Author's notes: Holy cow! A few days ago, I noticed that we're almost at precisely one year since I began publishing this story. I'm going to have to do something ... special. There will be another chapter to follow, though due to work commitments, I won't be able to publish it until the end of the month. Currently, I will keep posting on AO3 and FF dot net. However, if the latter goes down again, I will relocate the story permanently to AO3 and Wattpad. If you're confused by the numbering, just start at "Homeward Bound," which is the previous chapter.

A special thanks to those who played the game. I am going to incorporate the "winning choices" (really, everyone who played won) in the next two to three chapters. So I hope youse enjoy ;)

As always, thank you to those who've continued to read and review - it means a lot.

Finally, I am giving a slight notification of a rating change to the low end of Mature for this chapter due to edgy humor. It's probably one of the crudest chapters that I've ever written, but I think you'll appreciate it. Heh. (I know I did.)


Chapter 42: Payback's Bitch

The blonde woman huffed for the fifth time in ten minutes, checking her watch impatiently for her 'business partner.' She sneered and vowed that the skinny little fucker would pay for making her wait in one of Manhattan's most exclusive restaurants – and in a private dining room, no less. Lady Bowser loathed tardiness, especially at lunchtime and for French cuisine. Her palpable anger did not faze the heavy-set, dark blond-haired man in the charcoal gray suit, who continued to sip his whiskey calmly.

Her ice blue eyes narrowed as the tall man in a cream button-down shirt and plum suitcoat and matching pants approached the circular table. "You're late, Lucas. Don't let it happen again," she snarled.

Plunking down inelegantly into opposite chair, he put up his hands and innocently replied, "Geez, sorry, Mrs. Bowser. I can't help if the traffic from the Upper West Side was more irritating than usual. Besides, I had something to take care of." His dark brown eyes shifted to the man next to the lady. "Who's he?"

Lady Bowser's lips hinted at a smile. "Lucas Kariolis, meet … well, let's call him Sergei. He's a special guest. Sergei," she gestured to the skinny man with her manicured hand, "Lucas." The man nodded his greeting.

"Hi. I'd say something in Russian, but, uh, I'd need Luigi for that," quipped Lucas while fiddling with the lunch menu. "So, what are we discussing over soupe à l'oignon?"

She shrugged. "Speak for yourself. If I am going to dine à la parisienne, I go all out for the steak-frites. I've been a good girl these last few weeks." Grinning haughtily, the blonde then said, "If you're in a soup mood, I recommend the bouillabaisse. And I have a feeling that we'll all be dining on caviar and the best champagne quite soon." Sergei gave a somewhat amused glance in her direction while the skinny man raised his eyebrow at her. At that moment, the gray-suited server came by their table and took their order, which Lucas made sure to do in French. Once the Frenchman left the private dining room, Lady Bowser waited several minutes before resuming their discussion, "On that note, is our friend in Colorado handled?"

Lucas smirked and took a sip of water. "He's handled, yeah. With the, uh, gift that you prepared, I sent a little … giftcard via Amazon."

"Very good," she responded, stirring her Long Island iced tea with the small black straw. "And what of the idiot plumber and his blonde блядь?" Although he was not overly expressive, Sergei eyed the woman, momentarily surprised at her use of coarse language in such a public place.

Lucas leaned back in the chair. "Not my prerogative, normally, but I gave the shop some … help. I also have a lookout on the priest. It's surprising what a little money will motivate people to do."

"Indeed," she agreed, drinking a little of the mixed beverage. "Make sure it stays that way; spare no expense. Now that the pieces are place, it's time to advance the game. Our friend in Colorado will be busy soon enough." She chuckled in glee, "I want you to take the puppy out of his kennel, take him on a trip that will last a few weeks. Somewhere out of the country."

The server returned with their entrées: two côtes de boeuf, each with a side of fries decoratively arranged in a cone, bouillabaisse and rouille, and plenty of bread for the table. He then poured a glass of Pinot Noir for each person, which Lady Bowser had ordered during her wait, and wished them a perfunctory bon appétit. As Sergei tucked his white cloth napkin into his shirt and the blonde placed hers daintily over her Armani-clothed lap, Lucas asked, "Any place in mind?"

With her knife, she sculpted the melted butter upon and around the expensive cut of beef. "I'll leave that to your discretion. You're quite the … Party Prince, from what I hear. Apparently, your puppy's made changes that might actually allow the shop to turn a profit for once. Thus, he'll be useful to me," she sniggered at Lucas's outraged glare, "oh, and to you, too. So, it's best to keep him away from New York for a bit."

"And what about his … chickadee?" he spat, smearing his rouille on a piece of toasted bread.

"Lucas, we've been through this," she retorted in an exasperated tone. "Powerful women get bored of guys like him. Yes, he'll have money, but … but … women like culture, direction. They date equal to or above their social class. Just ask Sergei here. Russian women marry for security if they don't have options. If they do, well, they aim … highly."

Between bites of his steak, Sergei muttered in heavily-accented English, "Marry rich husband. Take care of you."

"See?" she enjoined at a visibly skeptical Lucas. "She'll dump him once she's off to … is it law school?" He nodded once. "I've heard the first year is quite a bear. She won't have time for him; predictably, she'll then fall in love with a fellow law student who is in her immediate sphere and who won't bemoan her late nights in the library. Since you're his … best friend, you'll be there to console him, get him laid with one of your bimbos on retainer. I'd rather not waste resources on a problem that will take care of itself. The little we do, the less likely they'll become Romeo and Juliet." Lady Bowser simpered as she sliced into her rare steak and bit into the juicy meat, voicing her pleasure. "Ah, life's simple pleasures. Mmm." Wiping her mouth afterward, she added, "Trust me, kid. Unlike you, I actually have been married. All of the girls on my street? Married. And most of them regret it; their sisters, aunties, mothers, and grandmothers all sold them on the white dress, church wedding, and bullshit men who ended up drunk or in dead-end jobs. Men like your puppy and his piece of shit brother that won't flush. And what would a high-powered lawyer do with that?"

Shoving seafood stew in his mouth, he mumbled half-heartedly, "Fine. I'll let you deal with her if needed."

Blotting her mouth again, the blonde shook her head. "If you insist, though I doubt it will be. Men are such … fragile creatures." Willfully ignoring the heated glare that the Manhattanite gave her, she took another bite of the steak. "Changing the subject, how is the other plumber?"

Lucas narrowed his eyes in confusion and spoke while chewing on a piece of bread, "Fatass Mario?"

The blonde hacked on the small piece of meat, immediately lifting the napkin to her mouth. "Ah, damn it, Lucas! That's a rather expensive côte, no matter how … amusing that particular moniker is. The Special Forces must've designed a special crane affixed to a heavy tank to lift his sorry ass." Sipping her red wine and still coughing, she gurgled, "Yes, I should've been more specific. What's your name for him?" Her blue eyes widened in recollection and took a bite of a French fry, "Right. Joe the Plumber. While I don't know him personally, it does seem like a fitting name. Jackass's crew used to call him 'Musciada Masciarelli.'"

Shrugging a little, the young man answered, "One foot in the grave. I give that fucker a few months max." Then beaming evilly at Lady Bowser and Sergei, he leaned in and chortled, "And when he goes, it'll break the poor Pretending Priest's heart. My, uh, double agent tells me that he was quite devastated at seeing his former Bensonhurst playmate in the hospital."

"Oh?" she asked curiously while finishing a couple more bites. "That's interesting." Rolling her eyes mentally and physically, she spoke, "Jackass never could keep his mouth shut about anything. Apparently, Salvatore was a rather proficient … sicario back in the day. They called him Il Mietitore – the Grim Reaper. Quite … demented in his methods from what I gather, too. There was this guy named Chuckles Carmine Sciorra; the guy was a moneymaker for one of the associated crews in Jersey, but his … jokes often got him in trouble. That, and he wagged his dick when it was decidedly inappropriate. The idiot put the moves on one of Carlo's granddaughters. He didn't know who she was, which could've been waived off with adequate apologies, but then he tried to blame her for leading him on, thinking that his boss would save him from Cutthroat's wrath." She shook her head incredulously. "As if royalty was gonna fuck that tub of lard! Anyway, rumor has it that Salvatore and a couple others dismembered his body and melted the copious amounts of fat into little soaps for Carlo and his family."

The Manhattanite froze mid-bite and regarded the nonplussed Sergei and Lady Bowser with pure disgust. "Goddamn …" he muttered.

Lady Bowser giggled and nodded. "That's why his holy man act is so … obscenely amusing. I wonder how many Hail Maries he had to say on just that alleged act alone?"

He retorted, laughing, "You mean, how many cardinals did he have to blow to receive absolution?"

Sergei scowled at the young man's remark. "Need to respect religion and man of reputation, Lucas."

The blonde turned to her Russian colleague and blinked a wordless apology. "Sergei's right; we shouldn't have too much fun at the cardinals' expense. And though I have sympathy for them, I was baptized in my mother's Russian Orthodox faith." Finishing a few more French fries, she continued, "Back to Joe the Plumber. So, the hapless shit will be six feet under in a few months. Well, we best thank Al-Qaeda for handling that little problem for us. That's about all they're good for, in my humble opinion. Marco would've paid money to see that skinny bastard waste away. This is good; one less prick to handle, literally and metaphorically. That leaves Father Salvatore and Maaaa-rrrio. I'll handle them myself when the time's most opportune."

Lucas deftly sipped the bouillabaisse. "Not that I mind. Personally, I couldn't give less of a shit about either one of them, but … why the hell do we care about the Pretending Priest beyond mockery? He's hiding behind the walls of the Kiddie Diddlers' Club. And I figure, once Joe the Plumber's a corpse, he'll be out of our hair. He hasn't shown his face except when that shithead's been around."

She cut another generous portion of beef. "Sergei has a point, my dear Kariolis: one must respect gli accolti, especially that one. He's a priest, true, but he was not retired. In the life, soldiers end up with one or two of three possible fates: they become administrators, like our friend in Colorado; they rot in prison; or they are … retired. Father Salvatore is a free man. È vivo. Emphasis on the present tense."

"So, what's your point?" he interrupted with a slightly annoyed tone.

"My point," she began, leaning toward him in a low hiss, "is that you do not underestimate a man who, by all rights, should be dead, but isn't! And that means you'll keep tabs on him at all times and report directly to me. Let the … experts in this matter – Sergei and myself – handle that which you cannot understand. Just because your philandering father has an 'in' with Big Jackass does not mean dick when it comes to the real Mafia. Il Padrino spared him for a reason, and we need to know why. And you can … wager your supposed millions that Salvatore is present. He's already shown his face to you. As an … expert in matters of, we'll call it etiquette, he was warning you to stay away from the puppy. And it seems Joe the Plumber, as well."

The Manhattanite stopped eating and leaned back in the dining room chair, reflecting upon Salvatore's piercing words at the 17th Avenue house. "But why Joe the Toilet Man? Luigi, even Sergeant Major Dickerson, I get, but why him? If the priest's … as special as you say he is, then he must've had better connections."

"They grew up together. From what Marco told me, the first Mario used to beat his sons, so they – Mario Number Two and Joe the Plumber – would run to Salvatore's mother's house. Mario Two's wife was Salvatore's sister."

Shaking his head and waving his hand dismissively, which earned a warning glare from Sergei, Lucas replied, "No, that's not what I mean. Yeah, yeah, I'm sure you're right that they all grew up in the same house. I think Luigi may have even mentioned his mother having a brother when we were at Brooklyn City. It's more than that." He closed his eyes to focus on the memory of his arrival at the house, where he was subsequently prevented by both uncles from fleeing. "They were in sync. It was so … fucking bizarre. If I didn't know better, Joe the Plumber was calling the shots. Salvatore was the – I don't know – voice, the enforcer."

Lady Bowser and the Russian exchanged an inquisitive look. "Go on," she encouraged.

He opened his eyes and stared at them both perplexedly. "What? That's it. I don't know what else to add. He clearly told me to fuck off, which, of course, I will dutifully ignore."

Sergei then whispered something in Russian to the woman who nodded once. "This is important, Lucas. What exactly did Salvatore tell you?"

"Uh …" he blinked in an attempt to remember the words. "He said I wasn't there to support Luigi – which is complete bullshit, by the way! He said I feel superior to Luigi – also untrue!"

"Lucas!" she yelled, banging her fist against the table. "Enough with the editorializing. Just get to the fucking point!"

"Fine!" he growled. "He said that my association with our friends in Colorado and Brooklyn gave me a false sense of power, that 'Luigi draws his power from someone truly magnificent.' A direct quote, by the way!"

Lucas narrowed his eyes in suspicion at the blonde's astonished look and Sergei's suddenly blank visage. While neither the lady nor the Russian conversed for the rest of the meal, he inwardly marveled at the exposed vein so ripe for the bite. Perhaps the priest was worth a second look.


Following the confrontation with Daisy's father a couple weeks ago, the drama with both of Luigi's and Daisy's families settled down to a soft hum in the background. The couple returned to her flat where he assured his very reluctant lioness that if her father decided to rescind his financial support, he would step in and cover the costs. Though she attempted several times to argue, the plumber pushed back, pointing out that not only would it prove disastrous to back out of a lease in New York's tight residential market, but moreover he lived with her more than fifty percent of the time. During the week, Luigi dutifully came home and had dinner ready for his pensive princess. Through Yom Kippur, Daisy was quiet, mourning the shift in the relationship with her parents; while her lion attempted to support her in the best way he knew how, she still felt periods of anxiety and sadness, prompting her to schedule additional sessions with her therapist. As for Luigi, Dr. Czernin gently reassured him that she would, in all likelihood, be her bubbly, confident self once the initial shock and grief abated.

Despite the intervals of uncertainty and silence, Luigi made his cat-face purr with delight over impromptu evening chocolates and kisses as they listened to David Bowie's "Heroes" and Tina Turner's "Proud Mary." Cats always love a good treat and scratching session, he thought with a smirk. A few days prior to her LSAT retake at Brooklyn College, Daisy's spirits brightened with the arrival of her friend, Keisha Hamadou, who was in New York for a Columbia University-sponsored conference on Immanuel Kant and the German Enlightenment. While Luigi enjoyed a spur-of-the-moment gaming session with Yoshi and Miles, in which the former kept shooting the latter's character in the ass "for shits and giggles," Daisy and Keisha met up in Manhattan for the latter's twenty-minute paper and subsequent question-and-answer session regarding the influence of Moses Mendelsohn upon the topical philosopher. For the first fifteen minutes, most of the questions from the audience were tolerable, ranging from on-topic queries about Lessing and Diderot to the more esoteric, high-level reflections on Kant, Mirabeau, and the Grand Marquis. Then an older colleague, who was obviously near retirement and suffering from ennui, brought him up – Sigmund-fucking-Freud. Consequently, and much to Keisha's dismay, the discussion descended into a surprise congress on philosophical onanism with special guests Siggy Freud (and his mother), Martin Heidegger, Paul de Man, and – last, but certainly not lacking, Jacques Lacan and his signifier. It escaped no one's attention, least of all the women speakers, that the aforementioned special guests were old white men. Daisy filmed a short clip of the senior professor's unparalleled commentary on Kant's quivering categorical imperative entering Lacan's constricted signifier and texted it to Luigi, who in turn sent it to his confuddled friends. In response, and for the girls' jouissance over post-conference drinks, Luigi sent back Yoshi's and Miles's questions for the professor in the spirit of the categorical imperative, among which they inquired how much crack – exact amount in grams – he had smoked before attending, whether Lacan's impressive signifier and miniscule signified made French fashionable nonsense more palatable, and if the professor's Dickweed-Martin-sponsored trip to Uranus was a spectacular one.

The outing proved fruitful for the young woman, as she could feel normal for one evening in spite of the emotional distance with her family. Luigi gave her privacy throughout the clipped phone calls with her father that never lasted beyond a quarter of an hour. Afterward, he stroked her hair and, on occasion, ran relaxing bubble baths as he chatted about the prototype that he was building. Even though she remained quiet throughout the bath, she gave him reassuring smiles and kisses, which would inevitably lead to more passionate activities in their bedroom. Needing support and comfort from each other, their lovemaking was an intense crescendo of moans, chuckles, gasps, pleas, and tears. Spooned behind her, the Brooklynite brushed his lips against her neck and whispered, "You're not alone, cat-face. I'll be here for as long as you want." Her wordless answer was to twist in his arms so that she was facing him and, kissing his bicep, lay her damp head and hair against it.

Though still alternating between independence and neediness, Daisy opened up a little more, including him in one of her yoga classes, and organized a repeat performance of the Philadelphia Seduction – minus the malfunctioning zipper. He surprised them both at how aroused he became and remained throughout the evening, even after four months of sleeping together. Following post-coital Szechwan delivery, they unusually fell asleep at around the same time. As the lioness slept peacefully, Luigi's eyes blinked open from a draft of cool, early-morning air. Unobtrusively rising from the bed, he slipped on his discarded boxer shorts to inspect the living room of the studio, weary of a potential break-in or broken window. A moment later, he instead found himself in bright sunshine and starting at the backdrop of a large green, blue, and brown mountain with nearly vertical limestone cliffs. Beneath his now boot-covered feet was a red brick path up a steep hill, which Luigi estimated to be at least ten percent; as he trekked up it, the crisp air pressed and squeezed against his lungs, forcing him to cough and wheeze. Stopping to take a breath, he suddenly noticed a young man clad in black – jeans, tee-shirt, and leather jacket – standing at the top and looking up at the mountain.

"It's a long way up," said the man in a distinct Brooklyn – Bensonhurst – accent.

Luigi's blue eyes widened both at his voice and recognizable face. "Uncle Sal?"

The olive-skinned Salvatore Rigassi faced his future nephew; the latter noticed that compared to the middle-aged profile to which he was accustomed, this version had an almost baby face, chocolate-brown hair that was free of errant streaks of white, and a muscular physique. However, his eyes were an obsidian black that warned of danger and malevolence. "I suppose," he finally answered. "You're not Mario, so you must not be here yet."

"No," replied Luigi carefully. He cast his eyes to their surrounding and inquired, "Where are we?"

"West Bum-fuck, U.S.A.," sarcastically responded the mafioso. "This is where the Family sends you when they wish you were dead."

"What did you do?"

Salvatore shrugged. "I fell in love. A … made man carries his out orders like a good soldier. We live by the gun; we die by the gun. That's our fate. There's nothing else."

"Yeah, you told me that. Did they … Cutthroat Carlo kill her? Did someone else kill her?"

"No."

The younger man took a step toward the younger version of his maternal uncle. "Who was she?"

"My past."

Twisting on his heel, Luigi ran a hand through his wavy hair, which resembled both his father's and Salvatore's, and swore, "Goddamnit, I'm sick of the games! Why can't you tell me who she was? How am I fucking supposed to learn from your, Pops's, Mama's, and Joe's mistakes if I don't know what they are?!"

His obsidian eyes now burning, Salvatore immediately charged at Luigi and grabbing him by the collar of his green plumber's hoodie, hissed, "Because, niputi, there are some secrets that remain buried to protect those who are still alive! Do you know how much death I've witnessed? Hmm?" The stunned man shook his head. "More than you or anyone else could possibly stomach! And I'm so … fucking sick of it!" Inhaling deeply, the mafioso released the man and murmured, "Who would want a man who's bathed in other men's blood? And what good could come of speaking of the past?"

"Because, Zio, I'm in a similar position." At his uncle's haunted, unvoiced question, Luigi held up a hand. "I'm not made; never have been in it. I have no intention of being Mafia at all. But Carlo and Pete won't take no for an answer. I … I'm in love with a Sephardic Jewish woman. I won't give her up and I need to protect her."

The man in black stepped away from him and studied the limestone cliffs rising above them. "Climb the mountain."

Luigi squinted in confusion. "What? What do you mean?"

As Salvatore began to speak, the younger man reluctantly blinked, this time seeing his concerned girlfriend's face. Darting up in bed, his lips inches from hers, his eyes scanned the sunrise-lit Brooklyn studio bedroom. Daisy's hand raked her fingers through his dark brown mane, wordlessly questioning if he was alright. Luigi pulled her bare body into a warm embrace and tucked his scratchy face into the crook of her neck. "I think she's still alive," he mumbled softly. "I know we weren't going to talk about it, and God, am I sick of it, but …"

Daisy drew back to frame his cheeks with her hands. "No. We can't let this fester between us. A few weeks ago, Salvatore warned me to be careful because …"

"Loving cost him everything," he finished.

She nodded; a moment later, however, she frowned. "Kerido, what makes you think she's alive?"

Luigi hesitated, studying her inquisitive expression, before saying, "I … I had a dream. I think … we were in Montana. I … I spoke with a younger Sal." He chuckled nervously, "This is going to sound crazy, but … he told me that she was alive."

"It's not crazy," she responded, pecking him on the lips. "I've heard that dreams are a way for our subconscious to resolve questions or puzzles. The question is, though, why is she important?"

Slouching so that his forehead and hair touched hers, he whispered, "I'm not sure why. I just know that … she's the key, like some sort of … princess in a locked tower."

"Like rescuing princesses, do you?" Daisy teased.

He placed his arms against her bare back, pulled her to his chest, and kissed her deeply. "Pleasing princesses. Well, one princess in particular. If we didn't have to go work, I'd give," he moved his lips to her neck, "you an encore of last night. Make you fucking moan so loud," he heard her yelp, to which he purred lowly, "that Yonkers hears you."

"Mmm, is that so, plumber?" she retorted while raking her fingers through his hair appreciatively. "Well, you have to work. Since I've worked forty hours per week for the past month and a half, I'm on a three-day work week for the rest of the month. My boss's already depressed. He has no one to bitch to about government lackeys." She heard his eager chuckle, then felt herself being pushed backward onto the mattress.

"Well, I've got," he reached over to the end table and blinked at his iPhone, "an hour. I think I can give you two quickies."

As he began to move his lips downward and underneath the comforter, she gasped, "I thought that a … quickie was … singular?"

Luigi looked up from just beyond the blue cloth and leered seductively, "One quickie here and … another quickie in the shower." He disappeared into the tent of bedsheet and cover while she moaned and squealed in delight.


Lucas hummed to himself as he fastened his seatbelt and maneuvered his black BMW from the pricey monthly parking space in the garage near his Upper West Side apartment. Within seconds, the GPS had calculated the fastest route to Dumbo, and the female artificial voice chipperly informed him that due to Manhattan traffic, the estimated time of arrival was thirty-five minutes. Muttering a few choice curse words in English, Greek, and French, he nonetheless made his way to East 96th Street toward the FDR. At a stoplight, the man in lilac fiddled with his iPhone connection and unlocked one of the main page apps to play a bookmarked audiobook. As the light turned green, he accelerated, and a slow, relaxed smile appeared upon his face as the reader resumed where he had last paused:

"But another visitor, a far nastier one, was time and again to attract my regard. We had in the house one of those women who are called street scouts or trotters, to employ the bordello term, and whose function is to run abroad night and day to attract new recruits. Over forty years old, this creature had, as well as very faded charms which had never been very winning, the dreadful defect that consists in stinking feet. And such, no other, was the fair sort whereof the Marquis de L*** was enamored. He arrives, Dame Louise – for such was her name – is introduced to him, he finds her superb, and once he has conducted her into the pleasure sanctuary, 'Pray remove your shoes,' says he. Louise, who had been explicitly enjoined to wear the same stockings and slippers for a month, offers the Marquis a foot that would have made a man of less fine discrimination vomit straight away; but, as I say, that foot's very filth and nauseous quality was precisely what our nobleman cherished most. He catches it up, kisses it with fervor, with his mouth he spreads each toe, one after the other, with his tongue he gathers from each space, and gathers with incomparable enthusiasm, the blackish and fetid scum Nature deposits there and which, with a little encouragement, easily increases by itself. Not only does he draw this unmentionable stuff into his mouth, but he swallows it, savors it, and the fuck he loses while jacking himself off stands as unequivocal proof of the excessive pleasure he takes in this fare."

Allowing his expensive car to go into cruise control, with the intermittent stop and go just before and underneath the United Nations, he occasionally scanned the moderate traffic on the FDR heading south while contentedly listening to the male voice continue his narration of the 120 Days of Sodom by the Marquis de Sade. Mid-morning was always a good time to harass his bestie, who was undoubtedly bored by his underling plumbers – at least, he would be. Mid-October would be a great time to alleviate their mutual boredom by leaving the country, raise some capital, and come back with good food, wine, beer, and a plan to finally start their business. By early-January, if necessary, he would hire an additional two or three useful idiots to permanently liberate Luigi from boredom. He would be at their start-up, Mario and Company would be neutralized, and plumbing would be a mere memory. Inasmuch as he appreciated the calculating nature of the enigmatic Mrs. Bowser, Lucas wished that he could FedEx Daisy next-day air back to San Francisco. The man in purple growled; it would have been different if she had been amenable to a ménage à trois rather than monopolize his best friend's time and influence. She was tasty enough to fuck; she was not sufficiently upper-class to have Luigi.

Her continued presence pissed him off.

Passively noting the green road sign for the Brooklyn Bridge, he changed lanes without signaling, which he viewed as a waste of time, cut off a plumbing truck that was crossing into the same lane, and then rolled his eyes when the driver as well as several observers honked their horns in annoyance. Upon closer inspection in his rear-view mirror, his eyebrows raised when he saw a familiar mustachioed Italian in the driver's seat.

"Waa? Fuck me in the ass on Rainbow Road!" he loudly swore over the narrator's voice. Suddenly nervous, he switched the audiobook off and focused both on the road and the irritated plumber behind him. Keep calm; he's probably going to another clogged toilet. One by one, they made the loop that seemed to move back and forth from the FDR to the base of the bridge. Lucas again checked his rear-view mirror only to see that the plumber was right behind, just shy of illegally tailgating him. Muttering a few curse words about the plumber's father in Greek, he saw that the traffic congestion in all directions prevented him from changing lanes to escape the portly man's passive-aggressive move. Driving in the right lane, they both disembarked the bridge, made a right turn on Tillary Street, and then once more on Cadman Plaza.

"Shit!" exclaimed Lucas, realizing that the other driver was either following him or returning to the shop. Thinking fast, he decided to commit to his original plan to visit Luigi, yet park a few streets down to wait out his asshole brother. He ambled around a few small streets before pulling into a parking garage on Adams Street. Smirking that the working-class shit-for-brains would not bother to spend twenty or thirty bucks on a space that he could have for free at the shop, he waived his pass and propelled the BMW forward, eventually stopping in a darkened space on the second level. The man in purple counted the seconds – five, ten, fifteen, thirty, forty-five – before breathing a sigh of relief. He leisurely unbuckled his safety belt, locked the BMW, and whistled "Ode to Joy" as he exited the parking garage. Lucas's toes had reached the threshold between the public sidewalk and garage when a pair of thick hands grabbed his lilac lapels and slammed his lanky body against the adjacent brick wall.

"Yo, fuckstick, you cut me off!" hissed a certain red-hoodied plumber.

Lucas's brown eyes enlarged at the confrontation. He gingerly raised his hands to the outside of Mario's grip and offered a half-assed apology, "Yeah, my bad. I was just so … eager to get to Brooklyn. Y'know, better air quality than congested Manhattan." To emphasize his unimaginative falsehood, he began to inhale deeply. After the third breath, a fist crashing into his solar plexus ripped the remainder out of his mouth and caused him to drop to his knees on the sidewalk.

"Cut the crap, Kariolis!" the plumber bellowed. "Oh, and here's a fuckin' thought: stay away from my brother."

Coughing and clutching his center, the man in purple glanced up at Mario and flashed a sly grin. "Ah, but your brother likes me. He likes me better than you! Jealous that he has friends, and you don't? Hmm? I mean, how is that Irish bartending trash, anyway?" He found himself hauled to his feet and thrown against the same wall. "Jesus, fuck! If you like it rough or even up the ass, I mean, we're in the Big Apple. Anything's possible."

Mario manhandled him into a chokehold. "Give me one fuckin' reason why I shouldn't leave you unconscious in the middle of the street."

The tall man managed to pull out his phone and held it up to the angry man's eye level. "Because … Fat Tony … here in two seconds. Jackass … waste your … ass. Or Joe's." Letting out a frustrated growl, the plumber released him, though not without relishing his coughs and gags.

"Yeah, that's right, you felonious Grunt fuck!" taunted Lucas while gasping. "Your … poor little Uncle Joe. Chemo's a bitch. But worse to die in a Staten Island … landfill." He took a few breaths before standing up to his full height, using it to tower over the short Italian whose arms were crossed over his chest. "And I am the one who's keeping your shitty plumbing shop afloat. Frankly, you should be grateful. And as such, you'll do well to keep out of my way. If I choose to visit your brother – my best friend – then I will. Got that?"

"Nope," he retorted, arms still crossed.

He shook his head. "You know, Luigi really does need some breathing room. You, Uncle Joe, and even that nutcase priest have stifled him for Jesus knows how long, and now … now, you're all afraid of when – not if – he leaves. Because it's only a matter of time before he goes off to Princeton, Stanford, Cornell, where the fuck ever! Meanwhile, you," he waved his index finger at the irate plumber, "will be stuck in Brooklyn with Blondie. The Three Amigos! No, wait, the Three Losers!"

The shorter man scoffed. "You may have your daddy's stolen money, but your bullshit insults do nothing for me or anyone else. Stay away from Luigi and my family, you little asshat."

Lucas shrugged. "Yeah, well, whatever problem you have, Maah-rio, write it down on a post-it, fold it to about," he turned to verify the half-inch gap between his index finger and thumb, "hmm, yay-wide, and then kindly shove it up your ass. Watch the entry; I hear the paper cuts can be killer."

Mario fished out a crumpled post-it from his pocket, much to the taller one's amazement. Pretending to consider Lucas's instructions, he fiddled with the paper for a few seconds, then slapped him across the face and flicked it at him. "You first, fuckwit."

"Ah, goddamnit!" screamed the Manhattanite as the plumber gave him one last disgusted look on his way toward the shop. Shutting his eyes and wincing at the sting, he grunted his frustration. He wanted to send a message to the Grand Lady to eliminate him by end of business week, yet he knew that the Pete Morello situation needed to unfold first to gain her trust. "Fucking bastard!" he spat repeatedly. Allowing himself a few moments to collect himself and letting out a deep breath, he took out his iPhone again and texted a quick message to Luigi: "Help! Come to Front/Jay ASAP. Seriously injured."

While he waited for his bestie, Lucas slid down to the sidewalk for extra measure. He checked his phone after three minutes – no answer. For a brief instant, Lucas worried that Sergeant Major Dickerson had reached Luigi first, leaving him to fend for himself on the streets of downtown Brooklyn. Blinking against the stinging pain around his left eye and cheek, he saw a familiar red Suzuki pull up against the curb across the street and behind Mario's still parked work truck. Quickly throwing the car into park, Luigi rushed out of his vehicle, shutting the driver's side door, and ran toward the slumped man.

"Lucas, what the hell happened?" demanded the plumber, eyeing the left side of his face.

"Your asshole brother," he mumbled, wincing from the slightest movement. "It was awful. I was just driving over here to invite you to lunch, minding my own business, when he followed me from Manhattan. When I … pulled into the parking garage, I didn't realize that he was waiting outside."

Luigi raised his eyebrow suspiciously. "So, he … somehow saw you as he was coming back from assignment in Manhattan? And he just … ran into you on the FDR?"

Lucas nodded. "Yeah. Must've been serendipity."

"Uh-huh." The plumber offered his hand to his frenemy to haul him to his feet. "Let's get you … somewhere before Mario decides to finish you off. Kicking your ass probably made him hungry for a hero."


After some back and forth, specifically Lucas moaning about his semi-swollen face's need for upscale Brooklyn pizza, they settled on a pizzeria a few blocks from the shop. Receiving quizzical looks from the staff, to whom he explained that "he ran into a rather fat and angry door," Luigi ordered a medium Margherita pizza and a Pellegrino while his frenemy plaintively interjected that he required a medicinal egg cream and a brookie bridge. The large Latino at the cashier's end stifled a laugh, yet processed the order. The bruised man in purple reached into his coat pocket and pulled out four twenties and instructed them to keep the change. A few moments later, Luigi and Lucas found a table in the corner of the restaurant next to the street-side window. Briefly glancing downward to check if the silverware had been laid out, which it had, the Manhattanite reached into his other pocket for a small bottle of aspirin; he winced again as he took two pills and gulped them down with a glass of water.

"I hate your brother, Weege," he groused into his hand as it rubbed his stinging cheek.

Luigi shrugged nonchalantly as he took a sip of Pellegrino. "Yeah, he's a Brooklyn asshole, especially on his birthday. Anyway, you must've come for a reason other than to take me to lunch."

The waiter set the egg cream down in front of him. Peeling off the paper containing the straw, he dunked it into the chocolate soda and slurped loudly. "Ah, so much better," he said. "I might have another later. And yeah, I did have a reason. Just give me a second – I'm in pain!" As the plumber rolled his eyes, the other man sucked a third of the egg cream, leaving a small pool at the bottom of the soda glass. "Goddamn … Fucking … Most normal people like their birthdays! Okay, I think … Yeah, okay, now. So, next week, I have some investors lined up. Tickets are booked for two weeks. First-class, you and me. We fly out on Monday evening. I'll have your ticket emailed to you EOB."

"That's … a little sudden," he replied. The waiter returned and set their hot cheese, marinara, and basil pizza on a rack at their table. Before Luigi could slide his slice onto his plate, Lucas hurriedly reached over his hands, grabbed two slices, dropped them onto his dinnerware, and began to cut each one. A moment later, he shoveled a bite into his mouth and moaned in pleasure and pain. The plumber continued, "I need to get this approved and find an acting manager at the shop. Plus, that's a lot of PTO to burn within a few months of becoming manager."

Lucas yelped as he tried to shake his head. "No, it's … been approved. And your second-in-command – José, I think – will take over. It's business; the plumber's union is eager to get international backing as well as local. They'll contact you probably this afternoon or tomorrow morning about the details and paperwork for the IRS."

"Alright," he acquiesced, chewing his second bite of pizza. "Where are we going, exactly?"

"Germany first. We'll arrive in Frankfurt, spend a few days there, and then move on to Munich or Berlin. It just depends on who's willing to sit down with us. But Frankfurt's ready. This is about raising capital, so it's good for that," responded Lucas between bites and blinks. "Berlin and Munich are tech, with Hamburg as a possibility; they'll be interested in a prototype."

"That's good, but there's one problem: we don't have a prototype," interrupted Luigi. "Why would they back a project that has no paperwork or blueprints?"

"I've got a prototype; don't worry. First, we offer software as a service. Then we worry about full systems," explained the man in lilac while jabbing a small triangle of sauce, cheese, and dough into his mouth.

The green-hoodied man nodded slowly, unconvinced of the man's plan. Before he could inquire further, he felt his phone buzz against his leg. Swearing under his breath, which caused Lucas to glance at him questionably, he removed the iPhone from his cargo pants pocket and read the message. "Fuck. It's Mario. He wants to know where I'm at."

Watching him type a response, the purple man growled, "I hope he receives a blowjob from a flying turtle for his birthday."

"That'll just let him know that you didn't fuck off back to Manhattan," muttered Luigi who pressed the send button, then put away the smartphone.

"What'd you say?"

"That I went out to grab a bite in Bed-Stuy. He'll be waiting for me at the shop. I've got about ten minutes before he comes looking."

Lucas cut more pieces of pizza. "How the fuck's he going to know? I doubt the fucker knows about non-military trackers."

As Luigi opened his mouth, he shut it as quickly, realizing what he had almost revealed. He had Miles and Yoshi, who could track him. "Mario has his ways."

The man hummed a noncommittal response, then set his silverware on his plate to signal that he was ready for the brookie bridge. While Luigi was finishing his final bites of pizza, the waiter brought out a two-inch-thick vanilla ice cream sandwich on a small white plate. "Motherfucker," snarled Lucas as he bit into the cold dessert. "He's forcing me to eat myself into a stupor!"

Tsk-tsking, the green-hoodied plumber rose from his chair, much to Lucas's dismay. "I honestly do need to get back to the shop. If we are leaving on Monday, I need to arrange a time to fill José in and get the financials ready for a two-week absence. He can't do the signatures, so …"

The Manhattanite smiled brightly at his bestie and offered his fist to bump. "Yeah, no worries, Weeg. I'll email the ticket to you, and we'll, y'know, coordinate for Monday. It's going to be fun! Even though we missed Oktoberfest, mid-October in Frankfurt and Berlin is still pretty cool." Returning his smile, Luigi fist-bumped Lucas and nodded his leave. As he stepped past the table and out of the pizzeria, he checked his phone for a response from Miles, who did not disappoint: "We'll all meet on 17th at 6."


Luigi stayed later than normal to put the next week's finances in order and accelerate progress on the thermostat prototype, as he wanted to have a second project in his back pocket in the likely case that the Germans felt underwhelmed by Lucas's half-assed 'blueprints.' Due to five o'clock Brooklyn traffic, he arrived at the A-frame five minutes before six, where he noticed that Mario had already parked the truck in front of the house. Pulling in behind it, he shut off the engine and exited the car. He walked inside to find Mario, Peach, Miles, and Daisy sitting in the living room.

"Lou, Yoshi's tied up with his PI's bitchwork, so he'll be joining us via Skype. As will Giuseppe," greeted Miles who was waiting at the computer setup on the coffee table.

Nodding his acknowledgement, his blue eyes darted to observe a smug Mario acting like a housecat who had caught a rather annoying mouse, with Peach scratching his curly hair tenderly. Then he moved to greet his lioness with a kiss. "Kerido mio," he whispered, embracing her with his arms.

"What's this about?" she asked quietly. "I just know that the prick has resurfaced."

"Yeah, he …" A knock on the door interrupted Luigi's explanation. He exchanged a baffled glance with Mario and Peach. "Miles, I thought Yoshi and Giuseppe were joining us via Skype. Is anyone else …?"

The blond engineer shook his head in equal confusion. Mario immediately stood up and approached the door. A moment later, he opened it to reveal Father Sal. "Hey, Zio, what …?"

"Joe called me earlier," he responded, strolling inside without delay. "What's this about Lucas?"

Two separate ringtones blasted from the computer speakers. Miles answered each one; in the first square appeared Yoshi at his desk, in the second was a thinner Giuseppe sitting at his kitchen table. "Alright, let's get started. Lucas has reappeared," he announced. "I'll let Luigi do the talking, as I know very little."

"Ahem," began Luigi awkwardly. "Well, Mario kicked Lucas's ass. I found him bruised on a sidewalk," he shot an irritated glance at his unrepentant brother while Yoshi clapped, Miles and Daisy snickered, Peach raised an eyebrow at her boyfriend, and Giuseppe and Father Sal shrugged. "Afterward, we went to a pizzeria, and he told me that we're going, uh, on a trip. Out of the country."

"What the fuck?!" yelled Yoshi from the screen. "Not at Mario beating that shithead's ass. That was a long time coming. But where the fuck does he want you to go?"

"Germany. We leave Monday evening." Luigi scrolled through his emails to locate the flight information. "Out of JFK at 7:25 pm to Frankfurt, touching down at a little past nine in the morning local time. And we come back two weeks later on November 2."

"Hell-fucking-shit no!" interjected Mario angrily as Peach rose from her position on the couch to try to calm him. However, he remained undaunted. "Nah, nah, you ain't doin' that! First of all, it's not a good look for you to disappear off to fuckin' Germany so early in your tenure. Secondly, it's that fuckin' prick!"

"I second that," Yoshi agreed. "The motherfucker's up to something. Why the fuck does he want to go to Germany now? Next spring, maybe, I could understand – and that's from a purely professional, engineering standpoint. He couldn't possibly have a design for the investors. And the Germans are, well, persnickety."

"Third," echoed Daisy, crossing her arms. "I don't buy it, either." Whereas an apprehensive Miles steepled his hands in thought, the lioness approached her lion and, running her fingers through his hair, spoke gently, "I can't go with you, kerido. Nor can Mario or Miles. You'd be alone. Yes, you'd be in Germany, where the level of English is much higher than, say, Mexico, but he's already left you once. And if he does it again, then it'll look like you were a no-show at your job."

"You see?!" cried Mario, extending his hand at Daisy. "Even the Sfacciata thinks this is a bad idea! You'd be a sitting duck! Tell him no way, Weegie!"

"Kid," rasped Giuseppe on screen, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses, "I know what I … said before. But this … is … not a good idea. We can't … help you abroad. Stay in New York."

"Guys," began Luigi while ambling to the open seat on the end of the couch next to Miles, "I get what you're saying. I do. But … behind Lucas are Fat Tony, Big Jackass, and Pete Morello. Granted, I don't think they trust Lucas. I certainly the fuck don't. However, if I piss them off, then it's game over. Not just for you and me, Mario, but the shop. Maybe even the union." Next, he cast his gaze to the silent, yet disapproving Giuseppe, "I'm no longer a follower. I have more to think about than just myself."

"I don't fuckin' …" gasped his older brother, tossing his hand up in frustration. "You're … You're… !" Pacing for a few seconds, he crossed the room to jab his finger at Luigi's sitting form, "You're outta your goddamned mind!"

Unable to remain passive, the priest gently put a hand upon his agitated eldest nephew's shoulder. "Basta. Luigi's right, niputi mo." Sighing, he chewed his lip, feeling two sets of steely Masciarelli eyes burning into him. "I don't like Lucas's intentions. At all. And frankly, if he's willing to ignore my warning, there's no telling just who is really controlling him. But if Tony, his father, or Cousin Pete are involved, then his refusal could put Luigi in grave danger. It could also mean that a good number of hardworking men lose their jobs – including you, Mario. And then what? You run off to the Special Forces again? Your body will give out. It did for your father before he …" Salvatore bit his lip again, watching the screen, on which a watery-eyed Giuseppe sniffed and brushed a bony finger against his cheek. "And it's happening to … Anyway," he paused to self-censure, "whether we like it or not, Luigi was chosen. And I trust him to do the right thing. It's time that you and," he pivoted to face his counterpart on screen, "Joe let go."

"Like hell!" bit out Mario. "It may not matter to youse," he gesticulated to both Father Sal and Uncle Joe, "but I won't bury another member of my fuckin' family! If I have to ride in the fuckin' baggage hold to Germany, then Lucas, Pete, the Jackasses, and even your Mafia ass can kiss mine!" He reached into his pocket for his phone and started to search for flights from Kennedy to Frankfurt.

Peach put her hands on his shoulders, eyeballing the now blank gaze of the priest. "Amore, perhaps …"

An unexpectedly enraged Salvatore approached Mario and smacked the phone out of his hands, knocking it into the far corner of the living room. Though Giuseppe wailed in Sicilian for him to stop, the black-clad figure ignored him and gave a dark stare at the stunned plumber and fearful blonde physician next to them. "I didn't just say all that to be cute, niputi. I am telling you. Capisci? Because you, Luigi, and Giuseppe are every bit my famiglia. Every. Bit. I am saying this to protect your brother! To protect you and Joe!"

The red-hoodied laughed mirthlessly as Peach, Joe, and Luigi all yelled at him to discontinue the argument. "Protect us? Yeah, okay, Sal. Keep lyin' to yourself. For being such a great protector, you haven't been around much."

Salvatore moved so that he stood toe to toe with his oldest nephew, using his extra four inches to lean over him. The group observed the unfolding confrontation in horror, half-expecting the mafioso to strike him. "Exactly," he replied lowly. "You think it was easy for me to stay away? Hmm, Mario?" At the man's silence, he added, "You've always been a judgmental sapientone. Just like your father. Just like your Nonno Masciarelli. They never got along precisely because they had too much in common! But for a sapientone, there's a whole lot about me that you wouldn't want to know. So you best stay out of it. Let Cristina take you to Manhattan. Go celebrate your birthday."

Mario lifted his chin and mustache in defiance. "I know exactly what you are, Zio. Despite the Church frock-and-dagger bullshit. Sometimes, youse," he briefly pivoted to glance at Giuseppe on screen, "forget that a Taliban hitmansniper, same difference – severed part of my leg with one fuckin' bullet." Holding up one finger to emphasize his point, he continued, "One. Yet I'm still standing. Thanks to my fratellino. Thanks to Peaches. And now, I got," he rolled his eyes at Daisy who returned it with a provocative stare, "a fuckin' Sfacciata. And no one will get in the way of me protecting them. Not you, not the goddamned Mafia. As for Joe? Well, he's got our nonna, his wife, daughters, and even a grandson to worry about, Sal. His health!And gee, I wonder why Mama – your own sorella – didn't want us around you."

The group observed as Salvatore's rigid, mutely threatening posture waivered throughout the plumber's rejoinder. By its end, Father Sal vibrated with a plethora of unexpressed emotions betraying a mixture of fiery teenage angst and raw middle-aged sorrow. "I really hope you never live to regret anything. Today, you're thirty-six. I still got eighteen years and change on you, kid. When you get to your fifties, there'll be a lot that you'll end up telling someone, be it a shrink or priest."

"You sanctimonious prick! You think I don't?!" the younger man exploded. "I regret leaving Weegie behind! If I knew that your chickenshit cousin was gonna grab him, then I'd have taken him to North Carolina with me! I regret not savin' that piece of shit Marco! More than that, I …" he blinked back a tear, then went on, "I regret not being able to find Pops, not being able to save one goddamned person trapped in that rubble! And I can't do nothin' about any of it! Forever! I got to live with that for fifty years more!" A shocked Peach attempted to embrace him, yet Mario gently shrugged her away and exited the common space to his bedroom. Glaring at the priest with the most hostility that she could muster, the physician moved away to follow her beloved plumber.

"Congrats-a-fuckin'-lations," Luigi sarcastically growled at his maternal uncle. "That was some … A-plus Christianity right there." Salvatore did not reply; instead, he moved to sit in the Lazy-Boy nearby and put his face into his hands. The green-hoodied plumber sighed. "Sal, Joe, this is why keeping secrets need to end. Can't you see that it's hurting – no, killing us? Ultimately, I need to go with Lucas." On screen, Yoshi and Joe both opened their mouths to protest, but he held up a hand. "Yosh, Daisy, Zio, Miles, I get why you're afraid. Now, I don't trust him. I do, however, trust youse with my life. And as fucked up as you are, Uncle Sal, I trust that you are trying to protect me." Luigi stepped toward the hunched priest and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I know Lucas better than anyone here; the one thing that he gets off on is playing one person against another – divide and conquer. That's … how he got away with February's California debacle. That's how he fucked me over at Brooklyn City. And that was my fuck-up – playing right into it. I'm not letting it happen again. So," he scanned the living room to the attentive audience, "let's come up with a plan before I go."


Unable to sleep, Luigi tiptoed downstairs to find Miles staring at his computer, steepling his hands to indicate that he was deep in thought. The plumber checked the clock in the kitchen – 12:10 a.m. Hesitant to turn on the television and risk disturbing his friend, Mario, and Peach, he inaudibly went to the porch door and went outside to the cold Brooklyn night air and darkened backyard that obscured the browning grass of autumn. Despite the time, he could hear the honks and zooms of traffic on 18th Avenue. The door opened a second time to reveal a shirtless and tattooed Mario, wearing nothing but black and red boxers, his Army-issue dog tags hanging loosely around his thick neck. The younger man, dressed in an old green shirt and matching plaid pajama bottoms, gave his brother a curious once-over. "Mario, go inside; it's chilly out."

"Nah, I'm aight," he whispered, shuffling to stand next to him. "I, uh, couldn't sleep. Didn't want to disturb Peaches, y'know?"

Luigi nodded. "Yeah, same. Daisy's a pretty sound sleeper, but I didn't want to risk it. Look, I'm sorry about … the bullshit earlier. I didn't know Sal was coming, and what he said …"

The older man held up a hand. "Weegie, you didn't know. It ain't your fault. 'Sides," he flashed him a faint smile, "I've wanted to say that for a while now. Like Pops and Nonno, I don't think much of … religion." He exhaled while staring at the few visible stars. "Clear night. I remember Pops used to come out here – when he thought that you and I had gone to bed – and just stare up at 'em. I, uh, hope he found a good one, y'know? He and Mama."

"Yeah," rasped the man in green. "Me, too."

"Anyway, I'm, uh, watchin' our new bitch. Johnny."

He turned to his brother and raised his eyebrow. "And?"

"Honestly? His uncle's definitely into some crooked shit, but … he seems like a normal kid. I don't know. If he came from Fat Tony or Lucas," Mario spat the latter's name, "he's got something to hide. I just don't know what it is yet."

The younger plumber nodded again. "Keep watching him, especially while I'm in Germany." Mario spun away, still raw and reluctant to let him go to another country, alone, with that piece of shit. "I'll keep in contact per the agreed-upon plan. You know that." The older plumber made a soft grunt in response. "Fratello, I … I got a bad feeling. Like you. Like, shit, everyone. I want you to …" He pivoted to face him expectantly. "Take Daisy with you to Manhattan. I don't want her in Brooklyn alone. Would you do that?"

"Yeah."

"Grazie. I'll talk to her, convince her not to be a hero. We got your birthday party on Sunday, so you'll take her to the Upper East afterward."

"My birthday – don't remind me," he grumbled. "Thirty-six big ones. I'm gettin' fuckin' old. And good luck convincing her of anything! She got a mouth!"

A chuckling Luigi shook his head. "Yeah. But so does Maria."

"'Ey! What the fuck's she got to do with this?"

Luigi smugly twisted his head to look at the other man. "Daisy and Maria in the same house."

Blanching ever so slightly, Mario made the sign of the cross as his brother giggled, occasionally combining his mirth with snorts. "Jesus Tapdancing Christ. Two peas in a fuckin' pod."

Abruptly, the door creaked outward, causing the brothers to cease their conversation. They rotated their bodies to see that Miles was standing timidly behind them and clutching a laptop in his arms. His brown eyes shifted between the two plumbers, yet his body remained motionless.

"Hey, Miles," mumbled Luigi. When the blond engineer did not speak, he turned to him again. "Is everything aight? Sorry if you heard us from out here. We'll go to bed soon."

Miles bit his lip, then glanced at Mario, who was regarding him with a mixture of fatigue and amusement. "Out with it, Dipshit," the latter finally barked.

"Alright," replied the hacker. "This concerns you both, actually. Well, the plan from earlier. A few months ago, Giuseppe 'hired' me, for a lack of a better term, to monitor the plumber's union and whatever Pete Morello was planning. He gave me a jump drive."

"Yeah," acknowledged Luigi in spite of a confused Mario. "I remember that. It had a bunch of financial shit on it. Shit that proves the union's Mafia."

"Exactly. And that's all I found. At least … initially. However, after the reappearance of your maternal uncle, I followed a hunch and searched it a second time. This time, I found … something – a hidden file within some document dated January 1995. Interestingly, it was owned by John Slaughter. It took me a few days to crack it. I didn't want to say anything in front of Salvatore, and I don't think Giuseppe knows what was on it – not entirely. But now, I have reason not to trust him. Well, either of them."

Mario and Luigi traded alarmed looks. "What did you find?" asked the former.

Unlocking the laptop, he clicked a few buttons, and then twisted it one hundred-eighty degrees so that they could see his discovery. Luigi blinked and Mario gasped, the latter accepting the computer from the engineer in disbelief. They gaped at a scanned black and white photograph of four people in their late teens or early twenties lounging on a wide leather couch, an assortment of fancy alcoholic drinks in their hands. Two Italian men, a skinny, curly-haired man on the leftmost end and a fat, shorter man on the rightmost, were dressed in dark-colored leisure suits with white, wide-lapelled dress shirts. Between them sat an olive-skinned youth vested in a light-colored men's blouse, black vest and pants, and gold necklaces and a young woman in a silver satin evening robe and an expensive fur-lined leather jacket.

"What the fuck? That's … Joe, Sal, and fuckin' Jackie Morano!" exclaimed Mario. "This must've been taken, shit, in mid to late '78? Maybe '79? I thought Joe had nothing to do with the Mafia?" He scoffed and added, "Well, that's a confirmed 'bullshit!'"

"Yeah, no shit," answered his brother. "It looks like they're in … some nightclub. But … who the hell's the woman?"

Mario leaned in to examine the unknown female in the photograph. Her long blondish hair was styled in a babette, and her face was thin with chiseled cheekbones and nose. Although the black and white nature of the image precluded them from ascertaining the color of her eyes, both plumbers noticed that she had used kohl and eyeliner to accentuate them. "I have no idea who that is."

"Could she be Salvatore's mystery woman?" murmured Luigi. At both Miles's and Mario's shared aghast expression, he elaborated more loudly, "Sal … implied to both Daisy and I that he fell in love and that was the reason why he left the Mafia."

The three sets of eyes immediately fixated on the smiling Salvatore and nameless blonde.