Author's notes: I'm back with another chapter! I hope you enjoy. Updates will come every 2-4 weeks due to work commitments. I just started a new job, so I won't be able to write AS frequently, but rest assured that there will be at least one chapter every month.

Now, I have a game to announce! Well, two games. The deadline to play one or both games is Friday, March 10 at 11:59 p.m. Eastern Time.

Game #1: The Crappiest Movie Ever
Hate a film? Provide the title! The only rule is that the film MUST have been RELEASED prior to June 2014.

Game #2: Waluigi's Party Plans
As we know, Waluigi is a world traveler. Where would he go if given the opportunity? The weirder and more international (with respect to the USA), the better. You may suggest any country EXCEPT for North Korea, Iran, Afghanistan, Iraq, or Mali.

Please read and review!


Chapter 40: The Order of Things

Luigi took the badge from his girlfriend and twisted it back and forth in his hand with care. Handing it back, he seized Daisy by the hand and dragged her into the bedroom. "Okay, pack enough through Yom Kippur, cat-face. We're leaving now. I'll get a hotel for tonight and then," he exhaled raggedly, "I'll drive you to the UN tomorrow. Manhattan be fucking damned." She opened her mouth, presumably to argue, but he put up his hand. "Basta, Daisy. I'm not playin' here. And I won't take no for an answer. You can be pissed with me on the way outta here, but it isn't changing my mind." When she refused to move, the plumber's eyes pleaded with hers. "Per favore, cat-face," he enjoined with a whisper. "For me. Give me peace of mind."

Reluctantly, she set about packing a week's worth of suits and toiletries together as he sat on their bed in search for a hotel room in a safe and unknown part of Brooklyn, Queens, or even Staten Island. Early in the quest, he ruled out telling Giuseppe or Mario about the evening's events; the former had received his third dose of chemotherapy that morning and the latter was still recovering from his three-day bender. No; some things need to be dealt with by one's self, he angrily thought. Luigi booked a moderately-priced hotel near LaGuardia Airport in Flushing, unwilling to risk exposing his lover to unknown Mafia dangers in either their borough or even the City. Once she finished, he threw a change of clothes, toiletries, laptop, dress shoes, and phone charger into his green backpack, grabbed his garment bag, palmed a jewelry box from view, and escorted her out of the building. Checking around for any unmarked vehicles or unknown observers, he guided her to his Suzuki and immediately drove toward the BQE. The drive eastward was silent except for the calm droning of New York Public Radio; aside from mounting hunger, Luigi and Daisy both attempted to contain their worry and distress from the other, each individually processing the afternoon's events. Forty-five minutes later, they were checked into their room, and while she plugged in her laptop and phone, he put in an online order for a vegetable pizza to be delivered to the lobby. Then they lay together on the king-sized bed to wait for dinner; words were unnecessary to convey their fear, love, and resolve. Even over a medium-sized pie with all of Daisy's favorite toppings, they did not say a word, though he made sure to entwine their hands while she nuzzled and kissed him between bites.

The next morning, Luigi rose at 5:45 and, careful to avoid disturbing Daisy, exited the hotel room to drive over to a nearby bagel shop that opened at six. When the worried lioness sent him a "Where are you?" text, he sent her a photo of bagels and cream cheese with a promise to return in ten minutes or less. True to his word, the plumber handed the sleepy, yet grateful woman a cup of halfway decent coffee and a bagel at ten after six. They ate breakfast in near silence before taking a far less quiet shower. By seven o'clock, they were dressed, checked out, and on the expressway toward Manhattan. As they passed Citi Field, Luigi blew a kiss toward the stadium, provoking a dramatic eyeroll from Daisy who sniggered that at least her team had a shot at the playoffs. Their playful bickering over Bumcover screwing the pooch continued through Jackson Heights.

"Sweetie," asked Daisy, changing the subject, "are you okay with taking me to the UN? I can take a taxi …"

"Non-negotiable," he replied matter-of-factly. "I can deal with … being there for fifteen minutes. I'll avoid the Financial District. But I need to know that you're safe. That need overrides my dislike of the place."

She nodded. "Alright. I'm, uh, glad that you're taking me, kerido. I don't know about this thing with the badge."

"Me, neither. On one hand, it seems like Pete was trying to protect you. On the other hand, how the fuck did he know?" Luigi reached out to take her left hand in his right as traffic slowed to a standstill. "Was it some fucked up test?"

"I don't think so," she spoke, squeezing and stroking his hand with her thumb. "He strikes me as the type who needs to be in control. Yesterday was an exception. He was … not exactly afraid. Maybe unnerved?"

Luigi briefly grumbled at the line of cars ahead of him, then answered, "Yeah, he's a capo, so I'd guess that being in control comes with the territory. But whatever it was, you're what they call a 'civilian,' so they committed a huge no-no. Associates or people who otherwise misstep are fair game, but not those who are uninvolved. That's, uh, what Uncle Sal told me."

"Unless they think I'm involved?" queried the woman uneasily.

He faced her, blue eyes filled with alarm. "I don't see how they could! If it goes back to Bowser, that's been handled, and frankly, I don't think they'd want to revisit that incident. Besides that, the only involvement you've had is regarding Lucas. And trust me, cat-face, they dislike him more than you do." The traffic started to move westward again, and he added, "Their only objection is, I think, the fact you're a Brazilian Jew. And right now, it's not a concern. So I have no idea what this is."

"Pete did ask me a lot of questions about my family. The thing is, kerido, I think he already knew." Daisy laughed nervously, "He even wished me a happy Rosh Hashanah. I don't know why he asked me. The whole conversation was … bizarre. But he did express concern about … us."

The plumber shook his head in unvoiced anger. "Apparently, Great Uncle Carlo doesn't want his heir dating a non-Italian. Yeah, well, he's been absent for much of my life, so screw him. As for Pete asking questions that he already knows the answer to? No clue. Maybe to see how you'd answer?"

"Maybe," she murmured watching as the Manhattan skyline came into sight. "As I said, it was bizarre." Then she flashed him an evil grin. "He did shut up when I mentioned that Yael was a master sergeant in the Israeli Army."

For the first time since their playfighting over baseball, Luigi grinned. "Oh, I bet! Mafia meet Yael Massala! Shit, Iwas terrified of her after thirty seconds."

"You do realize that she'll be at seder tonight, right?"

Mouthing fuck and minchia, he muttered, "Yeah, don't remind me. I'm keenly aware of her desire to drown me in the Dead Sea. Or in this case, the fuckin' East River." At her raised eyebrow, he said, "Cat-face, if I die tonight, let it be known that I, Luigi Masciarelli, lived a relatively short, yet privileged life, having spent almost eight months in the arms of my lover, Aphrodite – no, Artemis – and lioness, Daisy Abravanel."

Daisy shrugged with a smirk. "Well, you Italians have one thing in common with us Jews. I've noticed that, ahem, the men live in fear of the women. Giuseppe especially."

Taking the exit for Manhattan, her boyfriend blithely replied, "Well, unlike some, us Masciarelli men know which side of the proverbial piece of bread lies the butter. Joe's been a devotee of Lucia Bianchi's for over thirty years. My nonno – his father – was the childhood sweetheart of my nonna and remained faithful to her for, shit, sixty years? Something like that. And my father … never remarried after thirteen years with my mother."

"And the Rigassis?"

"I have no clue. I think Luigi and Audenzia – my grandparents – were married in '56. My mother was born in '57. He died in '62 or '63. So they weren't married that long. But she never remarried. I'm not exactly sure why – perhaps the Mafia forbade it? I really don't know. But I know next to nothing about my bisnonni, and Salvatore never married. Well, he married the Church, I guess. Speaking of Sal, he did say something odd, though."

As they inched closer to the UN Headquarters and the eastern edge of Murray Hill, she inquired, "Why? What did Salvatore say?"

"He inferred that … he got out of the Mafia in part because of love. He loved someone. But he couldn't be with her because it required complete loyalty."

She nodded again. "Well, ninety-seven percent of people have a first crush or first love. Jewish rabbis are allowed, even required, to marry. Just because he's a Catholic priest doesn't mean he couldn't have fallen in love at some point. Did he give any clues as to her identity?"

"No. He refused to answer me directly," Luigi responded. "I got the sense that … even mentioning her was too painful. And," he appended, "he once hated my father for it. Because Pops got to love Mama and he didn't get … whomever."

"Now that is strange. Why hate your father? Why not hate the Mafia?"

The red car made a right turn onto East 40th Street. "I got the impression that he did hate the Mafia for it. But as for hating Pops? No idea why." A few moments later, the plumber flipped on his left-hand turn signal to maneuver the car into a parking garage.

"Kerido, what are you doing?"

Instead of answering, he drove inside and stopped near the attendant window. The valet came out and collected his keys to park the Suzuki as the attendant handed him a ticket. Green backpack slung over his shoulder, Luigi led Daisy, who brought her roller suitcase, to the sidewalk a few blocks from the United Nations. His hands tremored and his forehead became clammy at the unwelcome Manhattan scene. While he attempted to stifle the budding panic attack, the woman took his hand in hers, squeezing it reassuringly. Sensing that she would need to take charge, she steered them down East 40th Street, across the crosswalk, and to the entrance to the campus. Although he was still on the verge of hyperventilating, the plumber forced his body to move step by step toward the tall, rectangular building. Daisy wrapped her arm protectively around his torso and slowed them down, encouraging him to breathe. Finally, they stopped outside of the security checkpoints.

"Sweetie, are you going to be okay? Can you get back to the parking garage?" she asked against his lips.

Luigi gulped and gave a robotic nod. "Yeah. It's only a few blocks. I … I'll try not to reach for the cigarettes." Through the fog of anxiety, his higher functions reminded him of the jewelry box inside his pocket. His eyes widened and, flashing an index finger, took out the pocket-sized white and blue box. Her mouth opened in surprise, to which he stammered, "Um, I-I-I meant to give this to you last night. Now that … we're in Manhattan, and given last night, it's actually, uh, m-m-more ap-ap-appropriate." She accepted the box and removed the cover. "Um, I found it at an online store based in Jerusalem. Sorry I didn't have time to wrap it."

The woman gasped at the pendant: a small, purple cubic zirconia heart surrounded by twenty-four-carat gold; inside the gem was the Hebrew inscription אֵשֶׁת חַיִל. Brushing her fingers over the gold Hebrew lettering, she inquired, "Sweetie, I … D-Do you know what this means?"

"Yeah, I, uh, I looked it up – it's from Proverbs in the Bible. I mean, you can ignore all the stuff about spinning cloth and insert your studies instead, but when I read it, I thought of you. A woman of valor looks after herself, her beloved, and the family. During the past three weeks, you've done that for my family and me. Uncle Joe's … proud; he'd never admit how much he appreciated you being there. Same with my idiot brother. And as for me, you've been my strength and my courage. It's a thank-you gift from me and my family to you. Te amo sempre, kerido."

She smiled brightly. "Thank you, Luigi. It's beautiful. You, uh, realize that in Sephardic tradition, this is pronounced at a woman's funeral?" At his sudden pallor, she chuckled and stroked his cheek. "Sorry, I'm teasing you. Help me, please?" Unclasping the small chain, the lioness spun to face away from him and provided the two ends to him. With shaking hands, he managed to fasten the necklace after three attempts. She then rasped, "You know that, in Ashkenazi tradition, it's also said while the bride circles her husband seven times at their wedding?"

His reply was to place seven kisses on her neck.


Luigi made it back to the parking garage, paid for thirty minutes, and departed for his Brooklyn shop. He arrived shortly before nine o'clock and, examining the strange influx of tickets in the Bushwick area, did his best to divide up the assignments to the available first- and second-year journeymen. The plumbers, who had already received five to six jobs in Bed-Stuy and Flatbush, expressed their irritation after having covered Mario, José, and Ginsburg over the past couple weeks. The non-confrontational master plumber tried to convey his sympathies until they pushed the issue, after which he growled that if they didn't want the overtime, then he'd gladly give it to the fuckin' apprentices whom he could pay less! Flabbergasted at their new boss's visible anger, the men muttered that they would call their wives to let them know they would be late for dinner. Slamming the door behind him, he rubbed his eyes and griped to whatever higher power above that he didn't need more shit today and set to work on the smart thermostat for the heating and HVAC units.

A few hours later, Luigi heard a firm knock at the door. Swearing underneath his breath at the interruption, he dropped his circuit board and tools and called out, "Yeah, come in."

The door opened to reveal a smiling Lucas, a serious-looking Fat Tony, and an unknown Caucasian male. The first was dressed in his usual plum and beige business wear, the second was wearing steak and eggs on a mustard-yellow button-down shirt and gray pants, and the last looked like many of the plumber's subordinates – black hoodie, blue jeans, and brown boots.

"Yo, Luigi. Come stai? Can we have a minute?" asked Fat Tony in a light tone.

"Bene, grazie. Yeah, sure. Close the door," he replied.

Lucas closed the wooden threshold and turned down the shades to give them extra privacy. Fat Tony took the remaining chair to sit directly across from his second cousin while the unknown man stood respectfully behind the wiseguy. "So, Lou, I'll get right to it," began Tony, "I have a … business proposition that will help us both. This," he gestured to the man, "is Johnny Scapelli. He's a friend of a friend. He just completed class hours at LaGuardia and is looking for an apprenticeship. He can do welding and plumbing. I heard youse are looking for help. I'd appreciate it if you'd take him on … as a personal favor."

Luigi crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow. "I'd love to hire him, Tony, but we're strapped for cash. You know that."

"We'll pay him – Scott and I," interjected Lucas, who was leaning against the wall. "Weeg, you'd be getting him for free."

"Nothing's for free, Lucas," he retorted. Then he turned to address the man directly. "So, Johnny, who were you trained by at LaGuardia? Grades?"

Before he could answer, Tony interrupted in a somewhat irritable tone, "Lou, is this necessary?" Luigi gave him a silent, yet stern look, which beckoned him to excuse the trainee so that they could really talk. The fat wiseguy waived Johnny off with a gesture of his head to wait outside. The man obeyed, walking outside and closing the door behind him.

Once they were left alone in the office, the master plumber considered his words, heeding Sal's and Pete's advice to be a diplomat and avoid insulting a made man. "Tony, I appreciate the help. Truly. However, I am concerned about his background. Firstly, if he was trained by Slaughter, then he may be privy to union politics. Secondly, if he's not union, then I'll have a problem as a leader. Thirdly, because we're so strapped for time, we can't have a guy who doesn't know what he's doing or isn't prepared for six or more tickets in a day."

Leaning back in the chair and causing an audible crack, which he furiously checked to find that the flimsy furniture was intact, Tony shrugged, giving an open-handed gesture. "All reasonable. I know that," he smirked, "you might be thinkin' about those fuckin' Slavic dickheads. I'll admit it; that was me fuckin' with Mario. But that has nothing to do with you and me." The man's smirk instantly changed into a serious expression. "This guy's legit. He's union; he's in his third year of apprenticeship – top of his class last year. We'll send you his file."

"So if he's at the top of his class, then why does he need you to get him a job?"

"Because Slaughter played the same chickenshit games with him as he did youse – you, Mario, and Giuseppe. He's been workin' in my friend's pizza shop in Astoria. He's a good kid – works like an old paesano and doesn't mouth off. You need him and he needs hours to complete his apprenticeship."

Luigi nodded, deliberating over his lack of options. "Alright, as long as you're paying him, it's a no-lose situation for me. But I will put him under supervision. Normally, we give autonomy to more advanced apprentices; however, I want to make sure that he can handle the workload and do a good job. If we hire someone who's a shrinking violet, then we lose money."

Tony shrugged again and responded, "Bene. I think you'll find that he's no fuckin' pussy. But if, on the off-chance, he mouths off, you call me, huh?" He slapped Luigi on the shoulder. Lucas opened the door to let the young man back into the office. "Yo, Johnny, it's a deal. You can start right now. Don't embarrass me," he warned, pointing at him.

"N-no, of course not, Tony," Johnny stuttered.

From his office, the mustachioed manager waived over Felipe, one of the journeymen who had the most tickets and were among the group of complainers, and informed him that he would have assistance from a new apprentice. The Mexican, who had spent the better part of ten minutes cussing out his maricón of a jefe in the men's room, softened at receiving the newest fresh bitch. Following their departure, Luigi faced his second cousin and Lucas. "Thank you," he said genuinely.

"Forgetaboutit, huh?" Tony rose from his chair and smacked the plumber on the arm. "That's all I got. Now, I got lunch with some friends. Let me know how Johnny does." Nodding briefly at them, he waddled out of Luigi's office, leaving a smiling Lucas, who closed the door behind him.

"Okay, that should get you a bit more reprieve. Once you start earning, you can hire an assistant, and we can focus on our projects," announced the man in purple.

"And why the fuck would I want to work with you again?" demanded Luigi, re-crossing his arms.

"Uh, because I'm your best buddy, and you're currently surrounded by plungers for brains?"

"At least they're loyal and don't try to strand me in Mexico! Or are dicks to my girlfriend!" he bit back.

"Hey, I'm trying to apologize!" yelled Lucas. "The plumber hire was my idea! Fat Tony doesn't give a shit as long as he gets paid! But I couldn't just … give Scapelli to you, not without their say-so!" At his friend's skeptical eyebrow raise, he nodded emphatically. "It's true. I know," he exhaled, "I know I've been a shitty friend. Hell, you're my only friend. I'll … deal with Daisy if it means keeping you as my bestie."

"And what the fuck was that shit with my Uncle Sal?"

Lucas paused. He was unprepared for that particular query. On the way from Manhattan, he had rehearsed a sample list of potential questions to which he could easily tell eighty-percent-truths, half-truths, sugar-coated fibs, or outright lies: where had he gone after his visit to Bensonhurst; where did he find Johnny Scapelli; what were his plans for the SCADA project; where were they going next. However, he had not counted on Luigi asking about the fucking Pretending Priest. "I don't like clergy, Weeg. You know that," he finally answered.

"And you couldn't even have been civil?!"

"Weegie, look," he went to sit down in the unoccupied chair, praying that it would not break from being punished by Tony's rotund ass. "I live to insult priests, preachers, rabbis, imams, and patriarchs. They're repressed, hypocritical ass-fucks who deserve a red-hot poker up the ass. But your uncle Salvatore's more than he seems. I'd probably like him, except that he hates me."

Luigi laughed aloud, feigning ignorance. "Lucas, he's a Catholic priest! He likes everyone."

"No, he doesn't. But if I ever come across him again, and I really hope I don't, I'll be nice." The plumber stared at him blankly. "I swear," he insisted, making an X over his heart with his right index finger. "Anyway, let me take you to lunch. There's this great little Middle Eastern café nearby. Very tasty falafel. Plus," he grinned, "I want to show you something."

Learn the relationships, the politics, echoed Salvatore's voice. Inasmuch as he wanted to tell Lucas to fuck off, Luigi needed to find out the backstory of one Johnny Scapelli, whom he absolutely believed was either a mafioso or working for Big Jackass's interests, as well as what had rattled Pete Morello. He could feel his brother's prospective angry words, enjoining him not to play ball with those fuckin' pricks; he could hear Giuseppe's threats to murder Cousin Pete, cancer or no; yet the plumber could not ignore the consensus among the neighborhood mafiosi – Pete, Salvatore, Tony, and even Lucas – that money and caution would save the shop, Daisy, and the Masciarellis. Decision made, he rolled his eyes at Lucas so as not to appear too eager and arouse his suspicion.

"C'mon," cajoled the Manhattanite while taking Luigi's right hand and, like a limp doll, pulling him out of his seat.

Within ten minutes, Lucas's BMW parked in front of a massive concrete and glass, multi-story building. Jumping out and rubbing his hands together, the tall man gleefully encouraged the weary plumber to follow him inside. He entered the main entrance and, waiving gingerly to the security desk, strolled straight to the elevators. Once they were both inside, Lucas pressed the "7" button and began to whistle and waggle his eyebrows. A second later, he and Luigi disembarked to an empty, fifteen-thousand-square-foot modern office space. The plumber spun on his heel to gaze out of the bird's-eye view of downtown Brooklyn.

Lucas's voice interrupted the speechless man's exploration of the space. "Nice, huh? This will be our start up. It's bought and paid for, and I've ordered the tech and office furniture. We need to put in a few cubicles to divvy up the space and put in a few extra toilets to be up to city code. Your shop will, of course, do that part. Once we have the space ready, we'll begin the hiring process. I'm guessing a month, maybe a month and a half tops. Once Scapelli's onboarded, we'll figure out how you can divide your time between the start-up and the shop."

Luigi stared at his beaming frenemy. "Lucas, my shop can't do the toilets; it'd be a conflict of interest. It'd be different if I were just doing a contract for a friend who threw me some business. It's done all the time. But if I'm your business partner, then it's a no-no, even if I were consulting. It's against union rules, for one, and very likely against city regulations. I could lose my license."

His smile immediately morphed into a thoughtful frown. "Oh. Well, that is a problem. Alright, no problemo. Can you make a recommendation? You know – safe, but on the cheap?"

"Yeah," he shrugged. "I can do that. I know a few guys in Queens who could do it."

"Bueno! Then it's settled," said the man in purple. "So I've drafted a business plan; I'll send you a copy by end of business week. We have a starting capital of ten million. I'm hoping to add another five to ten mil from a couple guys I know in Greece, Prague, and Singapore." Suddenly, he put his right arm around Luigi's shoulders and gestured with his left, "Picture it, my dude: early November in Greece! We'll be eating souvlaki and fresh fish in sixty, seventy-degree weather. Then December and beer in fucking Prague!"

"I thought we weren't travelling until the spring?!" cried the plumber in dismay.

Lucas signaled with both hands to calm down. "What is it the Italians say? Basta, man? It's just a few week-long trips in Europe. We can take Daisy with us; she doesn't speak Greek, Czech, or German, but she'll nevertheless enjoy the trip, especially to Athens. Then you'll be back for a boring Thanksgiving with Joe the Plumber." He emphasized the latter statement with a visible and audible yawn.

He sighed and pinched his Roman nose. "Lucas, she can't go. For one thing, she's working at the UN. It's a very cushy job that'll help her with law school. I think some of her law school interviews might start in December, too. Certainly in January. The second thing is that her family's … watching."

The Manhattanite frowned in confusion. "Why the fuck do her parents care? If she's making grades and gets into a top law school, I can't imagine …" His eyes swiftly widened. "They don't like you, is that it?" Luigi remained silent, though his blue eyes shifted ever so slightly, which caused Lucas to nod. "Uh-huh, that's it. Did you tell them that you're a techie, that you fucking run a multimillion-dollar plumbing shop?"

"Yeah. They don't care."

"Why …? Why wouldn't they care? Wait, what?!" exclaimed Lucas, shaking his head as he paced. Then he stopped and stared at him. "Deadass?" At his friend's reticence, he spoke, "Jesus. Even at Harvard, if the guy wasn't a Boston Brahmin or a fucking trust fund baby, if he owned a multimillion-dollar business, then he could fuck the daughter. You know, receiving the official Fornication Under Consent of the King. The only case I could think of when that didn't happen – and I admit nothing, by the way – is if the girl was Chinese, Indian, Arab, or Jewish. Any of those groups? Fucking forget it. There were exceptions, but every white guy on campus knew there would be family drama with those four ethnicities."

And she's all of the above, thought Luigi with a mixture of amusement and sorrow.

"Huh," concluded his frenemy. "I didn't know Brazilians were like that, too. I thought with the Portuguese fucking the Amazon tribes as well as the Italians, slaves, and Japanese that they were past that." Still shaking his head, he added, "Alright. I'll come up with something. I know you won't go without either her or her … express permission. I'd call it something else, but I won't piss you off today."

"Yeah, please don't," deadpanned the plumber.

"Like I said, give me a few weeks, and I'll come up with a master plan to get her folks off your back. As for the UN, eh, I'd say good riddance. On paper, they look prestigious; in reality, they're about as useful as a giving a handjob to a cow. However, she probably won't agree, so I'll let her figure out how to schmooze them." He put a hand on Luigi's shoulder. "But I need you with me in Europe. I'll send you the flight details so that you can discuss it with Daisy. Regrettably, we'll be flying commercial - first-class, though. If she's coming, you'll need to let me know by early October. So, like, two weeks?"

"Sure," he replied.

"Bueno. Now time for lunch!"


The master plumber's head bobbed up and down rhythmically to Macklemore's "Thrift Shop." His hands fitted and connected different color wires into his Arduino Nano board, his eyes ever so briefly glancing at a piece of drafting paper with a rough schematic of his smart thermostat. Having decided to postpone advanced security measures until he had designed the functioning hardware, Luigi would test the first prototype on Daisy's HVAC device over the course of a month or two. This was the enjoyable aspect of his position as the manager of a plumbing shop; as the head engineer, he could create his own projects and invent anything from a new utility wrench to a smart thermostat. Fiddling with his circuit relaxed him, particularly following the rather irritating lunch, during which Lucas yammered on about his favorite topic – himself – and his grandiose fantasies of start-up riches from the East Coast SCADA market. Whereas the Manhattanite's ego gravitated toward big projects that would be problematic to fund, Luigi's own observations pulled him in an entirely different direction, that of common household devices and the Internet of Things. Plumbers, construction workers, and civil engineers tended toward the conservative and eschewed anything that would reinvent the wheel. However, if they saw the utility in small changes, then they would accept, albeit grudgingly, the big.

Downing the last of his freshly-prepared coffee, Luigi then stretched his arms and legs at his metal desk. He glanced at the analogue clock on the opposite wall – 5:05 p.m. While he was at lunch, he had received two encrypted texts from Daisy. The first contained both the address of her parents' rental in Williamsburg and a request for him to arrive for dinner at 6:30. The second gave a brief overview of what had occurred at the UN security desk; upon presenting her original badge, she endured an hour-long interrogation over the counterfeit pass and anyone who could have and wanted to impersonate her. After establishing a clear timeline of non-involvement, along with her boss personally vouching for her, the head of security checked the surveillance cameras to see who had used the forged document. A young ginger-haired woman, whom neither she nor the manager recognized, flashed it at the newbie guard to enter more sensitive areas of the building, yet did not access confidential reports or stay for long. Strangely, she intentionally dropped the badge as she exited the premises. Security filed a report with the local precinct as well as with the FBI; Daisy was cleared of any wrongdoing and invited to resume her duties. Although she did not specifically say so, Luigi knew she was unnerved by the unknown woman's deliberate act of harassment. He was, too; given Pete Morello's sudden and auspicious appearance, he could only conclude that the woman was somehow involved with the Mafia. Texting Miles about Lucas's new "SCADA Genius Bar" and Daisy's mysterious doppelganger, he hoped that his friend could acquire information to neutralize the unidentified threat.

"Scusa tanto, Dottore," exclaimed a falsetto voice from the other side of Luigi's office door, "dov'è il cesso? Mi è veneto la cacarella!"

Rolling his eyes at his brother's antics, the man replied, "Ey, porco, chiedi a qualcuno di accompagnarti allo Yankees Stadium!"

The doorknob twisted, then opened to reveal a tired-looking Mario in the threshold. "I wouldn't sit my fine Brooklyn ass on one of their shitters. They spent all their money on shitty players and not on their ass-old pipes."

"How ya feeling?" asked Luigi seriously.

Shutting the door behind him, the older plumber shrugged. "Can't complain; Peaches's been feeding me all the risotto, bigoli, and tiramisu that I can eat." He sat down in the chair across from the lanky man and added quietly, "I … I've been dealing. Even if I don't want to. She … knows some of it. I'm not ready yet to talk about that day to her. I don't know if I ever will. But as she says, it's a start, y'know. Maimonides gave me a list of, uh, shrinks that aren't affiliated with the military. Peach made me schedule an appointment as a condition of my release."

He nodded. "I guess I'm lucky in a way. I still don't remember. My therapist thinks that I eventually will. Frankly, I'm not looking forward to that day."

"Yeah." Mario's eyes became misty, and he blinked several times to regain control of his emotions. Changing the subject, he spoke again, "Anyway, I was thinking we could grab some dinner, y'know? Just the two a' us? Peach has a surgery and is on rotation."

Luigi winced apologetically. "Shit, can we take a raincheck for tomorrow? Tonight's Rosh Hashanah, and I'm meeting Daisy's parents tonight for the seder."

"Oh. I guess that is tonight. Sure, don't worry about it." His voice abruptly fell to just above a whisper, "It's gettin' serious if you're meeting her parents."

"Yeah. They, uh," he muttered sheepishly, "aren't my biggest fans. I'm not Jewish. So I'm trying to make the best impression that I can, knowing full well that it may be … a long shot."

"Depends on how observant they are," the older brother responded. "But no, they're not fond of non-Jews datin' their daughters or sons." Sighing, he put a hand on Luigi's shoulder. "The only opinion that matters is the Sfacciata's."

He flashed him a tight, though grateful smile. "Speaking of opinions, I wanted to get your take on … someone. You gotta keep this between us. This morning, I, uh, got a new hire." Mario's eyes widened, yet he remained quiet, waiting for more information. "Normally, I wouldn't have hired anyone, as we can't afford it. However, Fat Tony and Lucas Kariolis came by and offered to pay the guy's hourly if I took him. I sent him out with Felipe, and they seemed to get along fine."

"Weegie, you can't be serious! Remember Fat Tony's goons? Y'know, Dumb and Dumber?!"

He held up a hand. "Yeah, Mario, I know that! That's why I want to know who the fuck this guy is! Do you know the name 'Johnny Scapelli'?" Watching the red-hoodied man mentally search his memories for any mention of Scapelli, Luigi was filled with dread as, after a moment, his eyes expanded in recognition.

"I know the last name. Bowser let it slip once or twice that the Moranos had some dealings up in Queens involving a construction company. I don't know if they pay pizzo, are active associates, or are made guys. But the owner, Anthony Scapelli, is a real piece of shit; fucker magically gets residential contracts and, like Scott the Shitbucket, uses subpar materials to build the most uninhabitable shitholes for Manhattan prices. Pops would've blown a gasket at the shit they claim is up to fire code."

"Fuck!" swore the master plumber underneath his breath. "I knew it was too good to be true. Then again, I could've ended up in a landfill if I didn't accept." He rubbed his face and mustache with his palm. "Well, I guess we just gotta be careful where we send him."

"Put me with him. I'll go to Queens or wherever."

He shook his head. "No, Mario. You're not well enough yet. Besides, I've already made the schedule for the next week. If I suddenly change it, and Scapelli's a plant for Fat Tony or Big Jackass, they'll know something's up. I'll put you with him once he feels safe and lets his guard down."

"Goddamnit, Weegie!" he cried while balling his fists. "I'm no fuckin' invalid! Yeah, I had a rough couple of weeks! But that don't mean that I ain't up to it! Fat Tony and Lucas Kariolis showin' up, then Pete-fuckin'-Morello and Big Jackass a few weeks back? Yeah, that ain't by accident. I'm … I don't like this. They're tryin' to get you to join their chickenshit club."

"I know, Mario!" replied Luigi irritably, his blue eyes flashing like lightning. "I'm not six anymore! And yeah, I'm fully aware of Pete Morello wanting me to be," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "a made man. Our entire mother's side is made, fratello. For centuries! They would've preferred someone like you, but they're stuck with me. I don't want to be that, and you know it! Pops knew it! Uncle Sal knew it! And as for Uncle Joe … Well, he has his own investment. It's up to me 'cause they aren't going to tell you shit!" He took a deep breath, as Dr. Czernin had taught him, to control the whirl of emotions ebbing inside. "I know you hate that. But you gotta let me take the lead. That's the only way."

The red-hoodied plumber growled, yet did not immediately retort, which would have been typical for past arguments with his younger brother. As much as he hated to admit it, he saw Luigi's logic; as his conversation with Salvatore had shown him, they would not say anything to a civilian. They would, however, say certain things to his fratellino as an associate. That being said, Luigi and Peach were his only remaining nuclear family, his parents having died of tragic circumstances that he failed to prevent. As a near teenager, Mario watched his once energetic and creative mother slowly become bedridden and waste anyway from the tumors overwhelming her body; as a young adult, he breathed in asbestos, concrete, and fine particles of glass and sifted through misshapen metal, fire, and human remains only to find nothing. He and Luigi were a package deal. "Weegie, I … I need to protect you. Askin' me to stand by on the sidelines is like askin' me not to breathe. Per favore. Give me something!"

Luigi gave him a blank stare, mostly due to shock. His Brooklyn Asshole of an older brother, who had embraced the old-world mantra that men did not share their feelings, openly expressed both his anxiety and emotional needs. He cleared his throat to regain his composure and murmured, "Yeah, okay. Um, give me two weeks to change the schedule to avoid suspicion. I don't want to put you in harm's way, either. As for right now?" The green-hoodied plumber paused to weigh his options. He could tell Mario neither about the incident at the United Nations nor Pete Morello's sudden appearance, as the latter would confront the Mafia and cause a major conflict; however, if he did not give him something, the latter would, like a bored seven-year-old, invent his own quest. "For now, I'll assign you a few tickets in the Bensonhurst and Bay Ridge areas. A few, just so no one's the wiser. I want to know what Fat Tony's up to – discreetly. Don't go to Bowser's and don't fucking go to Tony directly. No cage fighting, either. We can't risk them knowing."

"That's it?" barked Mario. "You want me to spy on fuckin' Fat Tony?"

"Yes," confirmed his brother-boss with a smirk. "You're Special Forces. Don't youse do recon as a specialty? You know – atypical warfare and shit?"

"Well, yeah."

"Aight then. Plus, we need to have a sense of how to play Scapelli. If they are made, and you confront them, then they'll do something to the shop. To us, fratello."

Mario exhaled dramatically. "Okay, Weegie, we'll play it your way. I won't do anything except recon. But at the first sign of trouble, I will intervene. I don't give a shit – Tony can get fucked in the ass by a penguin." Luigi opened his mouth to protest, yet he shook his head to silence him. "No, fratellino, I mean it. You and Peach are everything to me. Everything. We'll see about the Sfacciata, though I wouldn't be opposed to beatin' Mafia ass if they come near her."

"Fine," conceded Luigi. "Although I don't know why you had to involve the poor penguins."

"'Ey, it's not my fault that Tony can't handle his beer at fuckin' Islanders-Penguin games! Still remember the brawl at Uniondale three years ago."

The younger brother crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, mustache twitching at the same time. "And how would you know that? I thought you were a Rangers fan?"

Rolling his eyes, the red-hoodied plumber answered in a defensive tone, "Tony and Bowser dragged me to the game. Better the Long Island shits over the Penguin fuckheads or the New Jersey Dipshits." He watched Luigi scoff, then he gestured toward his brother's desk, "Where's your bougee coffee pot that makes that equally bougee shit?"

"It is not a coffee pot!" he insisted, pointing at Mario with his index finger. "It is a French press! At just the right temperature, it makes a perfectly smooth cup of coffee."

"Yeah, bougee. So where's it at?"

"Why?"

"'Cause I haven't had my third cup yet."

"Well, there's a coffee shop a couple blocks away – vai!"

Humming briefly, Mario's eyes began scanning his brother's desk. "Yeah, well, I don't want to spend three bucks on lukewarm swill." Before Luigi could reply or otherwise react, his older brother sat on his lap, used his strong core muscles to pivot the swivel chair toward the desk surface, and snatched the large French press which, much to his delight, contained still hot coffee. As he pushed his ass firmly against his squirming and swearing fratellino, Mario plucked one of the recyclable cups from the neat stack in the corner and filled it with the black liquid. His eyes began to search once more for a sugar packet. "Jesus, Weegie, where's the fuckin' sugar?" he complained.

"This isn't a coffee bar, and I'm not your barista, asshole!" retorted Luigi while wriggling under his brother's jeans-covered asscheeks.

"It is now!" chuckled the older plumber as he took a sip, pretending to pay no mind at the man beneath him. "Hmm, yeah, this isn't bad. It ain't Illy, but it isn't Bizarrefucks. Their coffee tastes like acid crap. Last time I was there, a grande roast or whatever the hell it was gave me heartburn for a goddamned day!"

"Sorry to hear that, but I got to get a move on – Daisy's parents are expecting me by 6:30. I need to change and leave soon."

"Where are they?" At his brother's stubborn silence, he pushed his ass down to pin him to the seat. "I'm not moving until you tell me. I got your bougee pot – sorry, French press – and a cup. I can keep this shit up past sundown."

"Ti odio!" Luigi growled. "Muovi il tuo culo!"

Mario shrugged with a smirk. "Haters gonna hate! And don't spill my coffee."

"Fine, you fucking dick! They rented a place in Williamsburg. Never been, but I need to get my ass there on time. Happy now?"

"Bene." Coffee in hand, he stood up, releasing his brother from the Posterior Prison. The latter also rose and, checking his watch, grabbed his garment bag to change in the men's room. Mario sank into the empty swivel chair, sipping his coffee as he examined the circuit boards and wires strewn across the desktop. "What the fuck's he building?" he asked aloud to the deserted office. Continuing to poke gingerly at the project, he failed to notice a young man approach the open door; upon spotting the portly plumber in their boss's chair, he stopped shy of the threshold and knocked on the wood. Mario's blue eyes darted to the slender, clean-shaven man in his early twenties.

"Uh, I'm looking for the boss," he stated uncertainly. "Is he around?"

The journeyman took another sip of his coffee. Johnny Fucking Scapelli, I presume. "Yeah, he'll be back in a few."

"Oh." He pinched and rubbed his nose, then faced Mario once more. "Hey, you're Mario, right? Boss's brother?"

Affixing a fake smile, Mario nodded. "Yeah. And you are … ?"

The man offered his hand. "Johnny Scapelli. I'm the boss's new apprentice."

"Scapelli," replied the older plumber, pretending to search his memory. "Do I know that name?"

"Yeah. My uncle owns a construction company in Queens. Anthony Scapelli."

At that moment, a grey-suited Luigi emerged in the doorway. "Johnny, what you need? I'm about to head out of the office."

Johnny spun to face his boss, whom he noticed had changed from plumbing clothes to business formal attire, sans tie. "Uh, yeah. Felipe and I cleared our tickets. He told me to come back to handle the clock and paperwork." Gesturing to Mario, he added, "I also met your brother."

Mario and Luigi exchanged a brief look, after which the latter nodded slightly. "Uh, yeah, we'll handle the paperwork and formalities tomorrow. Come by the office at eight; it shouldn't take long. You'll work with Felipe for a few weeks; he's a journeyman, so he'll be supervising you. His shift starts at nine, so meet him at his truck out front. Aight?"

"Yeah, sure, boss," he obediently responded. "I, uh, wanted to thank you for the opportunity. The work's good, better than the pizza shop. I won't disappoint you."

Luigi flashed him a tight smile. "No problem. Just, you know, work hard and don't fuck up." He stepped around Johnny and quickly began to gather his things. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I got a dinner date tonight. I'll see youse tomorrow."

"Enjoy dinner, fratellino," interrupted Mario, who rose from Luigi's swivel chair and set the French press on the desk. "Yo, Johnny, you got a ride back home?"

The younger man sheepishly shook his head. "Nah, I was planning to take the F Line to Sunnyside."

"My girlfriend's workin' tonight, so why don't we get some dinner? I can either give you a lift to Sunnyside or drop you in Midtown. It's on the way," offered Mario with a grin. Luigi flashed a warning glare at his brother – Just recon, asshole, remember?!

"Ah, nah, Mario. Thanks, but I don't wanna put you out."

"It's no problem, really. I know this great Szechwan place – you like spicy, right?"

Johnny shrugged nonchalantly to feign a lack of excitement. "Yeah, y'know, it's aight."

"Yeah?" He looked up at the hesitant Luigi and smirked. "Aight, let's leave Luigi to go to his … date." The younger brother rolled his eyes and zipped up his backpack. "C'mon," he guided the new apprentice from the office threshold toward the exit. As Luigi watched them, Mario gave a wink and a thumbs-up behind Johnny's back. Growling at the thought of his brother eating dinner with a Scapelli, he ultimately decided that making nice with his lioness's stern Jewish parents was a higher priority than worrying about the expectantly idiotic antics of one Mario Masciarelli. Hitting the light switch, turning down the blinds, and locking the office, he darted to his car to drive through the traffic-congested Brooklyn streets.


Luigi released a litany of Sicilian, Italian, and English curses as he parallel-parked near the collection of red brick and black trim condos. After circling for a good five minutes to find a parking space that would not get him a ticket from New York's Finest, he managed to nudge his car into the narrow plot that was made narrower from some jackass finance analyst's black, gas-slurping monstrosity of a SUV. Checking his watch, he hissed in annoyance at being ten minutes late. He prayed that her parents were more Brazilian than American and would forgive ten minutes which, in many countries, including Italy, was at least ten to fifteen minutes early. Not wanting to chance offending them, he ran into the building; reaching the elevator, his palms began to sweat as he nervously pushed the up-arrow button. After what seemed like an additional ten minutes, he dashed inside and pressed the "8" button. At the last second, an older woman and her leashed Pomeranian stepped into the elevator and pressed the "3," causing Luigi to curse silently in his head. Despite the building having been erected within the last two years, the lift moved at a rate comparable to Bermuda grass growing. Once it stopped at the third floor, the woman took several seconds to coo over her barking dog, which Mario would no doubt have labeled furry rat and good eats. Luigi tapped his Italian leather-covered toe and glared at her. She harrumphed and voiced her offense in an Alabama-lilted dialect. Finally, the plumber arrived at the Abravanels' floor; having been turned around in the labyrinth of lofts, he ended up circling back twice to find door 846, which revealed a stern-looking Yael Massala in maroon slacks, white dress shirt, and a gold, maroon, and black silk scarf tied around her hair.

"L'shana tovah. You are late," she stated in a brusque tone.

"L'sh-sh-shana tovah," faltered the plumber. "I'm s-s-sorry. I just hired a new trainee at my shop. It caused me to leave a few minutes later than I normally would've. Then traffic and parking were a …" She raised her eyebrow at the expected obscenity, "… problematic," he instantly corrected himself.

"Yael, just let the ijit inside!" called out a Boston-accented male voice. She faced the Italian cowering in the hallway, then reluctantly stepped aside to let him into the loft. Luigi's eyes widened at the two-story modern apartment which undoubtedly cost them a small fortune to rent: the white walls contrasted with the vibrantly colored Swedish furniture; the kitchen contained a professional island, marble paneling, expertly-fitted gray cabinets, and a double refrigerator; the wall-sized windows provided a panoramic view of sunset descending upon Brooklyn and Lower Manhattan. He smelled a variety of spices and vegetables as Yael stiffly led him past the large kitchen to the eight-person dining room table where the spectacled Harry Abravanel sat at the head of the table next to his grinning daughter. Though he was anxious upon seeing her unsympathetic father, Luigi's blue eyes twinkled at Daisy.

"Hneh ha-biryon," she groused in Hebrew. Here's the thug. Daisy's eyes contracted angrily while Harry put up his hand in a noiseless request to stop. Glaring at her husband and step-daughter, she retreated into the kitchen to check on the main course.

Rising from her chair, the lioness gave the tremoring man a warm hug, which he returned, and pecked him on the lips. "Anuyada buena, dulse i allegre, kerido," she whispered.

Luigi glanced at the seated man, who seemed less than pleased with his daughter's public display of affection, and responded to both father and daughter, "L'shana tovah tikatevu."

Harry gave a single nod and, as Daisy brought the Italian's forehead to hers, spoke, "So, ijit, long day at work?"

Daisy rolled his eyes at her father's blatant insult and guided her lover to a seat next to hers. "Uh, y-y-yes. I'm sorry I was late; I hired the f-f-first apprentice in a couple years. Paperwork and scheduling to take care of at the last minute."

The lawyer ordered his daughter in Judeo-Spanish to help her stepmother. Daisy again rolled her eyes, yet obeyed, putting a reassuring hand on her boyfriend's shoulder as she passed the table to the kitchen. The older man, whom Luigi noted was wearing black slacks and a gray button-down and seemed exhausted from a relatively short workday of six or eight hours, glanced down at his empty plate as if he were organizing a mental list of questions to him. "How did you become the manager of, I'm assuming, a mid-size shop? You're twenty-eight; that's a little young, yeah? Most plumbers I knew in Boston were in their thirties or forties."

"Um, y-yes, sir. I just took over in August, actually. Normally, you're right that most plumbers don't go into business for themselves or become masters until their thirties or even forties – especially in New York. But I … I started my training with my Uncle Joe – Joe Masciarelli – when I was sixteen. After my father's … passing, I went to live with my Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucia in Staten Island. He thought that teaching me a trade would be useful. The union unofficially included that time with my five-year apprenticeship. Technically, you have to be fully employed for seven years before you become eligible to take the test. I was asked by my boss – the former manager – to take the test, as I was the most senior plumber." At the man's raised eyebrow, Luigi added, "The test's run by the New York City Department of Buildings, so it's, uh, independent of the union. I, uh, almost resigned."

He blinked a few times, visibly surprised by his confession. "What changed your mind? As I understand it, a master plumber's union rate is very good."

The plumber slouched in his seat and briefly looked up to the ceiling, mentally choosing the best response to his girlfriend's father. Inwardly, he rolled his eyes at Yoshi's snickers that job-hunting was like dating and dating was like job-hunting. "I was asked to stay and try to turn the shop around. There are a lot of guys – my older brother, Mario, José, Ginsburg, Felipe – who are decent and hardworking. Yeah, they might get a job elsewhere in the city, but more people are circumventing the union protections for hiring cheaper, albeit unskilled labor. Whatever people might think of union guys – lazy, don't finish jobs when they want 'em – most do a good job and keep structures safe." He smiled a little. "Like my brother, Mario, and my uncle, Joe. Mario's still a journeyman 'cause he went to serve his country. I think, though, he'd rather do something else. But he, with my uncle Joe, are the best in the business. I've seen him fix botched plumbing jobs in entire residential blocks within a few hours."

Before Harry could inquire further, Yael and Daisy brought out several plates of fenugreek, leeks, chard, pumpkin, pomegranate, quince, dates, and a roasted head of cauliflower, arranging them in a certain order right to left in front of him. The older woman retreated straightaway to the kitchen island to retrieve the injera, circular challah bread, and kosher wine. Luigi darted out of his chair to help, but Harry used his right hand to indicate that he should remain seated. "We should all wash our hands prior to supper. Once finished, miha, could you get the ijit a kippa, please?" Daisy opened her mouth to protest the insult, to which her father threw her a stern, silencing look. Yael led her angry stepdaughter to one end of the house, presumably to clean their hands, while Harry rose from the table and escorted a dazed Luigi to a bathroom; the latter copied the older man who methodically scrubbed his hands and fingernails. Since he was already fastidious about his hygiene, the plumber had little to clean, which seemed to please Harry. They returned to the dining room table where Daisy was waiting with a white satin kippa and a few bobby pins. He grinned at the now relieved woman as she placed and pinned it atop his head. Her amber eyes twinkled, and their hands briefly intertwined. Tudo bem, meu querido, they thought to each other. He pulled the chair out for her to sit, then he followed suit, hand stroking her shoulder for a second. Finally, Yael took her position at her husband's side and across from Daisy and Luigi as Harry rose from his chair and began to recite the Shehecheyanu, Kiddush, and the prayer to break bread. The two young lovers' exchanged smiles over the bites of the challah and injera and sips of the sweet, kosher wine. Daisy's eyes flickered to Luigi's lips, and she momentarily fantasized about the first kiss of the year. Yael scowled at her stepdaughter to behave during the seder; the latter gave her an unrepentant look.

" … Yehi ratzon milfanecha Adonai eloheinu v'elohei avoteinu, she'yistalku oyveinu v'soneinu v'kol m'vakshei ra'ateinu," recited Harry while the remaining three tasted the spiced and somewhat bitter chard.

May it be Your will, our L-rd G-d and G-d of our ancestors, that our enemies, haters, and those who wish evil upon us shall depart.

Luigi and Daisy traded a knowing gaze, and their mutual thoughts drowned out the following prayers over the pomegranate, dates, quince, and vegetarian cauliflower head to represent the head, the beginning – rosh – of the new year. After chewing on the tart fruit, the sweet medjool, syrupy quince, and spiced vegetable, their hands tangled once more, with the plumber giving his girlfriend a meaningful glance that he would never let their enemies – Lucas, Pete Morello, the Bowsers, and the Mafia near her. The subtle pledge did not go unobserved by either Yael or Harry, though the former deferred to her husband whom she knew would address it at the appropriate time. Prayers concluded, they fell into an awkward silence to eat the seder signs as well as the main course items – leek and spinach croquettes, black-eyed pea stew, and pumpkin borekas.

"So, ijit, let's resume our conversation. Do you intend on returning to school? It would be a pity to let those eight weeks at Stanford go to waste," said Harry as he cut up one of the croquettes on his plate. The lioness delivered a warning growl, yet he ignored it and awaited the plumber's reply.

The young man began to feel a bit of irritation at Harry's continued insults. "At some point," he answered between bites of the pumpkin boreka. "The union will pay for a bachelor's degree at any institution in the tri-state area. Once things settle down at the shop, then yeah, I'd like to go back to school and get my engineering degree. Probably next year."

Between dainty mouthfuls of the black-eyed pea stew and injera, Yael interjected, "Where do you plan to study? If you're running a shop, I can't imagine that you would have the time to attend university outside of Brooklyn."

"I, uh, don't know yet, to be honest. NYU, probably." He tried to smile. "So, uh, you're lawyers, right? How's the law in California?"

"We're asking the questions," the older woman bit out tersely. "And what of your family? Your parents are deceased. So what of aunts and uncles? Cousins?"

"Madrasta, dahye!" hissed the auburn-haired woman. However, Yael regarded the now visibly alarmed Luigi. Harry did not intervene and, like his wife, waited expectantly for the man's reply.

"Nah, Daisy, it's alright," he whispered, holding up part of his hand to calm her. He took a deep breath to remain calm and civil, reminding himself that leaving them with a favorable impression was important. "I have three uncles, ma'am. Giuseppe – Joe in English – who raised me after my father passed. He and his wife, my Aunt Lucia, have been married for thirty years and have been in Mario's and my life since … Well, since I can remember. They're my surrogate parents. Daisy here has met both. They have three daughters who are like my sisters. Aunt Maria – my father's and Joe's sister – is married to my Uncle Tony. They got three kids, too, and live in Jersey. My maternal uncle, Salvatore, whom Daisy's also met, is a priest."

"You're a practicing Catholic?" she inquired, taking a smaller piece of the injera. "And does your … maternal side have a history of priests? In our culture, rabbis are usually father and son."

Luigi stopped mid-chew and considered his response. Did they know about Pete, Carlo, and the rest of that side? Opting to tell a partial truth, he shrugged. "I honestly don't know. That side was more … religious than the Masciarelli side. My father and grandfather were nominal Catholics. Joe's practicing, but he never forced me to attend mass. I don't know a lot about the Rigassi side. I never knew my maternal grandparents. My mother died when I was three. Father Sal – Salvatore – was in and out of my life. I didn't even know that he was my mother's younger brother until I was nine, maybe ten? He was introduced to me as the school psychologist at my elementary school. As for me … I'm Catholic at Christmas, Easter, and when I'm using profanities."

Daisy chuckled, pretending to ignore Harry and Yael's incredulous looks. "And you don't have family in Italy?" asked Harry as he gestured with his eyes to Yael to hand him another piece of injera.

"I've only been once. It was a class trip in eighth grade. Italian and Latin were requirements at my school. My father's family is from Pescara in Abruzzo. My mother was born in Palermo. I think Uncle Joe said that we have extended family in Abruzzo and Naples. My paternal grandparents came to New York after World War II."

The lioness impudently crossed her arms at her parents, debating on whether to object to their feigned ignorance of his familial background. It was apparent that they were acting in tandem per a deposition of the opposing party: one acts as the cross-examiner while the other takes notes and listens for inconsistencies. Fine, she reasoned with a snarl; fuck around and find out.

She heard her father's voice interject, "And your maternal grandparents? When did they arrive?"

Eyeing the now frustrated Luigi, she placed her hand upon his and interrupted, "I think it was in '64?" He bobbed his head to indicate that she was correct, plus or minus a year. "His maternal grandfather was killed by the Mafia." All three pairs of eyes gawked at her in shock; she glared at her parents from across the Rosh Hashanah table. "Yeah, let's get what you really want to know out in the open. As I said, his ovo was murdered by the Mafia, so his wife – Luigi's grandmother – took his mother and uncle to New York to get away from them. Does he have family members in the Mafia? Yes, but you already knew that. Since when does a man become responsible for his family's actions? Hmm?" At their silence, Daisy went on, "Because if that were true, then I – Daisy Abravanel Trott – would be guilty of both infidelity and mental disease!" She turned to Luigi and explained, "My grandparents had an affair, which produced my biological mother. She, like her mother, suffers from bipolar disorder. Though I'm sure being Afro-Caribbean and Chinese in a racist British Empire didn't help!" Taking a deep breath to resume a more respectful tone, she addressed her elders again, "If you're going to judge a man by his family, then let's look at the whole. Gabriella was a loving mother; her cancer preemptively ended her time with them. His father was a hero who saved countless lives in the Bronx and at the North Tower. His brother is a war hero and, like Joe, was at Ground Zero. His aunt and uncle took him in after his father's death and raised a decent, hardworking man. And the grandparents whom he knew? Despite their issues, they both fought the Nazis; his grandfather lost everything, even after he helped the Allies take out several Nazi officers, and his grandmother hid her neighbors – Italian Jews – from the Gestapo. None of them had or have anything to do with the Mafia."

She watched as Harry and Yael exchanged an uncomfortable squint yet allowed her to finish. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Luigi hang his head in a mixture of apprehension, fear, and awe. "Papai, Madrasta, I know you're looking out for my best interests. But I have spent eight months getting to know Luigi Masciarelli. Him. Not his family. And every family has its skeletons. Even ours. No, he's not Jewish. But he's here. He sent you the kosher cannoli. And never once has he ever disrespected our culture or our religion. No, he did not go to college and become a nice lawyer, doctor, or engineer – at least, not yet. He didn't go because he lost his father in one of the worst ways possible, and his uncle thought it best to keep him close to family. Why? Because Joe wanted him to be … righteous, humble, pure, and happy. Ask yourselves whether you would have done any differently if it had been me. But he is making up for it now. He took the manager's position because his former boss asked him to, because he believed in him." She sighed, then sneaked a glance at the quivering man. Laying her hand upon his to intertwine their fingers, Daisy murmured, "Look at him; he's trembling because he wants so much to please you. Do you really think," she twisted her head toward Luigi's, "that is the hallmark of a mafioso?" Squeezing his hand, she concluded in a soft voice, "He comes from and is among the most honorable men I've ever known."

Slowly, Luigi lifted his eyes to hers in both genuine thanks and warm love. His woman of valor. Daisy returned his gaze meaningfully and touched the purple heart hanging about her neck. Both sets of eyes – blue and brown – focused on the pair of speechless lawyers at the table. They clasped their joined hands in victory.


Following the discomfited conclusion of Rosh Hashanah supper, Luigi, Daisy, and Harry assisted Yael with clearing and wrapping up the seder, which was done in a taciturn manner. Although Daisy did not seem bothered by the lack of conversation, the plumber worried that Daisy's impassioned defense of him burned bridges with her family. In the privacy of his own thoughts, he had expressed his outrage to both Abravanels, describing their conduct as obtrusive, rude, and bigoted. His anger was nonetheless tempered by the incontestable fact that the Rigassis and Moranos did have significant connections to the LCN; had the roles been reversed, and his daughter were dating a man with familial ties to organized crime, he could not deny that he would have behaved dissimilarly. Yet Daisy was right; he should be judged by his actions and not those of men who had had little to do with his life prior to a few months ago.

Let Daisy handle her family, echoed Rosalina's soothing voice.

Daisy escorted the now kippa-less Luigi to the living room where four small cups and a tray of makrout were arranged at the coffee table in between two plush, cobalt-blue sofas. The electric fireplace was the main producer of light, giving the room a pleasant ambiance. Harry made sure to sit across from Daisy and Luigi, keeping his eyes upon the plumber. Yael soon returned with a large, pitcher-like, clay coffee pot. She poured black liquid into each cup. "This is Ethiopian coffee," she stated matter-of-factly. "The Arabs stole it from us, as did the Italians."

"Thank you," murmured Luigi as he sipped the hot liquid. It was richer than Italian or Austrian coffee; he noticed that she added a little sugar, though not at a North American level of sweet. After Daisy and Harry had each taken one of the cookies, he did as well, tasting orange flower water, mashed dates, and semolina. Throughout coffee and dessert, no one spoke, which unnerved the Italian, and he distinctly felt that they were doing the absolute minimum to be hospitable prior to showing him the door.

Taking a final sip of the coffee, the plumber stood up and forced a smile. "Um, it's a bit late. My new trainee's arriving a few minutes early to complete his paperwork, so I really should go. Thank you for dinner and hospitality." With a final, brusque nod, he moved to the door. Daisy gave her parents an enraged, accusatory look, then rushed to catch up with her lover. As Luigi had already left, she swung the entrance open and ran down the hallway where she found him waiting for the elevator. He gave her a pained glance and whispered, "I tried, you know? And I appreciate … what you said to them. But is this how you want to spend your life? Between my fucking family and yours?"

"Yeah, I do," she replied, approaching him purposefully. "They were awful to you, and I'm sorry, kerido. I … I don't want that. I meant every word, Luigi. Please … don't hold me responsible for their actions."

"Can you blame 'em?" Luigi chuckled mirthlessly. "If you and I … had a daughter, and she were dating someone like me, how'd you feel?"

She rushed to cup his cheek. "I wouldn't judge him … or her based on someone else's crime."

The elevator dinged, revealing an empty cabin. Daisy stared brokenly at her equally distraught boyfriend. "Please … don't leave like this."

He sighed heavily and inquired, "How else should I leave? I'm not welcome there. It's too dangerous for you to come back to Park Slope or Bensonhurst. You going to the Ivy League is too important. And family's essential, Daisy; speaking as someone who's lost theirs, I … I couldn't bear them … disowning you over me. And now, you're on Pete Morello's and god-knows-who-else's radar."

"Luigi, did anything I said register?" she shouted furiously.

"Of course it did!" he hissed. "No one has ever defended me like that! And that's why I feel so fucking guilty!" As he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button, Daisy sprinted inside. The doors closed, and they were left alone, the car moving down to the ground floor. "Goddamnit, Daisy!" he growled as she stepped into his personal space. Their lips were inches apart, and his eyes became a few shades short of black. The elevator landed and chimed, permitting the plumber to hurry past her. She ran after him again, refusing him an unobstructed path outside of the building.

"Will you fucking stop running away from me?!" she bellowed as he fished his keys out of his pocket. He turned and physically recoiled at her harsh words, yet he kept his black eyes on hers. "And stop looking a gift horse in the mouth! What I said … wasn't meant to cause you guilt. It was meant to free you from it!" She quickly wiped her eyes and continued, "In my family, kerido, we argue, we fight for what's right. And how my parents treated you wasn't right. You have carried the guilt of your father, uncles, and perhaps even your mother for far too long – it should never have been yours!"

"Maybe you're right, cat-face. But what the hell am I going to do about it? Huh? Frankly, I couldn't believe how hostile they were! Yeah, I expected some animosity or apprehension, but they didn't even hide their dislike of me. And what did you mean when you said they already knew? Knew what? Did you tell them about my family?!"

"No! They …" She gazed up at his angry visage and closed her eyes. "My father ran a background check on you. That's how he knew about the Moranos. I'm not sure if he knows about Pete Morello or … Father Sal. I certainly didn't tell him."

Luigi rolled his eyes and swore underneath his breath. "No fucking wonder. Thanks for the heads up."

Her amber eyes flashed in annoyance. "I didn't know that he would be like that! Even faced with a problematic defendant, he's never acted so … hostile. And you're right; I should've told you. I'm sorry."

He nodded once. "Okay. What else aren't you telling me?"

"What do you mean? That's it!"

Studying her face for any obfuscation, the plumber swallowed and considered his options. Everyone from Giuseppe to Pete Morello warned him that a meeting with Daisy's parents would end poorly. On one hand, their relationship was out in the open, which is what he wanted. On the other hand, he caused familial strife, despite his girlfriend's early admonitions. What did he even want at this point? What did she want? "Daisy, I love you. More than anything. But Pete was right – be sure of what you want here. Your father does not like me. If he acted contrary to his normal demeanor tonight, then he may very well cut you off to stop our relationship from progressing. I should never have pressed the issue back in San Francisco. This is my fault, and I'm so sorry. If you need to choose, then … choose your family, Harvard! I'm one boyfriend!"

Daisy crossed her arms. "You finished?" He scoffed in response and gestured with his keys-filled hand to interject. "You aren't just one boyfriend. You are my boyfriend, Luigi Masciarelli. You're assuming that I haven't already made my choice. Because I have. I did upstairs. They know it, too, which is why they were so quiet. And if going to Harvard means ripping out my heart and sense of integrity, then I don't want it!" She wiped away a stray tear and sniffed; Luigi resisted the temptation to brush it away for her. "I guess there was something I didn't say." At his ashen face, she sighed and murmured, "Remember when I said that in Bensonhurst, I had seen just how … alone you were?" He nodded. "Well, I realized that I too had been … lonely. I didn't want to admit it to myself. I filled my spare time with sports and overstudying to avoid facing it. Then I met you. And these past eight months have changed me for the better. I know you don't believe it; you think that Pete Morello, Lucas, or my father's hostility toward you has caused me irreparable pain. My mother – my biological mother – once told me that one cannot evolve without a certain amount of heartache and perseverance. Look at you – you're no longer the stuttering plumber, but a master plumber who runs his own shop! The shop that you will save and cultivate. That wasn't Pete Morello, your father, your uncle, or even Mario. That was you! And me? Like you, I will survive." Straightening her spine, Daisy faced him squarely. "If you want to end our relationship, do it because you're no longer in love with me or are otherwise unhappy. I can take it; I'm a big girl." His eyes widened while she shook her head. "But don't do it because of Harry Abravanel or Pete Morello."

As she moved to leave him standing on the sidewalk, she felt her body spin in the opposite direction and masculine lips suddenly crush hers, long fingers framing her cheekbones to keep her in place. "You're right; I've been a coward," he puffed between kisses. "I don't think I can stop … loving you. I just want you to be happy. I'd gladly fall on my proverbial sword to do that."

"Then don't be dishonest about your feelings or intentions, kerido," she mumbled against his lips. "That makes us both miserable."

Enfolding her in his warm arms, he kissed her hairline. "Okay."

"And trust that I know what's best for me." She felt him nod. "I won't give you up. Not for my father, not for Harvard. And inasmuch as you want to protect me, I want to protect you." Drawing back to bring his head down to hers, she whispered, "The only way that works is if we protect each other … as one. It's us against the problem. Not you or me alone. One man – or woman – can't fight alone. Remember?"

For the first time since that morning, Luigi genuinely smiled. "Us – together. My woman of valor. My cat-face."


The lioness re-entered the darkened loft and soundlessly shut the door to avoid a disturbance. She wiped her eyes of dried tears and took a ragged breath; the day's events, from the mysterious duplicated badge to her argument with Luigi, had left her emotionally drained and wanting nothing more than to shower and crawl into her queen-sized bed. A bed that was cold and foreign without her plumber. The two lovers promised to keep in touch, with him insisting that she take as much time as she needed. However, Daisy vowed to leave her father and stepmother, even before or during Yom Kippur, if they crossed the line. After the evening's disastrous dinner, she knew that there would be a reckoning, and the words that she had uttered to inaugurate the new year and the holiest of days in the Jewish calendar would soon be tested. She felt the purple heart prickle just above her breast like a divine, yet dark presence.

Tiptoeing across the living room to the base of the staircase, she failed to notice a man sitting in one of the blue armchairs facing the fireplace. "I trust he went home to Bensonhurst?"

Enraged, she stopped behind the chair and crossed her arms. "Yeah. And just what the hell was dinner about?"

Watching the flicker of the imitation flames, her father replied, "I don't think he was telling us the entire story. Is he an actual wiseguy? No. But do I get that same feeling about him that I had experienced in San Francisco? Yes."

"He really doesn't know about his maternal side! What the hell do you or Yael want from him?"

Voicing a disgusted groan, she moved once more to the staircase when Harry stood up from the armchair and called out, "It's interesting; when you asked your madrasta and I to consider the whole picture, you listed his grandparents, parents, Joe, Lucia, their children, and Mario. There was one person whom you didn't mention. His other uncle. Salvatore. The priest. Both the Italians and Irish worship the priesthood. So why didn't either of you sing his praises this time?" At his daughter's frozen look, he said sternly, "The Mafia is not a game, miha. I want you to end your association with Luigi. Now."