Author's notes: I'm back! A special thanks to those who've commented and favorited the story. It means a lot; feedback is always welcome.
Now, a few notes on the chapter:
1) A couple characters make racist statements herein. I don't condone or support their beliefs, but I am staying in character, given the context.
2) I am writing about Dubai circa 2013-2014. Many of the norms in the story are no longer true, as it has become one of the most liberal, almost European-like cities in the Middle East.
3) I do use Arabic in the story. Due to Arabic script being read and written right to left, using the actual print, while cool, would mess up the formatting on FF net and AO3. So please excuse the transliteration.
Chapter 46: Rihla ilya bled, Part I
"That night […] I dreamed that I was on the wing of a great bird which was flying with me towards Mecca, then to Yemen, then eastwards and thereafter going towards the south, then flying far eastwards and finally landing in a dark and green country, where it left me. I was astonished at this dream and said to myself, 'If the shaykh can interpret my dream for me, he is all that they say he is.' The next morning, after all the other visitors had gone, he called me and when I had related my dream interpreted it to me saying: 'You will make the pilgrimage [to Mecca] and visit [the Tomb of] the Prophet, and you will travel through Yemen, Iraq, the country of the Turks, and India. You will stay there for a long time and meet there my brother Dilshad the Indian, who will rescue you from a danger into which you will fall."
– Ibn Battuta, The Rihla, trans. and ed. H. A. R. Gibb (London: Broadway House, 1929), p. 49.
"C'mon, Weeg, wake the fuck up. I'll stand out here until you let me in, and you know I will."
12:51 a.m.
Luigi hastily assessed his options. He had to get rid of Lucas before Miles sent the videoconference link, or at least hide all knowledge of both him and his association with Sam. Switching his phone to silent, he put it in the side pocket of his pajama bottoms and opened the door. The taller man, who was dressed in silk lilac sleepwear, leisurely strolled inside and slumped onto the bed.
"Lucas, I'm tired. We have a long flight tomorrow, and I have to be at work the very next day," complained the Brooklynite.
He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, c'mon. You're no fun! And actually, change of plans, my man. We're not going back to New York tomorrow."
The plumber's face turned ashen. "W-what? What do you mean we're not going back to New York?!" He laughed nervously, then added, "C'mon, stop playing games. I have to go back! My shop is waiting, my family is waiting! Daisy is waiting!"
Lucas put up his hands and gestured for him to calm down. "Weeg, relax! Breathe with me." Inhaling and exhaling rhythmically, he soothed, "In through the nose, out through the mouth. In …. Out …."
"Fuck you!" the other, now pink-faced man hissed. "I'm not your toy! Even if I have to purchase my own ticket home, I'm getting on that goddamned plane!"
"Huh, well, gee, that's too bad. 'Cause Daisy's on her way right now," replied the Manhattanite lightly while inspecting the cuticles of his right hand. "Well, not here, but she'll be joining us for a restful, ten-day vacation. That prototype of yours … I mean, wow. And on your first go. That's impressive – truly. I thought that you deserve a nice reward. Being a boss has its perks."
"What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Luigi darkly. "Where did you send her?"
"I told you – she'll be joining us."
"Where, Lucas?!"
"It's a surprise!" he beamed as his friend heaved with anger. "We're leaving at eleven this morning. Same time as before, just not to New York. I mean, New York in October is boring as assfuck. I'll even give you a hint: it's warm, lots of palm trees, and isn't that far away. But you're free to do what you want. It is a gift after all. Personally, I won't mind spending those ten days with her. She's feisty and a little too high maintenance for my taste, but goddamn, she's got gorgeous tits."
His chuckles were cut short as he found himself hauled to his feet and slammed against the wall. "You sonofabitch!" yelled the plumber, still clutching a stunned Lucas by his pajama lapels. "If you even think of touching her, I will kill you!"
"Weegie, easy, man. It was a fucking joke! I know she's your girl. We're friends … I'd never make a move. Not unless it were a threesome – consensual, of course," he gasped, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Luigi tightened his grip. "Okay, okay, Jesus! I take it back! But she's on the plane, so no take-backsies on that one."
Panting with rage, the shorter Brooklynite re-assessed his current predicament. Lucas was too carefree to be lying about Daisy's whereabouts, so he had to assume that he was unfortunately telling the truth. The choice was rather easy to make; without his lioness by his side, his job, his reputation, and even his family meant little. Although Luigi implicitly trusted Daisy to protect herself and act wisely, he could not face their families if he left her in Lucas's clutches. I am to my beloved as my beloved is to me. Slowly, he released Lucas and stepped back. "Fine," he murmured. "I'll go with you."
Lucas, swallowing to maintain control, nodded. "Alright." He smoothed out his lapels. "I'll take that as an apology. No hard feelings. Anyway, back to the vacation. If you and Daisy give it a chance, I think you'll really like it. Now, I need your word not to say anything to the Woodland Critter or anyone until we get to our destination."
The plumber felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. "Why the fuck would I talk to that brute?"
He cocked his head to the side. "Good point. No problemo; I'll take care of it. Just keep your mouth shut, and we'll be home free."
"Okay, now if you'll excuse me, nature's calling."
As Luigi began to make his way to the toilet, Lucas constricted his eyes and asked, "Where's your phone?" He stopped hesitantly, and the taller man extended his hand. "Give me your phone, Weeg. I know you have it. Remember: surprise." Swearing mentally, he switched the phone off, pulled it out of his pocket, and handed it to him. Fetching the charger, he plugged it into the port nearest his position, and attached it to the cord. "I won't turn it on or fuck with it. But it's staying here." Despite the pressing need to relieve himself, the Brooklynite moved to the bed, sat down, and crossed his arms. With a shrug, the other man turned on the television and said, "Suit yourself. But get some rest. We do have a plane to catch."
He did not sleep at all that night; whereas Lucas raided his mini-bar and chuckled at several Netflix movies, he blankly watched the flat screen. When his frenemy became fully engaged by Stanley Kubrick's The Shining and Nicholson's Johnny, Luigi grabbed his wristwatch tracker and activated it to let Miles know his whereabouts. "I bet the fucking Critters have stayed in that hotel, Weeg. Did you know that they shot that at the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park? Beautiful park; shitty property." By five o'clock in the morning, his eyes were heavy with sleep, though thankfully, Lucas was half-asleep during Sixteen Candles, given that he was suspiciously quiet whenever the typically Hollywood racist caricature, Long Duk Dong aka The Donger spoke. Still conscious, Luigi smirked at a mental scene during which Yoshi freely kicked the shit out of the man in purple and, at its conclusion, like Clint Eastwood riding into the sunset, made a passing comment about Lucas's favorite color being a popular choice for plastic dongs. Unable to keep his eyes open any longer and seeing that his undesired companion was napping, he allowed himself some sleep, confident in the fact that Miles now had time to intercept any intrusion into his phone.
An hour later, he was shaken awake by an exhausted Lucas, who mumbled that they had roughly one hour to grab a quick shower and breakfast before meeting the Colorado Critter. Before Luigi could grab it, the Manhattanite snatched his phone and put it into his robe pocket. "You'll get it back at the airport. I promise; it'll remain off. No offense, but I really don't want to read your texts about toilets with the Sergeant Major or Joe the Plumber. Now sexting between you and the Hottie, sure, though somehow I don't think she'd be into that."
The plumber stared at him, playing along with his game. "And how do I know you won't?"
Lucas shrugged. "Good point; I mean, you really don't. But honestly, how much damage could I really do in an hour?" Phone in hand, he waived slightly. "Meet you downstairs, bestie." A moment later, he disappeared into the hallway, presumably back to his suite.
Knowing that he did not have much time, Luigi took a quick shower, shaved, brushed his teeth, and arranged his bags near the door. He located the complimentary hotel notepad, then began to write a brief message to Sam: "Get msg to NY. Going to Dubai. No choice." He tore the paper into the size of a thumb, which could be mistaken for a random scrap, and tucked it into his jeans pocket. At a little after seven-thirty, he rode the lift and met up with a chipper Lucas and fatigued Sam. As a group, they decided to eat at the breakfast buffet in the hotel before taking the train to Frankfurt Airport. While in line for the viennoiseries, Luigi stuffed the paper in Sam's back pocket. After loading their respective plates with sweet rolls, jams, and eggs, Sam excused himself to use the lavatory. In the privacy of the men's room, he read his cousin's message in disbelief. Shit; what the fuck was that little asshat up to now?! A sinking feeling that his uncle's silence was somehow connected eclipsed him; placing the paper with his cousin's handwriting into the front inner pocket of his jeans, and inasmuch as he hated leaving his Brooklyn cousin in the hands of that prick, the Coloradan knew that he needed to return to New York as soon as possible. Finishing in the bathroom, he re-emerged to find that Lucas and Luigi had gone.
"What the FUCK do you mean, 'He's gone,' Miles?!" bellowed Mario, who was dressed in a tee-shirt and shorts and whose hair had been messed up from sleep. "I thought you can track him?!" The pink pajama-covered Peach tried her best to calm her lover, but he stormed away from her and toward the nervous blond engineer. "And where's the Sfacciata? I go up to fuckin' Massachusetts for one goddamned weekend and all hell fuckin' breaks loose! Someone better start talkin' now!"
"Mario," began his near-spouse, yet was cut off by his hand.
"Nah, I want answers!" He turned to Peach. "Did you fuckin' know?!" She hid her gaze and chewed her lip.
"Lucas!" bit out Miles. "That's what happened!" He started to pace anxiously back and forth. Mario took a single step back and crossed his arms. "The shithead threatened Daisy! Said something would 'happen' to Luigi if she didn't go. She got onto a plane this evening – a couple hours before you came back from Springfield. You got back later, I know. I tried to warn Luigi and Sam Carlino, but somehow, that fucker knew and pre-empted the call!" Inhaling to calm himself, he spoke again more softly, "Luigi turned on the backup this morning his time. I tracked him to Frankfurt Airport where I think he took a private plane."
Mario's placid blue eyes became thunderous. "So when were youse gonna tell me? Huh? Where did that piece of shit take him?!"
"Peach didn't know," assured the hacker. "She did know that Daisy had left. We – she and I – decided to keep the destination private until we could tell Luigi. She told Peach that she had to leave for a family emergency. Usually, you get back to New York by eight o'clock. We were hoping …"
"You were hoping that I'd be back in the middle of it," concluded the plumber tiredly. "Aight, so where's he – where're they going?"
Miles took a deep breath and steeled himself for the plumber's reaction. "D-Dubai."
The blonde physician put her hand to her mouth, and they hesitantly looked to Mario whose expression had become carefully blank. Several seconds passed before they heard a scream, "MOTHERFUCKER!" He grabbed his phone and roared, "I'm booking the first fuckin' flight to the Gulf. And then, once I land, I'll hunt that little cocksucker down and personally drown him in the fuckin' Persian Gulf! I'll float his fuckin' bones to Iran! And then I'll present his fuckin' skull to Giuseppe for Natale!"
"Amore, don't!" pleaded Peach.
"Don't what?! È il mio fratellino! They're gonna kill him, Peaches! And they're gonna kill him in the one goddamned region that could break Uncle Joe even more than he is already!" With a final growl, he dropped his gaze to the phone and did a search on Kayak for round-trip tickets to Dubai.
"M-Mario, we-we-we shouldn't do that," stammered Miles.
Unmoved by his brother's friend's nervousness, he answered while scrolling through the airline options, "Why not?"
"B-B-because we don't know who is behind Lucas. And if … if someone is arranging this, then Giuseppe and Salvatore could be in danger."
Mario and Peach stared at the shaking engineer. Muttering a string of Sicilian and Standard Italian obscenities, the Italian slammed his phone down onto the kitchen island, cracking the screen along the bottom edge. He chewed on his lip and, eventually, sank onto one of the stools.
There was a buzz on the intercom. The plumber squinted at his girlfriend, wordlessly asking her who would be asking for them at five-thirty in the morning. Moving to the box at the far end of the kitchen, he pressed the button and responded, "Yo Anthony, it's o-dark-early."
"Sorry, Mario. But I have a visitor for you. A Salvatore Rigassi. He says he's your uncle. I thought his name was Giuseppe? And he's a priest?"
Peach's eyebrows rose as he spoke again, "Yeah, Joe's my paternal uncle. Sal's my mother's brother. He's aight."
"Okay, thanks, Mario. Sorry to bother youse."
He switched off the commlink. "Mario, how does he know where we live?" Peach inquired, her voice tinged with apprehension.
They both glanced at Miles who shook his head, soundlessly denying that he had provided the information. "Daisy and I … Well, we did have a chat with him on Saturday evening. But we never gave him your address, I swear!"
"Aight, Dipshit, aight," the short man said, using his hands to calm everyone. "We all know that Sal isn't exactly a humble priest. Just how far in the shit he currently is remains to be seen. But let's play it cool, find out why he's here."
The three people waited uneasily for Father Sal's knock, which came about two minutes later. Signaling to Peach and Miles to stay in the kitchen, he rubbed his eyes and opened the door to reveal an equally and uncharacteristically disheveled Sicilian: although he was dressed in clean black garments with the distinctive Catholic clerical collar, he was sporting a day's scruff and appeared not to have slept; he also smelt of stale cigarettes, causing his eldest nephew to wrinkle his nose. "Mario," Sal greeted roughly.
"Zio," replied Mario with a nod. "I was, uh, unaware that you knew where Peach lived."
"I know a lot of things, niputi," he whispered matter-of-factly. "I would ask to come in, please."
Wavering for a full minute, the plumber finally allowed him to pass, shutting the door. Salvatore scanned his surroundings of old, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century furniture, his eyebrows briefly raising to reflect his compliments, before gliding into the kitchen to find Peach and Miles. "Cristina, Miles," he addressed the pair in the same rough voice. He stopped at the short edge of the rectangular island as Mario entered and stood protectively next to his girlfriend. Miles slowly retreated from the priest, like he would have with a dangerous animal, and moved closer to his friend's brother. "I … Miles and Daisy came to me on Saturday, during, uh, confession. Word on the street is that Pete Morello's … been whacked. Something about a missing one-fifty-mil. If that's actually true, then Luigi could be next. That could be why Lucas took him to Dubai. Foreign country. No witnesses. LCN in Italy does this all the time."
Peach winced, turning away, while Miles stared blankly into space. His oldest nephew scoffed, "And that's why you came here at four in the morning? To tell me that my brother – your fucking sister's son – is going to die? Fuck you, fuori di qui!"
Salvatore's normally brown eyes morphed into sinister, black pits. "As you said, niputi, do you really think I came here to allow my nephew to die?" The three young people fell quiet at the immediate shift in demeanor and speech. "I plan to do something … dangerous. But it's the only way. My only request is for you not to say anything to Giuseppe. I will get his son back … alive. However, I … cannot bear him being involved."
"What are you going to do?" inquired Peach.
"Nothing that you can be privy to, Cristina. Believe me; it's for your protection." Eyeing Miles, he added in a barely-controlled emotional rasp, "That goes for you, too, kid. If Joe were to know where Luigi and Daisy are headed, it would break him!" Shaking his head, he swallowed, "And I cannot permit that. Plus, the, uh, Family is not so keen on Arabs."
"And just how the fuck do you suggest we keep that from him?" demanded Mario.
"Just make something up!" bellowed the mafioso.
Suddenly angered, Mario moved into his personal space. "You got some nerve, Sal, or should I call you Il Mietitore? You come here, to Peaches's and my house, and give us orders like we're your soldiers! Well, we aren't! So why don't you start telling the truth! What's this really about? Who the fuck's this … Polina?!"
The Sicilian's obsidian eyes now possessed a glassy sheen. His lips parting in both horror and surprise, he backed away from the plumber who kept his place. "How … How do you know that name?"
"Which one?" interjected Miles.
"Well, Dipshit," began the portly man in a falsely light tone, drawing the man in black's attention once more, "Il Mietitore is the nickname of one rather notorious Mafia hitman. Miles, meet the man himself. As for Polina, she's the one behind Lucas the Loser."
Upon seeing the engineer's and physician's horrified looks, Sal nodded ruefully. "Yeah, it's true;I am – I was – Il Mietitore. But most of the stories surrounding my … executions are highly exaggerated works of fiction." Exhaling raggedly, he continued, "As for Polina, I … I …."
"Okay, let me help refresh your memory," groused Mario, "Who was Jackie fucking back in '78? There's a picture of you, Joe, and Jackie with some Russian bimbo. Unless you were fucking her?"
"I never cheated on … !" Sal shrieked, catching himself before he could voice the name of his beloved. "It wasn't me," he responded emotionlessly. "Jackie used to … step out on his wife. Frequently. Mafia marriages are about alliances, not love. He and Angela hated each other. Probably still do, but divorce is out of the question. Anyway, there was a mistress who stayed around longer than his normal fare. Her name was Irina, I think. Yeah, Irina Lepeshinski. She defected via France back in '76. She was a ballet dancer at some minor company in Manhattan."
"And who's Olivia?" asked the hacker.
Sal's olive skin lost its color. "Olivia – Livia – was Jackie's sister. She-She died young. Meningitis. Gabby and I never knew her."
"Shit," whispered Mario. "Polina Olivia Lepeshinski. She's Jackie's daughter. And Marco Bowser's babymomma. She's Louie and Wendy's biological mother."
"My God …" Almost on the verge of collapse, Father Sal began to sink to the floor when Peach rushed to move a stool underneath him. "Padre, here. Sit."
"Grazie," said Salvatore, managing a smile to his niece-in-law. As she went to fill a glass of ice water, they heard the man sob, "Jackie's daughter! Now hellbent on revenge. Does it ever end?"
"Why does she want revenge?"
The former mafioso shook his head. "I haven't the faintest idea. Even if she weren't illegitimate, she could never be made. She's a female. And while the LCN, Camorra, and other Italian groups have allowed the wives and mothers to make business decisions, as the men are either dead or in prison, the American LCN – Zio Carlo – would never admit women. They're wives and homemakers; nothing more." Eyebrow raised, Peach brought him the glass, to which he sheepishly added, "It's not what I think."
"Well, Lucas is working with or for her. Possibly his father, as well. And that was probably who was behind John Slaughter," reasoned Miles.
He shook his head again as he sipped the water. "That may be true. But Georgie Kariolis wouldn't have the connections. Nor would Polina, even if she is Jackie's daughter. The Mafia tends to keep the women out of the details of business. Part of it is, uh, old school Sicily. Part of it is so that the FBI, NYPD, ATF, whomever can't compel them to turn state's evidence. Granted, husbands and wives can't testify to their private conversations; however, they can serve as third-party witnesses in certain cases. Plus, they often hide their … assets through the wife's family."
"So what do we do?" inquired Peach.
Pointing his finger, the priest warned, "You do nothing. Do you hear me? If this is Jackie's daughter, then she's getting help from someone. The questions are who and why. And believe me, Carlo and Jackie won't tell you." Taking a final sip of water, he set the glass on the marble top of the kitchen island and rose to his feet. "I will be in touch. But promise me, niputi: you will not go after Luigi or Daisy. Doing so will only jeopardize them … and me. And you will not say anything to Joe. Not in his current condition. If …" He sighed, "If you trust me, then believe that I will not give up until I get them back."
Miles, Mario, and Peach exchanged a look. Finally, the plumber murmured, "Aight, Sal. We'll play it your way."
Daisy nervously checked her watch – roughly thirty minutes until touch-down at Dubai International Airport. Thankfully, the Emirates Airlines' check-in desk made no comment regarding her Brazilian passport; the woman merely mentioned that she would be issued a ninety-day, non-extendable visa upon entry into the United Arab Emirates and guided her to the priority check-in and first-class lounge. She was furthermore thankful for two events: first, her father and stepmother would not call her until Friday afternoon Pacific Time, though it would require some creativity on her part, as the time difference between San Francisco and Dubai was eleven hours; second, her and Miles's visit to Saint Rosalia's had spurred into action the reclusive priest, who feared the volatile reactions of both his Rigassi family and Giuseppe, whose opinions on Arabs were notorious. She looked down at her attire. Having visited several Muslim countries in Africa, she possessed several djellabas and headscarves; even though her loose, navy-blue garment was far more colorful than the traditional black abaya of Saudi, Kuwaiti, and Emirati women, she would receive little interrogation by the locals, who would assume that she was, via her Sephardic looks, Maghrebi. Then she held up her left hand somewhat awkwardly. Her fourth finger was encircled by an antique gold ring with three tiny diamonds, which Father Sal insisted that she take: "This was my mother's fede from my father, which she gave to me before she died. It was intended for my wife, but since I never married, it passed to Luigi as the second son and Rigassi heir; he would've received it once he was ready to marry. I won't have Lucas leverage your unmarried status or your Jewishness. Women have been prosecuted for much less in Dubai, sobrinha." In the past, she eschewed such symbols of male patriarchy; after all, for millennia, women had to be marked as a man's property. And while she hesitated to accept and wear such a valuable family heirloom, Daisy recognized Salvatore's pragmatism: she could be imprisoned in a Dubai hotel room either alone as an unmarried woman or in Luigi's arms as his protected spouse.
The plane began its descent; despite the darkness, from her window seat, she could see the sparkling green, yellow, purple, red, and blue, Las Vegas-like lights of the city as well as the spire of the Burj Khalifa, with the sea stretching along it in a bluish-black expanse. Slowly turning to the left, the craft aligned itself with the runway and flew over a busy interchange before touching ground at a little after seven-thirty in the evening local time. As it taxied to the gate, the first-class passengers stretched from the nearly thirteen-hour trip and retrieved their luggage from the overhead bins. A seasoned traveler, Daisy managed to fit everything into a small roller suitcase and backpack, which avoided the necessity to wait for checked baggage at the carousels. Fifteen minutes later, she disembarked from the airplane and passed through customs, where the police stamped her entry visa and asked where and with whom she would be staying. During her flight, Lucas had sent her an email with the details for a suite at the Burj al-Arab, and she repeated this information to the officer, mentioning that her husband had already arrived from a business trip in Germany and was waiting for her. Glancing at the wedding ring, he nodded and wished her a pleasant stay in Dubai.
At the special ground transportation area for Jumeirah Hotels, where she had been directed by the airport concierge, a white Rolls Royce pulled up to the curb, and a burly Indian driver hurriedly exited the car, loaded her bags in the trunk, and opened the rear car door. She smiled softly and climbed inside; a minute later, she saw Lucas's grinning face – which she resisted punching – and the watery, yet relieved blue eyes of her lover. Given where they were, they had to make do with intertwining their hands. The drive to the Burj al-Arab Hotel was fifteen minutes from the airport, for which the jetlagged and emotional Daisy and Luigi were thankful. Lucas had reserved a two-bedroom, two-bathroom deluxe suite with a private dining room and butler service. Following their complimentary welcome drink – freshly-squeezed orange juice, much to Lucas's muttering about the fucking Arabs and their hang-ups about alcohol – they were escorted by the staff through the gold, blue, white, and green-motifed lobby to their suite.
While Lucas bounced around his side of the two-story duplex like a kid in an amusement park, at the top of the grand, gold-trimmed staircase, Luigi's blue eyes immediately changed to black orbs; he pulled his beautiful lioness into their bedroom, slamming the door behind them, deliberately walking her back toward the king-sized, purple and gold canopy bed. Once the back of her legs hit the soft mattress, he pounced, covering her body with his and lining her lips and neck with feverish, open-mouthed kisses. Daisy tried to speak, but each time, her lips were crushed by his, indicating that he did not want to talk. Neither she nor Lucas would stop him from having her right then; he had endured one fucking week and a dreadful plane ride to Dubai, thinking of nothing except for her. He ignored Lucas's teasing from the other side of the door; he resisted Daisy's attempts to calm him; instead, he yanked and tossed their clothes to the five-star rug and proceeded to show her seven stars. Underneath his hormonal body, she noticed a shift from their usual lovemaking; this time, he was the dominant, taking her roughly, encouraging her to dig her nails in deeper and moan louder, as if to remind both she and Lucas that he was the alpha. He was losing control, and she loved it.
Daisy did not how much time had passed when she awoke from her postcoital slumber. Her limbs were heavy, and the sweat from their coupling had dried on her skin to a slight hue. Though unable to move, her senses were in overdrive, and she shivered at the rise and fall of her lover's chest and his feathery touches along her spine. Tilting her head, her gaze connected with a pair of dark eyes that encompassed arousal, relief, and anger. With her ringed left hand, she reached up to stroke his hair, but he flipped her onto her back, her neck landing against a cocoon of pillows. A pair of dry masculine lips seized hers, tickling them as he alternated between "I'll kill him" and "It's my fault."
"Sweetie," she wailed, turning her face away so that she could speak, yet he latched onto her neck. "Stop, please." She felt him freeze, then roll off to the side. In spite of glaring hungrily at the nape of her neck, he obeyed. Once again, she ran her hand through his hair, and he leaned into her touch in response. "Kerido, it would be both … emotionally and physically painful for me to know that you were in Dubai and I in New York. It's his fault. If I have to be in a gilded cage, if you have to be in a gilded cage, then I'd rather that we be in it together."
"Cat-face, I … I want you well because I love you. I don't want you around this! God knows what Lucas is up to! How …?" the latter words tore from his throat. "How … do I face your parents, Giuseppe and Lucia, Mario?! What kind of man am I if I can't protect you?!"
"By trusting that we have your back, kerido," she replied quietly in case of an evil toothpick eavesdropping. "Miles knows where we are, as does your uncle Salvatore. My guess is that Mario and Peach know by now, too. Salvatore … doesn't want Joe to know."
Luigi nodded a little. "Yeah, I can understand that one. He's, uh, not the biggest fan of Arabs."
Daisy chuckled. "Neither are my father and Yael. Especially Yael, who's half-Yemenite. My father's family lived in North Africa for centuries until racist Arab Muslims made their lives hell. My grandparents and great-grandparents immigrated to Brazil before making aliyah."
Out of the corner of his eye, for the first time, he glimpsed the faint sparkle on her hand. Stopping its movement through his brown hair, the plumber brought it to the center of his vision. He playfully raised his eyebrows and asked, "Hmm, cat-face, is there something you need to tell me? Because," his voice changed into a low, hungry growl, "I won't share you."
"No, well, yes. Salvatore insisted that I take the ring. Apparently, it belongs to the Rigassis; since he never married, it would've gone to you when …" Gazing up uncertainly, the lioness's amber orbs met familiar dark ones. "When you found a, uh, spouse. And since we're in the UAE, it's illegal to be … intimate with anyone who's not your husband or wife. He didn't want Lucas using that."
He frowned. "But won't they know that we're not married? We have different last names."
"It's common for women to retain their names, even after marriage. But in Arabic, they're usually addressed as 'Wife of blank' or 'Mother of blank,' the latter being the presumptive firstborn son."
Luigi took her left hand into his and, wrinkling his nose, complained, "Well, what if I … want to be known as 'Husband of blank'?"
Humming teasingly, Daisy inquired, "I like that. Have someone in mind?"
Abruptly, she felt herself being wrapped in his warm embrace and his lips upon hers. A few moments and kisses afterward, her plumber intertwined their hands once more and whispered, "If and when she's ready." He slid off her body, spooning it from behind. Reaching over to the light remote, he switched off the lights to reveal a panorama of the Dubai nighttime skyline. "But for right now, we need sleep," he murmured into her right ear, letting his lips momentarily caress the cartilage. "And in the morning, my cat-face, I intend to give you a repeat performance in the shower."
Already drifting off to sleep, she mumbled, "Promises, promises."
Desert sunlight illuminated the bedroom, forcing both Luigi and Daisy to blink and groan in protest. Flipping over to retrieve his discarded jeans, he fished out his phone, which was running on an almost empty battery, to check for the time. 7:47 a.m. She stretched, yawned, and sat up, the sheet cascading down her bare bosom. Glancing up naturally, Luigi caught sight of them and gave her the dark look. Her only reply was a flirty grin as she climbed out of the bed and into the room-sized bathroom. Jumping out of bed, he located his charger and universal voltage converter to plug in his phone; next, he grabbed his wallet and followed his princess into the already steamy bathroom.
Luigi kept his promise, smirking as she was still catching her breath while they brushed their teeth and got dressed. Although he had plenty of clothing acceptable for a moderately-tolerant Dubai, he worried about the effects of the intense heat which, even in late-October, topped ninety degrees Fahrenheit. At their studio, Daisy had packed a few light-colored Oxfords that he had left behind which would be appropriate for summer in New York. As for her, first, she put on orange capris and a white short-sleeved shirt; once satisfied with her on-hotel-premises look, she pulled out a lightweight, mustard-colored djellaba with dark blue embroidery.
"Do, uh, women always need to be covered in Dubai? I mean, on the drive here, I saw women wearing the black get-up, like in Saudi Arabia," he timidly asked from the bedroom threshold. "I … I don't think I'd like it if you had to wear one of those things. I mean, I get being culturally sensitive, but I just …"
She chuckled and shook her head. "No. In the more touristy, ex-pat areas, women can wear what they'd normally wear. It's when you go into parts of the actual city or Abu Dhabi that covering up and wearing a headscarf become essential. No niqab, though." At his confused look, she clarified, "face mask."
He sauntered to her position and encircled his arms from behind her, kissing her neck and murmuring seductively, "No, I really wouldn't like that. I'd be trying to tear it off you."
Giggling, she closed her eyes and relaxed into his caresses. "Believe me, I'd rip it off before you could react. A djellaba is one thing; niqab is just obscene."
He hummed, kissing her neck. "Can't we just stay inside? I guess there's a butler, so we could have food brought to us, spend the day in bed …"
Exposing more of her neck, Daisy snickered. "Heh, and not annoy that evil little toothpick?"
Luigi froze and, gently turning her to face him, said, "Don't provoke him, cat-face. We're not in New York or California. We're not even in Cabo. We're in the Middle East, and I … I couldn't bear it should anything happen. Shit's serious now."
She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms stubbornly. "I won't let that fucker intimidate me, kerido! Someone needs to stand up to him!"
"Jesus," he muttered. "Alright. But I will handle it. Not because of any macho male bullshit, but because he hates you. Pathologically. And I don't think he'd have any qualms putting you in danger, either for your gender or your ethnicity." Bringing his palm up to cup her cheek, he stared into her reluctant amber eyes. "You're not the only one who wants to protect, amore. You're … the most capable woman I've ever met. Truly. And I … I've let you do too much. I've let Mario do too much. Same goes for Miles, Yoshi, Giuseppe, and Lucia. Please, Daisy. Please." She studied his dark, yet determined blues for a second, then nodded.
He leaned down to kiss her forehead and lips; taking her by the hand, he led them downstairs to the fuchsia, ivory, and gold-accented walls of the salon and dining room, where Lucas, vested in a medium purple polo and brown khakis, was sitting at the head of the cherry wood table, attention directed toward the iPhone in his hand. "About time," he griped. "I put in our breakfast order with the butler. We were waiting on you."
"Morning to you, too," responded Luigi in the lightest tone that he could manage as he guided Daisy to the chair next to his. "You could've eaten without out us. I think there's a buffet through ten o'clock – we'd have managed."
Lucas set his phone down on the table top and regarded his friend evenly. "Now what fun would that be? We're on vacation, remember? Besides, it's natural to sleep late after a night of … fucking."
Underneath the table, the plumber squeezed Daisy's hand as her eyes narrowed menacingly. Glancing at Lucas, he shrugged and answered, "Hey, we're on vacation, right? I'm sure you'll find a nice Aussie blonde to screw in no time. In fact, I seem to recall certain exploits in Frankfurt."
Giving them an unreadable stare, he exhaled. "Yeah, fair point, Weegie." Plastering a cheerful smile, he changed the subject. "Now! Breakfast … or whatever the fuck these sand people eat, pool time, shopping; rinse and repeat tomorrow, only there's a party in the evening. In that order."
Daisy and Luigi exchanged a confused look. "Party?" he asked.
He nodded, pressing a gold button on the table to alert the butler that they were ready for breakfast. "Yeah. Black-tie gala for engineering and SCADA. Good networking for us in addition to food and fun. I took the liberty of making appointments for our tuxedo fittings. They'll come here at eleven-ish." Smirking at Daisy, he added, "Sorry. I know how you'd probably love to wear the pants, but I think the good people of the UAE might take great offense. There's 130 channels for you in the suite, though."
"Well, in that case, Lucas, Daisy and I will have a great time eating hummus and pita while watching those 130 channels," retorted Luigi evenly.
Both Lucas and Daisy blinked at Luigi's pointed, hostile, and unyielding stare in the taller man's direction. "Waa – waa?" the Manhattanite voiced, followed by a whining, "Waa!" However, the plumber did not budge; even as the butler and two servers entered the room with several silver trays of Western and Arab breakfast delicacies, he continued to glare at him piercingly. "Oh, shit, fine!" he relented. "I'll even pay for her dress, shoes, makeup, and nails, alright?!" The woman in question bit her lip to keep herself from a burst of victorious and repulsed laughter. Then she frowned. She had never attended a black tie gala before; whenever her father invited her to the Jewish community's black-tie fundraisers, she always declined. Daisy hated putting on big, frilly, Barbie-doll ball gowns and attracting that kind of attention, which she considered demeaning to her gender and self-respect. Moreover, she did not want to expose an ounce of skin to that purple-poaching pervert. Sensing her sudden discomfort, Lucas leered, "What's wrong, Daisy? I mean, you don't have to go. It's probably not your thing." She felt Luigi's thumb brushing her hand in a wordless plead to come with them.
Forcing a smile, she spoke, "No, I'll … I'll come with you to the gala."
"Splendid!" he exclaimed as the staff set the table and served their guests a hot breakfast consisting of fresh viennoiseries and khameer, shakshuka, pancake-like chebab, smoked salmon, labneh, an assortment of sliced fruits, and strong, almost syrupy qahwa, known in the West as coffee. As the woman gently placed the napkin in Daisy's lap, she murmured a shukran bezzef, which caused the butler to blink in surprise at her knowledge of colloquial Arabic. Once the staff left them to eat, Lucas raised his eyebrow and inquired, "Did you memorize a guidebook or something?"
"I lived in Mali, remember? Arabic is one of their major languages. Though I speak better French and Bambara, I picked up a few words here and there in colloquial Arabic." Daisy casually omitted her Sephardi and Mizrahi origins, knowing the Prick in Purple would inevitably point out that 'pied noir' was frequently a British, French, and Spanish roundabout way of saying Jew. Observing that she had effectively quietened him, she resumed her meal of yogurt, dates, fruit, and khameer.
He stared at her blankly for nearly a full minute. Subsequently, he spooned some shakshuka onto his plate, plucked a piece of chebab with his fingers, and picked up the fork again. Though he externalized a nonchalant attitude, the Manhattanite was internally vibrating with rage, especially when she and Luigi softly and lovingly bantered. In that moment, he did not know which one he hated more: the Toilet Man's protégé or the Woman-who-didn't-like-real-dick. He watched as a smiling Luigi wiped a smidge of yogurt from the corner of Daisy's mouth. She snorted and covered her mouth in embarrassment, reaching for the napkin in her lap to clean her face. Lucas found domesticity both foreign and loathsome, having never experienced it himself; his earliest memories involved his parents screaming at each other in an incomprehensible mishmash of English, Greek, and Italian, with his mother leaving him to run off to Rome for a long line of boytoys. Yet for the first time in a long while, Lucas felt conflicted over the Vexing Bitch. No matter how he wanted it not to be true, Daisy did not seem like the typical emotional female; she was mouthy, yet logical and intelligent like a man. A man in a hottie's body. On one hand, he disliked how close she had become to Luigi, his bro. On the other hand, and inasmuch as he had wanted to protest the opposite to Lady Bowser, he despised her lack of interest in him. Daisy Abravanel proved that hate-fucking existed outside of his adult film collection. And just his luck – the tight-assed Brazilian bitch would never go for it.
Following breakfast, the tailor arrived to take the men's measurements for their tuxedos and assured them that they would be delivered by the next afternoon. As for Daisy, she waited patiently for them to finish by working on the penultimate chapter of her thesis. A knock came at her door at a quarter to noon; Luigi opened it to allow a medium-sized, modestly-dressed and hijabed Emirati woman to enter, introducing her as the hotel's recommended seamstress. Grinning at his lioness and blowing her a kiss, he gave them privacy, and the auburn-haired woman smiled faintly. The seamstress, Amira, explained that given the short time-frame, they would need to use a pre-made dress with alterations. Daisy mumbled that it was fine, although she was not a huge fan of big, poofy dresses. Amira laughed, responding that no poofy dress was necessary. Presenting the reluctant woman with a small booklet of designs, the early-thirties-something Emirati skipped ten pages to a series of modest, yet tasteful off-shoulder dresses. One caught the Brazilian's eye; a mauve gold, off-shoulder floral Jacquard gown with exquisite pinkish-gold embroidery that cascaded down the skirt. It was not poofy, but simple and elegant, save the exposure of the shoulders. A surprised Daisy inquired whether she could wear it in public; Amira replied that the gala was a 'Western space,' so women wore a variety of gowns that would be otherwise deemed inappropriate in Abu Dhabi or around the mosques. Galas in Dubai were a liberal affair, allowing both men and women from across the Gulf to freely mix with foreigners without angering the religious authorities over "a lack of morality." There, Saudi, Kuwaiti, and Emirati women wore designer gowns, if more modest in their presentation, without the abaya, niqab, or even the hijab, and intermingled with movie stars and billionaire wives and girlfriends from the West and China. Nodding, Daisy pointed at the dress, at which point the woman took her measurements and requested that she be available at the hotel at around four o'clock so that they could make any alterations in time. Daisy agreed, thanking her for coming on such short notice, and the woman departed.
As she changed into a one-piece bathing suit, the lioness did not know whether to feel excited or dirty. One of the most beautiful dresses that she would have the pleasure of wearing would be paid for by that evil toothpick. Having reached no conclusions on either the dress or her personal morality, she was about to put on a tunic to cover herself when she felt a pair of strong, masculine arms sensually wrap around her waist and familiar lips brush her earlobe. "Did you find something to wear?" murmured Luigi.
"Yeah," she breathed, attempting to ignore his wandering hands. "But I hate … it's Lucas … who's paying."
"I know, cat-face. And I wouldn't ask you to be remotely near that prick under normal circumstances. However, we need to find out what his reason for being here really is." He fiddled with the straps of the swimsuit, kissing her bare shoulders, "Besides, I want to see you in the dress. Though …" his voice dropped to a lascivious timbre, "even if you wore a paper bag, I'd still want you."
"That so, plumber?"
"Yes."
"That hot sun having an … effect on you?" she teased.
"You are," the plumber growled insistently against her clavicle.
Daisy grinned and moaned, "Oh, we're supposed to meet the Evil Toothpick at the private beach."
He unexpectedly threw her over his shoulder, smacked her ass, and traipsed to the messed-up bed. "I don't give a fuck."
They spent the entire day in the ninety-degree heat; the usually-hedonistic Lucas remained with the couple and, strangely, without complaint. He was even polite and accommodating. However, Luigi noticed that he kept a rather short distance from Daisy; he shadowed her wherever she swam in the infinity pool and lounged on the artificial beach. Apparently, the fucker didn't learn in Cabo, he hissed to himself. At mid-afternoon, they retreated to the terrace for lunch. While ambling through the sand to their reserved table, Lucas engaged her in conversation, constantly asking her questions about her thesis, work at the United Nations, and martial arts. Luigi bit his lip; as the Manhattanite attempted to seat her, the plumber put his hand at the small of her back and glared at his frenemy. Daisy cast him a reassuring look and, underneath the table, rubbed his hand with hers. Intellectually, he knew that a snowball had a better chance of surviving hell than Lucas had with his stubborn and opinionated lioness; nevertheless, the memories of Lucas stealing jocks' and preppies' girlfriends endured even a decade later, and his heart would shatter if he lost her.
That's why he's doing it.
In the midst of his anxiety-ridden internal monologue, Luigi heard Dr. Czernin's voice ask, "Is your relationship equal to that of teenagers?" Daisy had no interest in Lucas; unlike those high-school girls who swooned at the minutest attention by the nearest male, she acted like his long-term girlfriend, wore his family's fede, and sneaked loving glances at him on the beach and at lunch. He invited her along to Lucas's shitty idea of a vacation. "Be brave," she spoke again. "Lucas can't take anything that is already yours. He couldn't take your intelligence or integrity; he won't take Daisy. Stay the course." Relaxing all of a sudden, he joined their hands and gave his lioness a single trusting, yet devoted look, to which she grinned.
Despite the purple man's pleas to go out to the hottest clubs near the marina, together, they courteously declined, opting instead to visit downtown Dubai and the old city, once Luigi had used Skype to call his bank to approve expenditures in Dubai. Much to Luigi's consternation, Daisy donned the yellow djellaba, a cream-colored hijab, and sunglasses. In solidarity, he put on a pink Oxford and khakis, telling her that he would sweat along with her. Prior to departing New York, Daisy had applied and received an international driving permit from the Manhattan AAA just in case, which turned out to be valid in the UAE. Thus, the mischievous woman decided to rent a yellow Ferrari 488 and put it on Lucas's hotel tab. Unlike in Saudi Arabia, adult women in the Emirates were allowed to drive, and she snickered that she was more of a man than the Evil Toothpick in driving a sports car 'hijabed.' During the nearly thirty-minute drive, in which the young woman had pushed the speed limit with the Ferrari and provoked Luigi into a heartfelt New York kvetch about road safety, the motorway felt at times like a combination of southern California, New York, and Las Vegas. Parking in a private lot near the souks, they braved the hundred-degree heat to amble about the cream-colored, sandstone buildings, cobbled streets, and palm trees. Crossing the river via water taxi, they reached the gold and spice souks; Luigi observed with barely-contained glee as Daisy bartered a decent price for a gold pendant for the gala. Reminding himself several times that he could neither kiss nor touch his lioness, he offered her an ti amo and promised in Italian that they would properly celebrate later.
Ignoring Lucas's demanding texts about their whereabouts and Luigi grumbling about his undoubtedly expensive phone bill, they strolled around the colorful green, red, blue, gold, brown, and purple souks until twilight and when the street lamps began to illuminate the darkened desert sky. As many Indian immigrants called the area home, they found several vegetarian restaurants within walking distance. Joining the plethora of Indian, Arab, Western, Thai, Filipino, and African diners, Luigi and Daisy shared a yellow curry vegetable dish, hummus platter, and tandoori roti. At the conclusion of the meal and obligatory chai, Luigi's cellphone rang once again; rolling his eyes, thinking that it was his frenemy, he glanced at the caller ID. Uncle Joe. His lioness frowned in concern over his muttered string of Italian obscenities. Upon seeing 'Uncle Joe' on his phone screen, she put a reassuring hand over his. "Miles wouldn't have told him, kerido," she voiced. "I doubt he knows." Nervously, he played the new voicemail:
(8:05 p.m. Dubai Time) "Hey, figlio. I wanted to know how your, uh, trip to Germany turned out. It's lunchtime; you should be back by now. Maybe you're sleepin' off the jetlag. Give me a call."
"He doesn't know," whispered Luigi. "And it's too expensive to call him from Dubai. If I use Skype, then he'll definitely know I'm not in New York. And then … World War III."
"Can you tell him that you're still in Germany?" she inquired.
He shook his head. "Nah, he'll … he's too smart for that. All he'd need to do is ask Miles, who's the world's worst liar." After a more few grumbles, he sent an SMS to his friendly-neighborhood hacker, informing him that Giuseppe was becoming anxious and even suspicious. "Well, I can't do much from here. Not right now. I assume Mario knows already." Checking his email to find an article on mysterious drownings in the Persian Gulf, he huffed and added flatly, "Yeah, he knows."
"Well, better Mario than Giuseppe, right?"
"Marginally," he agreed reluctantly while paying the bill.
On the drive home, his uncle called a second time, which he let go to voicemail. In the privacy of their suite bedroom, he played the message:
(9:05 p.m. Dubai Time) "Kid, something doesn't add up here. I called the shop, and José says you're not back yet. Miles hasn't sounded the alarm, meaning he knows where the fuck you are. Mario hasn't said jack shit to me. No surprise there. What the fuck is going on, figlio? If I don't hear from you in the next hour, I'm fuckin' calling Miles!"
Decisions, decisions. Biting the bullet and promising himself to keep the conversation short, he phoned Joe, who immediately answered, "Kid, where the hell are you? And don't … bullshit me. I know you're not in New York."
"No, I'm not, Zio," replied Luigi carefully. "For that, uh, reason, I need to keep the call short."
"You're still out of the country?!" he almost yelled. "Why?! What the fuck's that little shit done now?"
"I'm okay. I'm … I just got delayed."
"You got delayed," growled Giuseppe disbelievingly. "By a full fucking day? And where are youse? Huh? Frankfurt? So you'll be on the next plane tomorrow morning!"
"Uh, no, Zio. By a week."
"What the fuck …?! Kid, what the fuck's going on over there? Get your shit and go – I'll even front you the money if all you can find is first-class!"
Luigi closed his eyes, sinking to the bed. In spite of the spaciousness of the deluxe five-star room, he felt it becoming smaller and smaller by the second. "Figlio, rispondimi, perdio!" the man shouted.
"Zio, I … I'm not in Germany. And before you ask where, I can't tell you. In fact, I won't. Just know that I can't leave yet."
There was a long silence on the line; the plumber briefly wondered if his uncle had hung up on him when the latter spoke in a deadly calm voice, "Luigi Gabriele Isidoro Masciarelli, this is not a fucking game. You're an adult, so I can't make you do anything. But if you respect me, you will either tell me where you are or you will get your ass on the next plane."
"I can't," he squeaked. "If … I tell you, it could … be detrimental to your health. And I can't leave because … that stupid fuck forced Daisy to come here. And I won't leave her behind!"
"And you really think that not telling me will do wonders for me? Huh? Especially when you tell me that the little shit summoned her? What happens when her father finds out that she ain't in New York, figlio? Did you think that fuckin' far ahead?"
"I tried," he sniffed between fresh tears. "She told Miles, and I let him track me."
"Well, that's something," Joe responded angrily. "So, how many people know of your little … excursion?"
"Miles, Sam Carlino – he's Pete's nephew – Mario, Peach, and Uncle Sal."
"Of course, you told fuckin' Mario," he hissed in an almost jealous tone.
"I didn't tell him shit, Zio. Miles did. Sal told him not to tell you because … Well, as I said, your health's …"
"SCREW MY HEALTH AND SCREW SAL!" screamed Giuseppe into the phone. "You know what's causin' me agita? What will make me worse? Not knowing where the fuck my son is! And Sal's wrong!" Taking several deep breaths, or as best as he was able, he lowered his tone and continued, "Luigi, when … when you have a bambino or bambina of your own … I may not live long enough to meet him or her, so listen to me now: you will worry every second, even when they grow up and got families of their own. Imagine that you know something's wrong, that they're in trouble. Imagine that they won't tell you. How … How can that be less tolerable than cancer?"
Luigi wiped the cascading tears from his cheeks. "Mi dispiace, Zio. This is … really bad."
"Kid, I already know it's bad. I knew it when José told me that you hadn't returned. Now, just rip the fuckin' Band-Aid off and tell me."
"It's … We're in Dubai," he rasped.
A rattle echoed into the receiver, as if the phone from Giuseppe's end had been dropped. He called out for his uncle, only to hear silence. Daisy watched in horror as her boyfriend yelled his name again. Finally, the older man replied, "Kid, that … that place is an Arab shithole! Germany's one thing, but … the fucking Middle East – Dubai? If they find out who you are, they will kill you! Those motherfuckers cheered as your father was crushed into nothing! And Daisy? Do you know what they do to Jews outside of Israel? You're a stone's throw from goddamned Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and Iran, terrorist-fucking-central! I don't care what kind of flying carpet those camel-fuckers use, but you both need to use it to get the fuck out of there!"
"Zio, but …"
"No! Non discutere con me! Ritornate a New York, subito!"
"Non posso ancore lasciare. Devo scoprire che cosa stia progettando perché ha qualcosa in mente," Luigi murmured sadly. Heaving to calm the anger and devastation at revealing the truth to his pseudo-father, he tottered – Daisy trailing just behind him – to the edge of the made bed and sat down upon it. She took the space next to him and began to rub his back soothingly. "Zio, I …" He looked up at the equally distraught lioness and resumed his thought, "Zio, for years, I've allowed youse to carry the emotional load of … my father's death. I hid from the world. But no more. I'm the manager of a shop that could be eliminated if I don't find out what Lucas is up to. He made me swear not to say anything to anyone. Now that could've been part of it – make everyone worry about me. However, there was a reason why he chose Dubai, and I owe it to everyone to find out. I'm here, and I can do something."
"We can talk about all this when you get your ass back to Brooklyn!" bellowed Joe. "I respect due diligence, but I don't respect suicide! You think that bein' a fuckin' hero will change that? Huh? 'Cause I've already watched one – no, two – men do that. And guess what, figlio: it only … breaks the hearts of those who're left behind."
"Uncle Joe, per favore …"
"No, I ain't budgin' on this one. Your papa, as … adventurous and idealistic as he was, would agree with me. I know he would. This ain't safe for youse. Let those assholes kidnap and videotape Lucas! I'm sure his father's got enough money to pay his ransom!"
He closed his eyes, steeling his next words. "Zio, I'm sorry, but I can't. Not until I find out more. You can hate me if you want, and I know you've got a reason. But it's about more than just me now. It's not about being heroic; it's about responsibility – to Daisy, to the shop, to … our family." As Joe opened his mouth to argue, Luigi interrupted, "Calling from Dubai's expensive, Zio. I can Skype you later. Buona notte." Crying silently, he ended the phone call and collapsed into his lioness's waiting arms. Arranging themselves more comfortably on the bed, she cradled him against her bosom, running her hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Daisy …" he sobbed. "You shouldn't be here. Uncle Joe's right, you …"
"Basta," she whispered. "I go where I want to go. And right now, there's no other place I'd rather be. I choose to be here, to be at the side of the man who's chosen," she tilted his head so that he was forced to look at her, "responsibility. I only heard part of the conversation, kerido, but it's your Uncle Joe who's wrong. Your family got you into this mess; you had no choice then, but you're making one now. I don't want a man who abandons his responsibilities to others to make his life easier. I want the sensitive, cautious, courageous plumber. I want you."
No sooner had she ended her sentence when Luigi seized her lips with his, each kiss more passionate and reverent than the previous. As the night lights of Dubai twinkled in the background, they created light, electricity, and sound of a different kind, from the lounge chair in the far corner to the large, sky-blue-tiled jacuzzi tub. Afterward, while cradling the lightly snoring Daisy in his arms, the plumber lay on his back and stared at the gold-accented ceiling of the suite bedroom. In for a penny; in for a pound. Although his heart still throbbed from telling the truth about Dubai to his ailing uncle, fully aware of the man's subsequent and inevitable rants about the camel-fucking, murdering beduinito Lucia, Mario, Maria, or anyone who would listen, he did not regret choosing to face and defeat his nemesis. Lucas had always been an unrepentant douchebag and had, at times, been a good friend to him; yet as time went on, his insatiable covetousness and self-indulgence had led to this moment, and by threatening Daisy, Luigi's patience had come to an end. Like so many others, he had enabled the skinny man's bad behavior. Gazing down at his future, the Rigassi ring palely glinting from the lights outside, he vowed, "I will do better for you, Daisy Abravanel."
The following morning and day were spent at the Wild Wadi Waterpark, the Dubai Mall and its endless stores, and the Dubai Museum. Strangely, Lucas did not make a fuss and seemed to enjoy himself without complaint or racist commentary. Though Luigi and Daisy decided to appreciate the normalcy while it lasted, both remained alert. Returning in the late-afternoon for last alterations of their evening clothes, they snacked on a fresh basket of fruit, ice water as it was over ninety degrees and humid, and coffee. In addition to her sewing machine and equipment, Amira had brought matching satin shoes with a low heel and a mauve chiffon scarf, the latter of which would cover her shoulders and be comfortable in the humidity of the Dubai evening. As her alterations took more time, Daisy was the last to shower and prepare, much to Lucas's crass commentary that women take three hours to get ready and another three to cum. Luigi glared at him, snapping that he wasn't doing it right, then. Finally, she descended the staircase in the elegant mauve gown to the tuxedoed New Yorkers. Not surprisingly, the plumber's eyes turned dark and glassy; he glided toward her and, as if no one else were in the room, sang-murmured in her ear, "I need your love. Godspeed your love to me," to which she blushed. Surprisingly, Lucas fell quiet, taking a step toward the woman in the dress; his parted lips compacted into a thin line as Luigi moved past him to greet the florid princess. He coughed loudly to interrupt the soft kisses between the pair, with Luigi concluding his affections by kissing her ringed hand.
"The Rolls Royce is waiting," bit out the tall man on the way to the front door.
At the valet parking, the Pakistani driver guided them inside the white limousine, then sped from the twinkling sailboat-like hotel onto the main freeway, the pink, green, blue, and fuchsia lights of the city whizzing past them. Fifteen minutes into the drive, the lights became overwhelming and the car found itself in heavier traffic reminiscent of that in Manhattan. Luigi glanced at the buildings, which did not seem that impressive given that he grew up a couple miles' walk from the Manhattan skyline. The street opened up to several lanes of traffic and increased patches of darkness, causing him to momentarily panic and ask, "Lucas, where are we going?"
The Manhattanite, who was enjoying a small cocktail from the mini-bar, grinned. "You'll see in just a minute, Weeg."
On cue, the car made a shift right turn, and its occupants' senses were straightaway overloaded with lights, illuminated palm trees, and the Dubai Mall shopping area. Now recognizing where they were, Daisy and Luigi's eyes lifted to the massive, spire-like structure of the Burj Khalifa. "The Armani Hotel's inside the Burj. We'll be on the terrace, more or less," explained Lucas as the car parked to the designated drop-off area.
They ambled to the foot of the world's tallest building and home to one of Dubai's most modern hotels. The security officers examined Lucas's invitations and waived them over to the staff, who welcomed and guided them to a dim, nevertheless alluring dining room. Seated at a circular table, the three Americans joined four serious-looking Emiratis: two short-bearded, older men in a tuxedo and ghutrah; a mustachioed young man their age in a simple tuxedo and no headdress; and a middle-aged woman in a long-sleeved designer dress, diamonds, and smartly coiffed hair underneath a loose silk headscarf. The final guest was a forties-something, brown-haired Australian entrepreneur who greeted them with a "G'day."
Once all the one hundred-fifty-odd guests had arrived, the dinner commenced with an hour-long speech by the Director of the Dubai Electricity and Water Authority on the importance of advancing and protecting essential infrastructure in the city, particularly as the government had invested billions in sustainable technologies and solar power. Throughout the talk, Luigi knitted his brow in confusion; both Dubai and Abu Dhabi were on their way to reaching complete energy independence, thanks to solar energy as well as ample oil and gas reserves, so what was Lucas doing here? What could they offer these people? Even his thermal sensor would be useless. The polite applause from the diners triggered a spectacle of five-star event staff serving the first course: an amuse-bouche of Alaskan crab with green apple and cauliflower. Lucas started to brag to the table about his cybersecurity prowess; the Australian nodded politely, the older, silent Arabs focused on the food, and the younger man pretended to listen. Luigi glanced in alarm at the uncomfortable Daisy who had not touched the dish. He looked toward the waitstaff and attempted to gesture at them.
"Are you alright?" asked the woman in a British-Arabic-accented English. "You have not eaten your food?"
Daisy smiled in embarrassment. "Uh, I, uh, am not permitted to eat meat or fish."
The older man, who had overheard the discreet conversation between the women, gently waved his hand. The Lebanese maître d'hôtel approached him; he spoke to the man in Arabic, bobbing his head in Daisy's direction. Nodding, the server walked over to and addressed her in English, "Madame, I am so sorry for the confusion. You are a vegetarian, yes?"
"Yes. I'm so sorry to inconvenience you. I realize that you hadn't been told," she glared briefly at Lucas who was still self-pontificating to the entertained Australian.
"It's no problem. Please, let me get you another plate. Your main course and dessert will also be vegetarian. Do you consume eggs and milk?"
"I can, yes."
"Excellent, and it won't inconvenience the chef at all."
As both Luigi and his lioness profusely thanked both the maître d'hôtel and the patriarch who merely smiled, Lucas's focused his attention upon the 'vegetarian incident,' chortling, "I'm so sorry for the typical Western attitude here. Vegetarianism is such a first-world problem. I mean, the goats, shellfish, and lamb are pretty tasty here. I'm always telling Daisy here to eat a steak."
While the older Emiratis and Daisy smiled thinly at the big mouth across from the table, Gregg the Australian coughed uncomfortably, and Luigi kicked Lucas's foot. The younger man, Ali, shrugged and replied in an American accent, "I have a friend who's vegan, and he's from Jeddah. He claims it helps with the heat. I've been meaning to try it."
The maître d'hôtel re-appeared with a grilled eggplant and pepper salad with balsamic vinegar and spiced yogurt sauce. The Manhattanite rolled his eyes as she grinned in pleasure at the flavorful food.
"So," began Ali once more to the younger men, "where are you from in the States?"
"We're from New York," interjected Lucas between sips of water. "I'm from Manhattan; Luigi here is from, uh, Brooklyn."
"Daisy's from San Francisco," Luigi added, ignoring Lucas's intentional omission of his girlfriend from his discussion. The woman in question did not visibly react.
"Yeah, hence the aversion to animals," growled the tall man irritably. Affixing a fake smile on his face, he went on, "So … I'm a CEO of a tech company out in LA; looking to expand the business into SCADA and cybersecurity. My man, Luigi, here," he turned to his frenemy and slapped him on the back, "is my business partner."
"And what do you do, Luigi?" inquired Gregg.
Before Lucas could concoct an inflated curriculum vitae involving degrees and experiences that he did not possess, he answered, "I manage a plumbing shop in New York, one of the largest in Brooklyn."
Chuckling nervously, his frenemy included, "Yeah, he also studied at Stanford and will be going to Princeton." He gave a wink to an annoyed Luigi.
The Emirati men sipped their water, glancing at him with an increased interest, while the Australian nodded slowly. "So you're quite hands-on then with SCADA infrastructure. But I didn't know that tech was being applied to plumbing. It does makes sense with New York's waste management system. But, uh, forgive me; I didn't know that Stanford and Princeton were prerequisites for plumbing in New York."
"Nah, they're not. Luigi here's just trying to better himself," Lucas snickered. Daisy's amber eyes changed into two hot charcoals, and she took a deep breath to refrain from throwing the contents of her water glass in his lap.
The plumber bit his lip in muted anger. Momentarily scowling at the asshole in the tux, Luigi pretended that he had not spoken and said, "They're not. But I'm planning to get my engineering degree to help the business. My family's been members of the plumbing union since the 1950s. My grandfather was a plumber; my father, well, he had been a plumber until he decided to pursue his own path; my paternal uncle's a plumber; my older brother, too." He laughed a little. "I think my great-grandfather was probably a plumber, too. I'm not a hundred percent certain, as that would've been back in Italy. Anyway, it's pretty important to my family. So right after high school, I joined the union. Because I became the, uh, manager of this shop, the credential's more essential."
The Emirati patriarch leaned over to Ali and whispered something in his ear. Nodding obediently, Ali responded, "Uh, my father would like to know what your father did. You followed your grandfather and uncle, but he didn't."
Despite starting to tremble a little at the question, he answered, "He was a New York City firefighter." Ali exchanged a look with his father who blinked that he was satisfied with the American's response.
"Yeah, waste of talent, if you ask me," snorted the other New Yorker.
Ali and his elders narrowed their eyes at the man's comment. The young man stated to the plumber while disregarding the rude man, "That's rather rare now in America. I didn't realize that the unions were so family-dominated."
Luigi smiled almost apologetically, "Yeah, it's still true on the East Coast. A lot of Italians in the plumbing business – at least, there were in the past."
As everyone had finished the amuse-bouche, the main courses of ribeye steak, green beans, potatoes, and green pepper sauce and, for Daisy, grilled vegetables with herbs and red pepper coulis were served. Ali's father, Mohammed, signaled to the maître d'hôtel a second time and requested bread for the table. Ali's wife, Huda, gave him the look, to which he eyed at her unrepentantly. A minute later, the Lebanese brought a large plate of khameer and the more Qatari khubz. Mohammed grabbed at a piece of khameer, proffered the plate to the table, each person selecting his or her own, and breaking it with a bismillah.
While the men talked amongst themselves, Huda leaned toward Daisy and inquired, "Are you … a business partner, as well?"
She chuckled between bites of vegetable. "No. I'm, uh, Luigi's … significant other."
Huda peeked at the younger woman's left hand. "You're married?"
Debating on far to stretch the truth without making the older, likely traditional woman uncomfortable, she opted for the middle ground. "Engaged. It's a fede; in Italy, it's given to the woman either on her engagement or wedding day."
"Ah," she acknowledged with a grin. "Alf mabrouk el khotuba."
"Shukran. Allah ya barik fiq."
The woman blinked in surprise. "You speak Arabic?"
"I spent some time in Mali and North Africa, so I picked up a few words here and there."
Over the main course and molten chocolate cake, the discussion became lighter and friendlier between two groups: Gregg, Mohammad and his younger brother, Laraib, Ali, and Luigi; Huda and Daisy. Much to his disbelief, Lucas was not the center of attention; although the men would acknowledge his interjections, they treated their value carelessly in his view. Toward the end of dessert, Laraib scarcely contained his dislike for the tall New Yorker, or as much as Emirati hospitality and politeness would allow. Accustomed to dealing with rude foreigners of every type – American, French, British, Australian, Chinese, Saudi, and Iranian – Mohammed disregarded Lucas's tactless comportment, focusing instead on his business partner who was relatable in his background and outlook: he took his familial obligations as seriously as his professional goals, he was engaged to a well-behaved and cultured woman, and he was honest. Although the latter was not always true in the Gulf, as he had personally witnessed shady business deals being made between Saudis and Emiratis in Dubai and Riyadh, fiscal transparency was a must if one wanted to stay on the good side of the royal family and authorities.
Since the outside temperature had fallen into the upper eighties, the gala moved outside to the pavilion near the Dubai Fountain. Live music boomed as the silvery water began its geyser-like arabesque, the oohs and awes of non-Emiratis echoed throughout the large space, and a cascade of flashes moved around the water like dominoes. Huda and Daisy remained enmeshed in conversation about the elder woman's days at the United Arab Emirates University, where she received an undergraduate degree in engineering. The two older Emiratis, Ali, Gregg, Luigi, and the visibly bored Lucas strolled to the karak station where a line of Emirati, Omani, Saudi, and Kuwaiti men and some women had formed. "It's Arab chai – our whiskey," joked Ali to the confused Luigi and Gregg who were attempting to follow the chaiwala's rapid and flowing movements to pour the hot liquid. Unable to take Arab Disneyland,Lucas moved away in search of real alcohol inside the Armani Hotel. Cups of the spiced drink in hand, the rest of the men enjoyed the cooler air and the Australian's bizarre stories of working off-shore at the Marine Terminal, one of which involved a mysterious snake appearing on the platform.
Lucas leaned against the bar, nursing a black-label whiskey. This was supposed to be his fucking party. Then those fucking ragheads zeroed on Luigi the Loser and the Bratty Princess in her mauve gown that perfectly, yet modestly accented her shape. Pity. Fuckers will probably put Luigi in a goddamned white nightgown and matching rag before he leaves. Fucker. Fuck him. Just not her. Reveling in the burn, he relaxed, permitting his brown eyes to settle, only to catch a glimpse of mauve silk. Turning to his right and the doors leading to the pavilion, glass in hand, he saw Daisy approach the bartender and order two mocktails. Waiting patiently for the drinks, she stretched, accidentally baring more shoulder skin before readjusting the scarf. Angrily picking up his drink, the Manhattanite strode over to the Amazon Princess. She did a double take at the man's presence, shifting uneasily. "Lucas," she greeted in a testy tone.
"Daisy," he replied evenly. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world, you had to walk into mine."
"Yeah, well, I'll be out of here soon enough."
Looking around the bar that was semi-crowded with foreigners of all nationalities, he shrugged carelessly. The Italian establishment seemed more somber than the revelry outside, and combined with Alicia Keys's "No One" playing in the background, it somehow suited him. "What's your hurry? We're both outsiders in this place. Me, well, I don't get. You because you're a woman. Shit, they even make you cover up," he gestured at the shawl. The music abruptly shifted to "The Man" by Aloe Blacc, and the precipitously beaming, tall man pivoted to face Daisy. "Let's get out of here. You and me. We can go to a club or two, really fucking party, and," he gently covered his hand with hers, "bring the party to our suite. A private party, if you will."
Rage in her amber eyes ignited like a Bunsen burner. "Get. Your. Hand. Off. Mine," she hissed, enunciating every word.
Lucas chuckled lowly. "C'mon, Daisy. You're not going to embarrass us in a … busy, crowded bar, are you? Hmm?" He brought his body inches from hers and put his hand on her ass. "Give me a chance. I can assure you that my hard dick …" As he was about to provide a rather poetic description of tiny Lucas, he felt a burning sensation in his eyes and liquid covering his face. Gasping, he managed, "Wah?"
Quickly snatching the mocktails from the amused bartender, who had been watching the scene with a mixture of concern and interest, the lioness growled before leaving the bar, "I warned you, asshole. And here's what you don't get: your piece of crap father spoiled you mercilessly, creating a narcissistic, entitled prick who thinks that the world revolves around his skinny ass. I almost feel sorry for you, as you will end up alone precisely because you don't care that you're an entitled prick. Luigi may be a plumber, but he's loyal and caring, which you aren't. For me to party with you, you'd need both a heart and an integrity transplant!"
She stormed off, drinks in hand, while the bartender handed him a towel to wipe off the remnants of the whiskey. An infuriated Lucas heaved into the Egyptian cotton. Fucking bitch! What had been intended as a week and a half of drinking, screwing, and doing business was rapidly turning into a nightmare. He threw the towel behind the bar, shocking the server, and glared into the festive lights of the Fountain and pavilion. It was time that Luigi and Daisy recognize their place in the grand scheme of things. No one told him no.
