulder. "Because Mario's a civilian. You've, however, met the crew, Luigi – Carlo, Junior, Tommy, Jackie, Pete, Tony, and whomever else. That's significant. Made men don't waste time with 'friendly' introductions with people in whom they have little interest. Whether we like it or not, you're under Pete's protection; nonetheless, it also allows me to say certain things to you. Furthermore, Mario's way of handling problems will backfire with someone like Pete. In his desire to save you, he'll make things infinitely worse."

Luigi quietly began to sob into his hands. "I don't want this! Why me? I'm dead, aren't I? I was born just to be killed!"

Twisting in the pew to face him squarely, Father Sal gripped both of the younger man's damp hands. "No! Ascoltami!" He kindly repeated the words until his nephew lifted those familiar blue eyes. "You are so strong, Luigi Gabriele," he whispered, touching his forehead to his. "Mentally, emotionally, and even physically. Stop comparing yourself to Mario, be it your fratello or your papà. You're you – unique, made in God's image. And you are so loved by good, decent people. Your Zio Giuseppe loves and is proud of you. I'm proud of the man you've become. And I know that Gabby would've been, too. Knowing that, you can do anything!"

"But I … I didn't go to MIT. I didn't go to college, Zio. Pops would've hated that. And I … did nothing for so long," he wept.

Keeping a firm grip on him, the priest retorted, "Do you know why your father wanted you to go? Because … he wanted something better for you. He wasn't wrong. But he was an idealist and underestimated Pete and Uncle Carlo. Whether you became a plumber or an engineer, whether you remained in Brooklyn or went to Boston, Pete would've come for you. Joe tried to keep you close to fend him off. Did you know that the stubborn ass himself wanted to go to college?" A wide-eyed Luigi shook his head. "The testardo collected every copy of the Princeton Review and class schedule he could find. Ultimately, he didn't go because … he'd have had no one. Later, I think he projected those fears onto you." Wiping one of Luigi's tears with his thumb, Salvatore added, "And you did do something. You lived. You loved your family. You took care of your brother. You didn't run away from those who needed you." Sitting up straight, he tilted the young man's gaze to meet his. "And I know you won't ever run away, even when you're scared. Now … it's time for you to shine, bambino mio. Be the person you are. The true measure of a man is how he protects and cherishes those whom he loves."

"Zio?" Father Sal raised his eyebrows. "Who did you love? You said that Pops got to be with his love, but you didn't. Do you mean that he got a choice because he wasn't Mafia?"

He turned to stare passively at the altar. "Something like that, yeah. As I said before, love isn't something that guys in the life can afford. They get married, sure, to keep up appearances and father legitimate children. Every made guy I knew cheated on their girlfriends and wives. Jackie, Tommy, Junior, Carlo, and even Pete. And while the wives get money, a home, and children, they live in a gilded cage. I would never want my spouse to live in such misery."

Luigi stared blankly ahead, attempting to process both his uncle's involvement with and words pertaining to the Mafia. "If I become a moneymaker, somehow, through legitimate means, then what would stop Pete and Carlo from forcing me to join the club? No matter what I do, I'm screwed." Sneering angrily, he spun to glare at the priest, "You know, you, Uncle Joe, and Pops put me in a shitty situation. Whatever the hell you did, Zio, it ensured that I would pay. I had my own dreams taken away and was then made to feel responsible! Why the hell did Uncle Joe save me?" A confused Father Sal knitted his eyebrows together, to which the plumber replied casually, "I tried to kill myself back in 2002. September 11, 2002, to be exact." The man's normal olive skin tone became ashen. "I snorted some coke that I'd bought from the school dealer and combined it with cherry vodka. Uncle Joe slapped me awake and called an ambulance. Had I died, none of this would've ever come to pass. I might've ended up in hell, but Mario wouldn't have ended up in the hospital, Daisy would be safe and working toward her law degree, and Giuseppe would be with his children and grandson instead of worrying about me. I'd just be a picture in a frame, like Pops and Mama."

Shaking his head, he stood up to leave, but Salvatore blocked his exit, his brown eyes filled with agony and fire. Once more, Luigi tried to sidestep the man in black, but the thin man bear-hugged and pinned the younger man to his body, forcing them back into the pews. "Let go! What the fuck do you want from me?!" he moaned while struggling hopelessly against the priest's wiry strength. The mafioso did not answer; instead, he kept an iron grip on his youngest nephew. "Do you want me to admit that I almost ended up in hell? That I wish I ended up in hell?" the young man screamed. "Bene, Sal! Mea fucking culpa! Tell me how many Hail Marys to say! Happy now?! Let go!" The older man steadfastly refused, even as Luigi pushed and pulled in a futile tentative at escape. Finally, the latter gave up and relaxed in the man's arms. Salvatore neither moved nor spoke; however, his body shook violently – from rage or fear, Luigi did not know. A few minutes passed before either man shifted.

The priest cradled him half in the pew, half in his lap, as he had often done when Luigi was a child. Physically small and easily frightened, "Little Galileo" hid from the bigger and unkinder children in the church pews or under empty teacher's desks. Before Father Rosetti or the other teachers noticed his disappearance, Father Sal began a search in his usual and unusual hiding spots and, within the hour, fished him out like a scared Siamese cat. He recalled the boy's tearful laments that he did not want to be a Galileo and everyone hate him. Mario Senior argued with Luigi that he should be proud of having such a gift, never fully comprehending the loneliness that accompanied being so different. Salvatore had first watched his sister be ostracized, the former nuns, Uncle Carlo, and even their mother bluntly informing her that no man would ever want a wife constantly distracted by math formulas, then Giuseppe, who was slapped around at school and at home for having his head in the clouds. Until age sixteen, he was always a close second to Joe in class; thereafter, he put no more effort into his schoolwork. He found that a library card was a better source of education, and none of the circulation staff tried to kick his ass over what he read. As for his fellow wiseguys, most could barely read, let alone care about Aristotle, Aristophanes, or Boccaccio – even if the guys at the butcher shop laughed heartily at his impromptu translation of Catullus 16.

The silence in the church hall was eventually interrupted by the broken tenor of the older Sicilian. "That wood is watched over by a wondrously fair fowl, strong of feathers, which is called the Phoenix. There that lone-dweller observes that land, brave-minded of bearing. Death shall never harm him in that desired land, so long as the world remains." Running his free hand through the familiar wavy brown strands of Luigi's hair, he soothed into his ear, "He must behold the course of the sun and come toward God's candle, the gem of gladness, eagerly attending it, when up comes the most noble of stars over the waved sea, gleaming from the east, the Father's olden work dazzling with jewels, the bright token of God. The stars are hidden, departed beneath the waves towards the west, obscured in the daybreak and the dark night descends dusky. Then the strong-winged bird proud in its wandering, in the mountain stream under the sky, eagerly makes witness over the water when the light of the heavens comes up from the east gliding over the broad expanse of the sea." Luigi shuddered at Father Sal's last words, recalling the nights spent on Long Island with his father to look up at the stars. Tilting back gently to face him, he lost himself in the warring molten chocolate and steely and thunderous black that he observed in equal parts within Salvatore's eyes.


Over the following week, Luigi and Mario barely spoke to one another; still weak from his hospital stay and range of pulmonary exams that mercifully came back normal, the latter worked his usual morning shift, though the former thought it a wise precaution to keep him near Peach and New York-Presbyterian Hospital. As for Luigi, he and Daisy returned to Park Slope and resumed their quiet domestic life. Unsure of what precisely was the truth, he recounted to his lioness a simplified version of his meeting with Father Sal – that he was indeed an inducted member of Carlo Morano's crew and warned them both to treat Pete Morello with extreme caution. While he mentioned that the priest denied keeping Uncle Joe as an associate, the plumber neglected to mention the ambiguity over the extent of their association. Furthermore, Luigi omitted Father Sal's instruction to generate additional income to protect both himself and those whom he held dear. He loathed censoring this essential piece of information; however, he had no clue as to how to increase the shop's revenue without breaking the law, which he absolutely refused to do. Carlo, Pete, and Jackie could all go straight to hell; Luigi Masciarelli would be damned if he joined the Mafia.

Each morning before work and a steamy shower with his beloved, Luigi stared in the bathroom mirror at his tattoo. Surprisingly, the ink stayed vibrant even after six months; the FDNY yellow, red, blue, and white of the thunderbird decorated his pink skin like insignia. The thrill of acquiring the taboo piece of art to spite his Uncle Joe and his brother had long since passed; now, it served as a heavy reminder of his father's legacy. Why the fuck did Michaela give me this fucking tattoo? I'm not a hero; I'm not Mario Masciarelli. On a lunch break early in the week, he felt compelled to search online about the thunderbird again. Ironically in both the European and Native American traditions, the thunderbird was the protector of the world, sent to punish those who committed moral transgressions. He huffed at the description; how was he of all people going to save anyone? As he conducted a search for parlors specializing in tattoo removal, the plumber felt the mark sear his skin, as if the image itself were voicing its objections. It also turned out that Rosalina was opposed to it, asking the indecisive man in her compassionate, yet analytical manner, "Why remove the memory of your father, especially right after September 11? Maybe instead of his legacy as the Jumpman, the tattoo represents a father's faith, hope, and love for his son."

Embrace the thunder.

He's a diamond.

Knowing that, you can do anything!

Be who you are.

Toward the end of that week, the master plumber took his chickpea salad sandwich to a vacant bench in Brooklyn Bridge Park opposite the Manhattan skyline. While he normally avoided any acknowledgement of the newly-completed One World Trade Center and its rising sister building, he unexpectedly needed to connect with his father, which Dr. Czernin had encouraged him to do for that week's assignment. After spending that morning combing over the shop's finances for any potential new source of income, Luigi felt the anxiety and bile rise up his throat. Although he was intelligent, he, an avowed coward, was accustomed to doing nothing and letting the chips fall where they may. Yet it was becoming clearer that he would need to take an active role and put himself and the shop into unchartered waters. Run away, figlio mio; no fight's worth getting the shit kicked outta ya, his father always told him. Bowser, Uncle Joe, Uncle Sal, and even Pete Morello were asking him to do the contrary. Why him? Mario's better at this than he.

Mario's way of handling problems will backfire with someone like Pete. In his desire to save you, he'll make things infinitely worse.

"Pops, why didn't you teach me how to fight? To navigate this shit?" Luigi asked aloud to the sparkling skyscraper across the bluish East River. "I'm defenseless."

Because I wanted you to be who you needed to be, echoed a voice from years ago. And you're not defenseless; you got brains and a helluva imagination, kid – the two best weapons in the universe.

"But I am! I can't see a way to make enough money to save the shop, to save Mario, Daisy, and Joe. I'm useless!" he cried to his father in his mind.

There was silence for several minutes before the plumber heard the voice again from a long-buried memory.

He was sitting outside in the snowy cold, hot tears burning his cheeks. Mentally hiding from his view the red, green, silver, and gold Christmas lights inside the house on 65th Street as well as those decorating the neighborhood, a twelve-year-old Luigi bit his lip to keep any eavesdroppers from hearing his sobs. So intent on stifling his sorrow, the little boy did not hear the front doors open and close. An older, mustachioed man in a winter coat and jeans unobtrusively sat next to him. He took his hand and growled, "The drunk sonofabitch doesn't know where he is half the time. Pay him no mind, figlio."

"I think he knows me," Luigi sniffed, "enough to say that I'm a 'useless finocchio,' Pops. I hate that I'm not Mario, that I'm not you." Sneering at himself, he added, "I'm not even Uncle Joe. I'm a mistake."

The street lights and a passing car highlighted a single tear cascading down the firefighter's left cheek. "You're hurtin', and I'm sorry. But you're not a mistake! Never! Don't you see that you're better than any of us?"

"How's that?" demanded the agitated tween. "I haven't pulled anyone from a burning building or defended little kids from the Bowsers or other bullies! I … play with robots and write equations. That sucks in comparison! No wonder everyone thinks I'm a … finocchio."

"Sucks, huh?" Mario Senior enjoined with a brief snigger, amused at his youngest son's borderline coarse language. His tone then became serious. "Figlio, I don't want you to pull people out of burnin' buildings. Know why?" The young man slowly shook his head. "Because those buildings aren't safe. Most of the time, it's because of slumlords who don't give enough of a shit to put in working fire alarms or keep the place up to code. And we – New York's Fucking Bravest – don't often know it until it's too late. I don't want you to see bodies burnt beyond recognition or … hear people screamin' for God because they're in pain from second- or third-degree burns. I don't want you attending your buddy's funeral because he fell through several floors or died of smoke inhalation trying to save someone else. And as for plumbing? Same shit, different day. You get up, you fix shit that will inevitably get busted within a year's time, and you rinse and repeat. Yeah, someone's gotta do it – plumbing, firefighting, or … swinging a baseball bat. But not you. Because that beautiful mind of yours will take you places that none of us – me, your nonno, or your fratello – could ever hope to go! Smart kids like you will make the world better so that … no one has to die or suffer needlessly. Look at what we got because of kids like youse – computers, a space program, nuclear medicine, and probably fusion soon! Plumbers and firefighters didn't do any of that! For every ten thousand of us, there's only one of you, Luigi Gabriele Masciarelli. One. That's why I don't want you fightin' or listenin' to your nonno's insane bullshit. You are so rare that the world cannot afford to lose you." Wiping the trail of tears with his hand, he murmured, "We've already lost brilliant minds, Luigi, whether it be to fear of the unknown or to a death too fuckin' soon. So every life is precious and every mind like yours even more so."

"I don't want to be different and I don't even know if I can change anything!" he sobbed.

"I know," nodded the firefighter with a shadow of a proud smile. "You're like your Uncle Joe in that respect. But you are different, kid. Even from him. And your gift isn't exchangeable. You'll come to understand that as you mature. But the worst thing you can do is to give into idiots' small-minded beliefs and think that'll protect you. Once you accept that your mind's not exchangeable – and shouldn't ever be – you'll be unstoppable."

The adult Luigi burst into tears once more, shaking and rocking back and forth on the bench, as the tattoo felt warm against his skin. But instead of its searing anger from a few days prior, the brilliantly-colored thunderbird blanketed his bicep, and a wave of comfort circulated throughout his bones, flesh, nerves, and blood. Stop trying to be me, your brother, or even Uncle Joe; be who you are, spoke his father's echo. We need you, Luigi.

"But … who am I?" he inquired aloud to an empty park and bench. A series of memories replayed in his mind: hijacking his fourth-grade math lesson out of sheer boredom, Professor Omaya testing his math abilities and being visibly astonished at the youngster's innate ability to calculate cubed roots in his head, receiving the gold medal in Italian four years in a row, winning several gold and silver medals in robotics with Omaya's son, Yoshi, and Miles, flashing a shit-eating grin at a livid Giuseppe after refusing to measure a set of pipes in a passive-aggressive act of rebellion, yelling at a morose Mario to get off his ass and walk on that goddamned stump of his, accompanying a hobbling Cousin Maria to the Atlantic, dancing with his beautiful lioness at Blu and Timpani's party, telling Slaughter to suck his dick before leaving for Stanford, and lastly, anteing up to the wiseguys at Poker Night.

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm –

Following the flashback with his father and an afternoon filled with useless meetings and finance reports, the master plumber returned to the Park Slope apartment and, making sure Daisy's pantry and refrigerator were properly stocked, prepared a lemon and spinach spaghetti for dinner. As he waited for his princess to come home from the UN Headquarters, Luigi shopped online for a small trinket to thank her for supporting him, Mario, and his family in the few weeks through the anniversary. He had passed by several jewelry stores in downtown Brooklyn, Bedford-Stuyvesant, Crown Heights, and even going as far as Williamsburg, but none of them carried the right gift. While doing research on the Jewish High Holy Days, so as not to sound like a complete novice – much to Ginsburg's taunting – he came across an Israeli jewelry store that had the perfect necklace. Although it was a bit pricey for his taste, Luigi readily purchased it and even paid extra for guaranteed arrival just before Rosh Hashanah.

A tired and irritated Daisy returned to find lit candles, creamy lemon and spinach pasta, a bottle of Chardonnay, and a dark-eyed Luigi waiting at the café-like table. Her mood immediately brightened at the sight, and she joined her lover for a homecooked meal. Between bites of the creamy and frankly divine pasta, she complained about the unreasonable deadline to compile, clean, and organize a year's worth of data for an unnamed governmental agency. After an hour of bitching and threatening to roast the director of the aforementioned governmental agency on an open spit, which her boss assured existed in the UN's basement, they prayed to the Holy NumPy and Oracle of Pandas to clean the motherfucker in time for it to be crapped out from some paper pusher's ass during an equally useless bi-annual meeting. Though he did not speak, Luigi offered a soft chuckle, raised eyebrow, or the che vuoi to the government lackey. Subsequent to a few minutes of silence and then a relieved it was fine when she asked about his day, Daisy expressed her concern, to which he deliberately rose from his seat at the table to kneel before and kiss her passionately. Between breaths, he murmured against her blush lips, "I'm still processing, cat-face. But I am so glad to be with you. I'm listening to you. Never doubt that."

"Let me share this with you," she insisted in a somewhat frustrated tone. "I can't talk to walls."

"I will," he answered evenly. "Give me one night, sweetie, when I don't have to deal with it. Or rather let me give you what you need. Let me do that. Please."

"But I … I feel guilty for you just sitting there, listening to me after …" Daisy turned her head from him and bit her lip.

Using his fingertips, Luigi gently pivoted her face and gaze back to him. "Sweetie, that will always be a part of me. Always. Just as … Tatanga will always be a part of you. It's pain that I have to face, have faced, and will continue to face. I struggle with it. However, it doesn't stop me or relieve me from my obligation – no, my desire – to be a good partner to you." Mouthing an I love you, he kissed her again. "Your needs are important, cat-face, and I feel guilty for not being as attentive as I should've been these past couple weeks."

"Luigi," she began, tossing her napkin on the table, exasperated with herself for not having the words readily available, "it's not about attentiveness. I do feel guilty. I just … I'm afraid."

His eyebrows knitted together. "Afraid? Of what, cat-face? Did … Did I do something?"

She sighed. "Well, yes … and no. I …" As she searched for the words, he waited as patiently as he could while taking shallow inhalations. "I'm afraid of … your uncle. Salvatore. His whole damn demeanor bothers me. He's Mafia, like Pete! Yet he-he's a … Catholic priest!" Standing up and finding her voice, the woman went on undeterred, "I don't know what precisely he told you, and yeah, I know there's more than you said. And then your Uncle Joe doesn't seem threatened by him as he is with the Moranos or Pete Morello. Still, that guy bothers me! What aren't you telling me?"

As she covered her mouth and started to reproach herself for upsetting the romantic dinner, she felt warm, masculine arms encircle her waist and lips near her ear. "I'm … I'm sorry, cat-face. It's a bad habit of the Masciarelli men, and it should end. In my defense, I was … trying to keep your focus on the UN and your studies. I don't want this to be a distraction. I don't want me to be a distraction. I …" He took a deep breath and kissed the sensitive spot at the nape of her neck, "It might be impossible, but I want your father and stepmother to like me. I know they're unhappy that I'm not Jewish. And if they knew about Pete Morello or Uncle Sal, they'd probably be on the next fucking plane to New York. I want them to know that I would do anything to protect you. You deserve the best that life has to offer."

"Sweetie, I don't want to be protected like some China doll!" she hissed, spinning to face him properly, her brown orbs like mahogany points of fire. "I stood my ground with Pete Morello of my own choice and, no, I don't think he particularly liked that. Well, I don't care! And I stood my ground with Father Sal! I'm not afraid! If anything, they piss me off! They piss me off because they want to treat you like some fucking chess piece! They piss me off because they made your father, your uncle, your brother, and you suffer! Don't play their game, Luigi!"

"I'm not playing their game, Daisy!" yelled the plumber. "Can you fucking blame me for wanting you safe? Huh?" Scoffing angrily, he retorted, "Do you think I fall in love every day?" At her parted lips and a single blink, he nodded, "Yeah, I'm in love with you. And Pete Morello knows it! Uncle Sal knows it! Lucas knows it! Mario and Uncle Joe know it! The whole fucking world knows! And I'm so fucking scared! Because they will use you if I don't make enough money to keep them off my ass! Meanwhile, I want Harry Abravanel not to think I'm a complete waste of space or a goddamned Mafioso!"

Daisy stayed quiet for several moments, her mahogany orbs meeting the deep navy blue orbs of her lover. "Kerido, do you know why I'm not afraid?" she finally asked in a whisper.

"You should be, but no, I don't," he countered, matching her tone and volume.

"Because I've never wanted to protect anyone as badly as I do you. Not because I think you're weak; quite the contrary, you have this … quiet dignity and strength." She took a step forward to enter his personal space, yet kept a tiny gap between them. "You have to trust me, us, and let me stand with you. I know you're afraid. Everyone's left you at some point. I saw that in Bensonhurst. I mean, I really saw that. They've come and gone. This isn't about fixing you, either. You make me feel safe. Loved. And I won't … give you up."

Luigi chortled a little as he took her hand and intertwined their fingers. "I, uh, said those same words to Uncle Sal – that I refuse to give you up."

"Folie à deux," she said seductively, dragging her eyes over his heaving chest, then back up to his eyes, which darkened in response. "The Mafia still pisses me off."

"They piss me off, too," he growled lowly. "I just don't know what to do about them. Both Pete and Uncle Sal said the same thing, more or less – money trumps all. But I can't make an extra couple hundred thousand from the shop – it's barely afloat as it is. I can't even afford to hire another journeyman who will take some of the load off the Queens guys! And Lucas … well, if I go the SCADA route, he'll do something either unscrupulous or outright illegal."

Daisy stepped closer to him so that she could put both palms flat on his chest. "So that's the problem. Is there anything you can sell or … can you address a need within the plumbing industry? Create a niche?"

He shook his head. "Nah, plumbing is, by and large, low-tech. It's all about liquid, gas, and air flow. I mean, most guys don't know shit about fluid dynamics as math and physics theory; they know how to fix a clog or a fucked up gas pipe through experience and practice. And even if I could make it high-tech, it would take years for the guys to learn it. No offense to them, but they aren't the most computer savvy of people. All the big money's in the construction of Manhattan and Brooklyn high rises; landing a low-bid as a subcontractor to install gas and plumbing."

"So you need time. And a problem to solve, preferably one for which contractors would be willing to pay you thousands."

"Yeah," breathed Luigi, leaning into her touch. His eyes drifted toward the new HVAC unit that he had installed almost a month prior. All of a sudden, he moved away from Daisy and, holding up his index finger, approached the window.

Because those buildings aren't safe. Most of the time, it's because of slumlords who don't give enough of a shit to put in working fire alarms or keep the place up to code. And we – New York's Fucking Bravest – don't often know it until it's too late.

"Holy shit … That's it. HVAC and heaters!" At her questioning look, he began to grin brightly. "Yeah, I can go after the million-dollar contracts once I have a device. A smart thermostat! Every fuckin' year, these pieces of shit – air conditioners and heaters – bust from a build-up of dirt, thermostat malfunctions, or a leaky refrigerant. Then they fuckin' break, and the client gets pissed that we couldn't anticipate what we can't see. What if we could? The guys may not get the programming, but they can read a gauge and see trends. The information can feed back into something portable. Start with something small – that's what Uncle Joe always told me. It's flow. And now, every home has some sort of Internet connection."

"That's … simple and doable," confirmed Daisy with a nod. "What about security? Someone hacking it?"

"Thankfully, I know a guy whose kung fu is Bruce Lee-level," he snickered. Walking back to her, the plumber tilted her chin so that he could gaze into her eyes. "I've learned my lesson."

"Oh?" she inquired softly.

"Yeah. One man can't fight alone. He needs a pissed off Daisy Abravanel with him."

Before she could formulate a come-back, Daisy felt herself being slung over his right shoulder. She squealed in shock as he carried her past the table, momentarily leaning down to blow out the candles.

"What the hell are you …? Put me down!" she bellowed, slapping his back.

Smirking salaciously, he gave her a quick, yet placid swat on her gray skirt-covered backside which caused her to yelp. "Gotta admire that perfect ass!"

"You'll pay for this, Luigi Masciarelli!" she cried with a startled laugh-growl.

"Hmm, sounds promising," he leered while marching purposefully toward their bedroom.


Daisy smiled contentedly as she ambled westward from the UN Headquarters to Grand Central Station. With exception of a few phone calls to Mario, who had been resting comfortably at Peach's apartment before reporting for duty in Massachusetts, to Giuseppe and Lucia, to Keisha, a friend from Oxford, and to her parents, whom she informed that she and Luigi would attend the Rosh Hashanah seder as well as the Yom Kippur service, they had only spoken to each other over the course of the weekend. They had spent that time in increased domesticity, each requiring emotional and physical nourishment from the other as a result of the riptide of the Mafia, Giuseppe's illness, and the anniversary. Luigi was finally sleeping through the night, even as he kept his arms around her at all times, as if clinging to her body like a life raft.

Harry and Yael's flight would arrive that evening in New York. They rented a short-term vacation apartment in Williamsburg to accommodate both her schedule at the UN and Columbia and reluctance to stay in Manhattan. Yael in particular was opposed to obliging that Italian thug; however, she was overruled by Harry who believed that being civil to him was a better course of action than risking his daughter's wrath and refusal to attend seder. She agreed to stay with them in Williamsburg through Yom Kippur, and Luigi would come for the seder and Yom Kippur rituals. While he would need to work most of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur fell on a Friday night, so he would be able to sit through services as well as attend the Kol Nidre. The impending separation had fueled their libido, and they made the bedroom and ensuite shower their basecamp. Instead of feeling despair or sorrow, they rejoiced in their coupling, each husky moan, muted giggle, and drop of sweat an act of defiance toward a millennia of tradition and custom.

Several taxicabs whizzed by Daisy as she crossed 3rd Avenue. She briefly checked her smartphone and grinned at the message from Keisha, who confirmed her trip to New York next month. Distracted by excitement over her friend's visit and introduction to Luigi, she failed to notice the black town car slowing down to park about fifty feet ahead of her on East 42nd Street. As she strolled unsuspectingly by the car, she heard a middle-aged man's voice call out, "Daisy Abravanel!" Shocked to hear her name, the woman halted and spun to her left to spy the dark grey-suited Pete Morello standing at the driver's side door. Mustering every technique that she had learned to remain calm, Daisy eyed the mafioso squarely. "Um, hello. Fancy meeting you here in Manhattan."

Pete nodded in a jovial manner. "Yeah, I'm back in town on business. I just happened to see you walking, I assume, toward Grand Central Station. Let me give you a ride into Brooklyn. It'll save you a few minutes on the subway."

She forced a polite, yet apologetic smile. "Uh, I wouldn't want to impose. Brooklyn's out of your way, I'd imagine."

"Not at all. I was actually heading that way. Please, I insist." He reached into the car to open the passenger side door.

Taking a deep breath to avoid showing any sign of nervousness or hostility, Daisy cautiously slipped into the Lincoln town car, all the while keeping a hand inside her jacket to send a pre-programmed SOS text with Pete Morello's name to Miles. Closing the door as Pete sat in the driver's seat and buckled his seat belt, she hoped that the upturn of her lips appeared genuine as she thanked him.

Maneuvering the car down Lexington Avenue toward Lower Manhattan and the bridges, he fleetingly glanced in the rear-view mirror, "You're welcome. How's Luigi's doing? The anniversary of his father's passing was almost two weeks ago."

Still gazing ahead, she answered, "He's … resilient. It's hard for him, but he got through it."

"Yeah," he agreed neutrally. "I couldn't imagine losing my father like that. He passed about twenty years ago from a heart attack. That was hard enough. And Giuseppe?"

"Same." He nodded, occasionally watching her for what she assumed were signs of obfuscation. Once again, the anger and fear began to rise up within her; she felt outraged that men like Pete and Carlo Morano could interrupt the course of 'normal people's' lives for their own machinations. Time to take some power back, she thought. "They – Luigi, Giuseppe, and Mario – spent the anniversary in Bensonhurst. With Father Sal."

Daisy inwardly smirked at the faint widening of the man's eyes. As the car proceeded past Gramercy Park, he fell quiet, as if he were attempting to ascertain the potential significance of Salvatore's re-appearance. Finally, he spoke, only to change the subject, "How's working at the UN?"

She shrugged. "It's interesting; granted, it's data crunching, but … I'm learning a lot. It also gives me a bit more time to finish my thesis and study for my LSATs."

He looked in the rear-view mirror again, then gently rolled to a stop at the red light. "What's your score?"

"I got a 175 back in June. I'm re-taking it next month for a 177 or higher. I'm self-testing at 178 – just enough. But the competition's stiff for the Ivies."

Pete's eyes rounded a little, and he whistled. "That's impressive. The LSATs were different back when I took them. I had a … 44, I think. It was out of 48 instead of 180." At the green light, he drove straight for a couple blocks before abruptly turning westward toward the West Street and the Hudson River. Although by all appearances, he intended the trajectory change, Daisy noticed that he checked the rear-view mirror a third time. "Anyway, I imagine your choices are Columbia, Harvard, and Stanford?"

"Yeah," she affirmed. "I'm also considering NYU. Their law program is also top-tier."

He turned to her and asked, "Because of Luigi?"

"Yeah."

The caporegime's eyes drifted again to the mirror before replying, "Daisy, you seem like a nice girl. You got your head on straight which, for quite a few Millennials, poses a challenge. It's a testament to your dedication and integrity. Continue to keep your head on straight. Don't let the rush of a relationship destroy your sense of reality."

She raised her eyebrow. "I take it that you don't approve of my relationship with Luigi."

"I didn't say that," he countered evenly, yet without malice. "However, you're, what, twenty-four, twenty-five? That's still young. Luigi's twenty-eight and now the manager of a mid-sized shop. You're off to Harvard … or Stanford. What I am saying is that long-distance relationships between people of two different spheres are difficult to manage. And what about your family? They're in San Francisco, right?"

"Yes," she responded curtly.

"And it's the coming of a new year," he said with a smile. She blanched, to which he chuckled and commented, "Daisy, I may be from Colorado, but I spent my summers, holidays, and a full year here in New York. Back in my day, we called your people 'Siriani' because in Brooklyn, it was the Syrian Jews who spoke Spanish and Arabic. Yiddish- and Russian-speaking Jews were all in Flatbush, Crown Heights, or the Lower East. Bensonhurst itself was half-Jewish and half-Italian. And as for Denver, the Jews have always been there, too. German and Russian Jews, mostly. I also know what it means to keep a low-profile because you don't know what the other guy's thinking. You don't know if he's some anti-Semite wacko." The One World Trade Center rose to prominence ahead of them, and he added, "I can't blame you there. This was almost a decade before you were born, but I remember listening to Alan Berg on the radio. Crazy sonofabitch challenged neo-Nazis on air, called them stupid, dumbasses, and such. My father thought he was an idiot, but us young Jews, Catholics, and blacks loved the guy. Well, those neo-Nazi bastards shot him in his drive way."

Daisy began to feel unnerved by Pete's surface-deep story of sympathy toward the Jews. She resisted the temptation to look at her phone; as Pete was making his course correction, she had felt the phone buzz to indicate an incoming message from Miles or Luigi. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, she hurriedly began to analyze the situation logically: Pete would not harm her, as it would draw undue attention to himself and his boss; he was warning her of potential risks associated with Luigi; he was confronting her with both her career plans and her ethnic and religious background. Was he attempting to intimidate her? If so, as her father used to say when they played chess, it was a fatal move; now that he openly named her, she had no reason to be afraid.

"Yes, that's definitely a reason," she ultimately spoke, steeling her courage. "I grew up in San Francisco, so I had no real fear of anti-Semitism. However, my father is Brazilian and fled the military coup of 1964. Among many groups, they weren't huge fans of the Jews. He and his mother immigrated to the U.S., and he grew up outside of Boston."

He nodded while keeping his eyes on the mirror and traffic straight ahead of them. "Boston was pretty rough in the '70s and into the '80s. I thought about going to Boston College for school, but my father put the kibosh on that idea. What about your mother? Is she also from Boston?"

"No, she was born in Bermuda. She and my father are divorced. She's uh," she laughed and tilted her head, "a Buddhist nun, actually. She grew up there, then moved to California where she met and married my father. After their divorce, she became a Buddhist. She's found happiness, I think."

Pete took his time to digest this tidbit of information. "And your father remarried?"

She simpered at what she knew would follow. "Yes, when I was eleven. Yael. She's a lawyer, like my father, but is a retired rav - master sergeant in the Israeli Army. We call her the Hellraiser of Netanya." Yes, Pete, you may be a caporegime, but Moshe Dayan still says fuck you.

The car's occupants did not converse for several minutes, the end of the workday traffic making the progression down West Street toward the Battery an awkwardly slow drive. Daisy's eyes traced the towering, spired structure upward to the clear, early-evening sky. "I hate driving past this place," she heard Pete say. "Back in August, Matt wanted to go to the Memorial; I couldn't do it. He went and got a picture of Luigi's dad's name and laid a rose there. He's braver than I. You ever been?"

She shook her head, touching the phone inside her pocket. "No. It's a little too … morose for me."

Pete seemed to breathe easier as the World Trade Center entered the rear-view mirror and the tunnel appeared ahead of them. Fifteen minutes later, they arrived in Brooklyn, nevertheless heading southeast.

"Do you need directions to my apartment?" asked Daisy, breaking the silence once more.

The mafioso chuckled. "Park Slope. I won't insult your intelligence by pretending not to know."

"You seem to know … a lot of things. You know my address, but you didn't know about my parents?"

He turned to take a quick look at her. "What makes you think I didn't?" Before Daisy could ask the inevitable follow-up, he interjected, "In my line of work, it pays to know a little bit about everything. And everyone. Luigi's my family. Blood. That requires me to know."

Exasperated, the auburn-haired lioness twisted to stare down the driver. "Alright, just what the hell's your endgame? You weren't just driving by East 42nd Street and happened upon me."

Raising his eyebrow at the feisty woman's sheer balls to talk to him in such a manner, he cryptically answered, "Why not? Anything's possible. I love serendipity in life. And my endgame? Making conversation."

She slowly repositioned herself to observe the traffic-congested streets of Carroll Gardens and Gowanus, deciding not to push him any further. They lapsed into a final bout of hush as Pete took a circuitous route to Park Slope while side-eying his rear-view mirror. Suddenly, he parallel parked near the metro stop at the corner of 4th Avenue and 9th Street. "I'm sorry; I know this isn't where you live. However, it's better for our conversation to end here. I'd ask that you backtrack a bit before heading home. Take the subway if possible. I'll offer one last piece of advice. Be sure of what you want. Be very sure. Because Luigi isn't the usual plumber. He has a destiny, one that may conflict with yours. On that note, have a good evening and a happy new year, Daisy Abravanel."

Dumbfounded at his words, she exited the car, shut the passenger door, and began to wobble in the reverse direction. As the car sped away, the confused woman pulled out her cellphone and read her unread text messages:

(5:02 p.m.) "Tracking your phone."

(5:35 p.m.) "If he doesn't stop the car by 6 pm, I'll call Mario."

(5:45 p.m.) "Cat-face, where are you? An SOS came from Chelsea. He's worried. So am I."

There was an additional voicemail which she resolved to listen to once she returned home. Texting an all-clear message to Miles, she took off in a jog to the intersection of 9th Street and 5th Avenue and, making sure that nothing was out of the ordinary among the tall trees and rows of brownstones, headed to her apartment building. Upon arriving at the front entrance, she quickly fished out her keys and opened it; climbing the steps two at a time, Daisy reached for her apartment door when it swung open, and she felt herself being pulled inside by a trembling pair of masculine arms. Hearing the heavy wood slam shut, her back touched its surface and her lips were covered with Luigi's dry pink ones. "You fucking scared the hell outta me!" he breathed between kisses. "What happened? How the hell did Pete find you?!"

Daisy embraced him, relief washing over her body. "I don't know, kerido. He offered me a ride right before I reached Grand Central Station."

"Jesus Christ!" Drawing back to examine her properly, he demanded, "W-what did he …? Did he hurt you?!"

"No," she replied in a somber voice. "He, uh, questioned me. About my plans. About you. He told me to be sure of what I wanted."

"Fucking pezzo di merda! Well, tomorrow, you're going to your parents' rental in Williamsburg. And you're staying there. You're also taking a taxi to work. Miles will track you. I don't like this. Not at all."

She nodded. "I don't like it, either. He knows where I live. But the … weird thing is, he dropped me off a short distance away, on the corner of 9th and 4th Av. Told me to backtrack and use the subway if necessary."

He knitted his eyebrows together. "What? Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. He also kept checking the rear-view mirror. As if we were being followed."

The plumber's blue eyes expanded. "Wait, what?! You think it was the FBI? I know he's paranoid about being bugged. Did you see anyone following you?"

She shook her head and gave a single shrug. "No, I didn't see any unmarked vehicles or anything out of the ordinary." Examining her phone log to see that an unfamiliar number beginning with area code 212 called and left a voicemail, Daisy's aghast alto murmured, "Someone tried to call me during … my little joyride with the capo. Hang on while I check this, okay?" Luigi murmured his assent as he put a hand at the small of her back. Pressing the play and speaker keys, they both leaned in to hear a man's recorded voice:

"Hello, Ms. Abravanel? This is Lieutenant Jack O'Hara with the Department for Safety and Security at the United Nations. I wanted to let you know that we found your badge and have it at security. When you come to work tomorrow morning, please stop by the security desk with your New York State ID and pick it up. Thank you."

Her whiskey-colored eyes widened in confusion as she reached into her black leather messenger bag and took out her official UN access badge.