Chapter 47: Rihla ilya bled, Part II
Lucas had thankfully disappeared by the time that the gala concluded. Though Daisy forced a smile throughout the remaining discussion with Huda, she shivered nervously, anxious to talk with her lover. After the confrontation in the bar, she made sure never to leave the Emirati woman's sight and kept within a short distance of Luigi's group. Dialing the Burj al-Arab's driver's cellphone number, they returned straight to the hotel, arriving shortly after one o'clock in the morning. Once they entered the posh suite, a pallid Daisy took his hand and dragged him up to their bedroom, shut the wooden door, and locked it.
"Cat-face, what's wrong? What happened?" a perplexed Luigi demanded. "Did … Did he do something?!"
Inhaling to control her ragged breathing, she replied, "Kerido, I handled the situation. Or, at least, I tried to handle it. Lucas, he … made a pass at me in public at the bar. I was ordering a couple mocktails for Huda and I, as there was a long line, and someone told me to just order at the bar. He approached me while I was waiting, and he grabbed my ass. I threw his drink in his face, took the mocktails, and left."
Luigi's blue eyes burned with rage, and he let out a primal growl. "Fucking pig! That's it. I've had enough of his bullshit." He angrily marched over to the desk where his laptop was charging, opened it, and logged onto the Internet. As Daisy watched with interest, he began to search for the next available flight from Dubai to New York. "I'll try to get you a ticket to fly out tomorrow evening." Her lips parted to argue, yet he shook his head. "No, sweetie! He will try this shit again or otherwise make trouble for us. Ali invited us to have breakfast at the Burj Khalifa tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. We can go to that together if you want. But Uncle Joe's right; this could get so much worse. I can't leave, not yet. But your well-being, your safety makes staying so not worth it."
"And I should just leave you here?!" she insisted, her voice raising an octave. "Yes, I know what he could do: he could tell the Dubai police that we aren't married and have us arrested for extramarital sex. He could also trump up some fucking fraud charge! But I knew the risks when I came here. Please don't … try to protect me at your expense."
Spinning around in the gold-accented swivel chair to face her, the plumber argued, "Daisy, sweetie, I love you. I really do, but you're starting to piss me off. I told you that I don't want you to take unnecessary risks!"
"And I love you, goddamnit!" she hollered back. "I am not leaving! Not without you, not without knowing what he's up to! I … I fucked up; I shouldn't have made such a public scene. It was instinct, and …"
"Basta!" he hissed, rising from the chair to stand inches from her. "No! This wasn't your fault! That motherfucker had been at it all day – at the pool, at the Mall! Each time, you handled it diplomatically. He escalated the situation!" Luigi reached out to caress her silky auburn strands of hair. "Daisy, he did that on purpose to provoke us. I don't want the police near you. Me? They'll think I'm just some Brooklyn idiot on vacation. You? You're a Brazilian-American Jew with family in Israel. They could throw you in jail merely for being here." Stepping closer to her, he tilted his nose down to rub it against hers. "What if … the roles were reversed, amore? If we were in a country where Italian Catholics aren't welcome. Would you allow me to continue?" he asked in a murmur.
She sniffed, unwilling to acknowledge that, had the roles been reversed, she would have insisted that he leave. Instead, she wordlessly and obstinately lay her head upon the upper portion of his chest. With a small, adoring grin, Luigi wrapped his arms around her back and nuzzled her hair. She's got a mouth, but I love it when she's extra tough.
"Why do you need to stay?" she finally breathed. "He'll do the same thing to you. What is his hold on you?"
Shrugging, he encircled her tighter and kissed the top of her head. "He doesn't have that hold any longer. It's not about him. I guess I … I feel so responsible for you being here that I want to fix things, y'know? Just like … I felt so responsible for how he treated others at Brooklyn City. I enabled him, cat-face." He sighed again and rasped, "Just like everyone else at that fucking school."
"Perhaps you're enabling him by playing his game. You're in just as much danger as I am – if not more so. It's my choice, kerido: we do things together." Looking up at him, she shook her head adamantly. "He wants to put a wedge between us. He wants you afraid because that's how he's been able to control you thus far. Back then, you had no one as a support system, so it was easier for him to manipulate the situation. However," she took his hand into hers, "we play our game. Let's … make him think I've left. I'll get a hotel or hostel …"
"No," he interjected. "Together, remember? Make him think we've left. We'll spend three, maybe four more days here and then get the hell out. I want to see what he does when he's lost complete control. And if he is working with someone, then the mystery partner's got to show his face sooner."
Nodding, Daisy murmured, "Alright. But where do we go? And more importantly, we still have the problem of sharing a hotel room when we're not married."
Luigi smirked. "That's where a certain," he leaned into her ear, "hacker friend and family priest come into it. If we have a marriage license in process from the City of New York, then they can't do anything to us. Can't blame us if the city's slow at processing paperwork." Taking note of her raised, though amused eyebrow, he intertwined his right hand with her left and kissed its back. "You've got the fede; why not?" Suddenly, his impish grin fell, and he regarded her seriously. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to think that I think this is a joke or something. Shit, Daisy, I … You know how I feel about you. Nine months, and I'm …" As he turned beet red, she waited, searching his blue orbs that became an ocean of emotion. "I couldn't imagine being without you. I know that it's too soon, and we haven't really lived together. I'd still want that experience first before …" He looked up to see her still patient, though unreadable face. "And I'd want you to get your law degree and be comfortable before …" Laying his forehead against hers, he whispered, "Let's just say, for now, that I … wouldn't mind the possibility … of us … being married."
Closing his eyes to hide his nervous soul from her, he felt a cool hand caress his burning cheek. "Kerido, I … I love you, too. And like you said, I think, we have all the time in the world." The plumber hesitantly lifted his gaze to find twinkling amber and a rosy-lipped smile. "If we need to give them a 'license' from New York, then so be it. It changes nothing for me. I am not leaving without you. Besides," she added, pecking him on the lips, "I like a little adrenaline."
Though chuckling and returning the kiss, he murmured, "That's … what I worry about, cat-face."
For the second time in two weeks, a grumbling Mario entered the Koopa Bar, inwardly snarling to himself that he would kill Fat Tony for insisting Luigi accompany that motherfucker abroad. "Yo, Bowser," he called out to the seemingly empty bar, "I am gonna kill your motherfucking …"
"I assume you're talkin' about me, plumber," interrupted the yellow and purple track-suited Fat Tony, who was sitting across from a blond man in one of the back-end booths. "Believe me; if you was gonna kill me, cuginu, you'd have done it already. So sit the fuck down and listen, huh?"
Mario reached the table as Tony lit a Cubano and gestured for him to take a seat next to the muscular, sandy-blond man who was eyeing him suspiciously. Obeying, the red-hoodied plumber inched himself onto the edge of the booth. John then walked over and brought a basket of arancini, three wine glasses, and a bottle of red table wine. After pouring a little into each one, Tony raised his glass and muttered a salute, to which the other two politely repeated the toast and clinked their glasses with his. Allowing the taste to linger in his mouth, the fat mafioso nodded his approval. "Bene. Now, Mario, meet our cousin, Samuele. He's Gennaro Carlino's kid and … Pete Morello's nephew."
Sam offered his hand, which the older plumber did not take. "What the fuck's this, Tony?" he demanded instead. "Did you invite the whole fucked-up crew to the party? Yeah, well, guess what: I don't give a flying fuck what youse are – my kid brother is no longer in Germany, and I think you already know that if he," he tilted his head to Sam, "is here. So cut the bullshit. What the fuck do you want from my family now?"
"Look, you don't know me, and I don't know you," began Sam, slightly irritated at his second cousin's insult, "but I do know Luigi. He was fucking forced to go to Dubai, courtesy of a certain dickless, purple-wearing prick."
The red-hoodied sneered as he crossed his arms. "Lucas 'Cocksucker' Kariolis? Nah, never heard of him."
"What we can't figure out, cuginu, is why he would follow the piece of garbage to that desert fuckhole," spoke Fat Tony while chewing on one of the fried hors d'oeuvres.
He shrugged nonchalantly. "This was your little fucked-up operation, Tony. Or was it Jackass's?" Turning to Sam, he sneered, "Or Pete Morello's? Either way, the result is the same. My fratellino is in that desert fuckhole. What are youse gonna do about it? Huh? You fuckin' A-well know that this wasn't his idea."
For the first time since Mario could remember, Tony briefly glanced away, his eyes flickering with an unknown emotion. "Nah, it wasn't," he said quietly.
"Luigi did what he was supposed to do," acknowledged Sam. "While he was in Germany, he generated revenue for the shop. An introductory amount, but not insignificant. Dubai wasn't a part of the plan."
"Yeah, no shit," voiced the mustachioed plumber. "So what do you want from me?"
Tony and Sam exchanged a brief look, to which the non-mafioso rolled his eyes and started to leave. "Aight, aight!" cried the obese man. "Take it easy!" Mario sat back down and glared at Tony impatiently. "Aight. Does Giuseppe know about this?"
"I haven't told him. Yet."
He nodded. "Bene. Because this … this is a fucking embarrassment. And I don't say that lightly. That … cocksucker has been acting independently. No one gave him permission, and no one fuckin' trusts his ass enough to do so. And we certainly didn't tell him to drag Lou to fuckin' Raghead Disneyland." Pausing to consider his next words, Tony then stated, "We're gonna make this right. But I'd ask you to do two things. First, Sam here needs a place to stay. He's a Rigassi, like youse. Just a few days until we can get this shitshow straightened out. Second, there's going to be a … family sit-down. Given the urgency of the situation, it's tonight – 7 pm. Dinnertime; nothing formal or fancy. It'd normally be Giuseppe's right as the head of the family. However, we understand that he's ill; since Nonno doesn't want to trouble him anymore than necessary, the invitation falls to you."
Mario studied both men carefully and weighed his options. Was this Uncle Sal's doing? Inasmuch as he mistrusted the Moranos and Morellos, blaming them both for ensnaring his little brother into their murky world of dealing, double-dealing, kidnapping, and possibly murder, he swallowed against the cold reality that if something were to happen to Luigi and Daisy, the State Department would do very little to intervene. Even in Afghanistan and Iraq, he had heard horror stories of Americans, Europeans, Israelis, Iranians, Indians, Pakistanis, and even foreign Arabs being falsely accused of financial, sexual, and religious crimes and jailed for months on end purely on the word of anonymous, 'concerned citizens' or power-hungry moguls who did not want their own misconduct exposed. No one did a thing to stop it, and there were proven innocent people still languishing in Emirati prisons thanks to the country's vindictive judicial system. Glitz and glamour on the surface; a totalitarian and slavish hellhole beneath it. While he would not characterize the city-state as 'Raghead Disneyland,' Mario vomited in his mouth a little each time someone or something reminded him of Luigi and Daisy's current whereabouts. So what was the lesser of evils: hope for the best or prepare for the worst?
"I accept," he said. "But if youse want me to wear a suit, youse can kiss my fat plumber's ass."
Tony chuckled, puffing on his cigar. "No one's wearin' a get-up. Like I said, it's a family sit-down." Nodding at Sam, he continued, "Put Sam up for a few nights. I assume you'll be at your girlfriend's in the Upper East. We'll send a car to come get youse around 6:45."
"No, I'm stayin' a few nights in Bensonhurst. Got to check on a few things here. You can pick us up from the house."
"Aight," acquiesced the fat man. "Then we'll make it 6:15 due to traffic. The Upper East would've been a little closer, but I ain't gonna argue. Anyway," he blew a few puffs into Mario's face, "I got some work to do before dinner. Youse don't need to bring anything. See you tonight."
Sensing that their time was up, Mario and Sam excused themselves, with the latter picking up his backpack and suitcase from behind the bar. Unfamiliar with Brooklyn, Sam's eyes widened in surprise as the drive to the Masciarelli home took less than five minutes. "You can sleep on the couch," groused the plumber irritably while his guest's eyes scanned the interior of the house like an ancient relic. His mother and uncle had told him and Matt so many stories of the Rigassi home on 17th Avenue and 62nd Street; Pete, his mother, Giuseppe, Mario, and Salvatore spending hot summer evenings by the bay and playing stickball in the empty lots of Bensonhurst and Bay Ridge. A framed photograph of a uniformed man sat atop the mantle; Mario remained while the younger man approached it and read the inscription – "Lt. Mario Masciarelli: July 6, 1958 – September 11, 2001. Devoted father, son, and brother."
"You must be tired. I gotta call my girlfriend, so feel free to rest a bit before this, uh, dinner," murmured the older man.
"Yeah," Sam breathed, though he did not move from the picture. Neither Pete nor his mother spoke much of Mario Masciarelli, save a few stories of their childhood summers in Brooklyn. He was barely a teenager when terrorists flew four jetliners into the Twin Towers, Pentagon, and into a field in rural Pennsylvania. Even though he understood that something terrible had occurred on the East Coast, the familial tragedy did not begin to register until he had overheard an argument – a rare occurrence – between his mother and father over whether to drive to New York City and petition the courts. Laura had wanted to travel to Brooklyn as soon as possible, but Gene refused, insisting that her brother would handle it. Years later and following his initiation ceremony, Sam discovered the context of his parents' argument: his father believed that his brother-in-law and boss would take custody of Luigi, the Rigassi heir; for reasons unknown to the Carlinos, Pete allowed Jackie to intervene, for which they never forgave him. Thereafter, Gene did his duty by obeying his capo, yet without trust or, at times, respect, and both Sam and Matt had to add 'diplomat' to their Office Space-esque job description when carrying out conflicting orders from multiple bosses. In private, Gene frequently referred to Pete as a "yuppified Coloradan two steps shy of bein' a Californista." I wonder what would've happened had Mario and Luigi's father survived, he mused. A few years ago at New Year's Eve, when Pete had enjoyed a little too much champagne, he drunkenly let slip that Mario – Luigi's father – had tried to screw him over, even after he cleaned up the mess made by Joe and Sal. Even without proper context, the statement frightened Sam; a part of him wondered if Uncle Pete was so cold-blooded that he would extract revenge upon a dead man by throwing his teenage son to the wolves.
From the bedroom, he could hear an annoyed Mario shouting something in Italian, presumably to his girlfriend whom he heard was Italian herself. Neither he nor Matt were fluent in the language, much to Uncle Pete's disappointment. Matt was arguably a bit more conversational than he, thanks to years of private lessons and university courses. Gene, a down-to-earth cowboy despite his half-Italian heritage, did not see much point of his son learning a language that only those in Italy speak. Instead, he encouraged him to enlist in the military, like he had done, and learn by life experience before doing his family duty. In the Navy, he picked up some Spanish and German, which he continued at Colorado School of Mines, and focused on practical skills – engineering, fighting, and observing. He was also tasked with protecting Matt who, due to Crohn's Disease, could not fully participate as his father had intended. The skinny, often sickly Boulder dudebro earned his keep by hacking and extorting money, which satisfied both his father and the few bosses who tolerated his mixed heritage and condition. Yet Sam was also protective of him for an entirely different reason, one which no one would accept. Laura noticed it first; the teenager was focusing his attention a bit too much on both his male and female classmates. Privately, she advised the young man to be extremely careful if he chose to continue in the life, as men and women were known to disappear merely for the accusation of being homosexual. Like many old-school Coloradans, Sam never understood the prejudice; if two people wanted to live together, and were consenting adults, then so be it. In his view, it was better being gay or bi and monogamous than being straight and a serial cheater like so many East Coast and Italian mafiosi.
Ambling away from the family photographs, he spent the next couple hours trying unsuccessfully to catnap on the well-worn couch and to forget eerie silence from Denver. This was the first time that he had truly been alone; even in the Navy, he regularly received phone calls and emails from his parents, Uncle Pete, Aunt Michelle, and Matt. Now it felt empty, like he too was ghostlike, save for the quizzical and perhaps sympathetic looks from his older second cousin. By 6:15, a black town car pulled up alongside of the Bensonhurst A-frame; Mario signaled to the unsettled Sam that it was time to go. A lone driver – a thin, twenties-something man wearing normal street clothes – invited the two men inside. The windows became slightly tinted; Bobby apologized and said that it was for everyone's protection. Although Mario and Sam were apprehensive, neither man showed their displeasure. Out of the darkened windows, they could see the black passenger car head north toward Lower Manhattan, negotiating the heavy, after-work traffic off the BQE and FDR. After forty-five minutes and entering the labyrinth of skyscrapers and small streets, the car suddenly stopped alongside a red brick hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Mario recognized the area; Mulberry Street, Little Italy, not far from where his own father was born and spent his first months. "Youse can enter right through there," Bobby explained. "They're expectin' youse." Each muttering a thanks, they exited and followed the mafioso's instructions, minding the small brick steps as they came into the old-school restaurant. A big man in a track suit guided them to a private dining room. At the head of a long, rectangular table sat the eighty-four-year-old Carlo Morano, smoking a cigar; at its sides sat Junior, Jackie, Fat Tony, Tommy, Vinny DiScala, and a nervous-looking Scott Pichler. Still calmly playing their game, Sam noticed that neither his uncle nor that slimy sonofabitch, Georgie Kariolis, were present. The big guy directed Mario to the other head of the table and Sam to his right.
"Bene," began Carlo. "Mario, buona sera. I apologize for the short notice, but given the circumstances, I'm sure you'll agree that this is an urgent matter." Waiving the big guy over, he calmly asked for drinks for the table. He nodded and, obeying his Padrino, went to get the required order. "Originally, young Luigi was supposed to go to Germany, get business done, and come back to New York. From what I've heard, he did that. Jackie," he momentarily glared at his eldest son, "would agree that we didn't want the kid out of the country for too long. But the plan changed, and not by my order. That fucking little Greek shit has balls, I'll give him that. But it crosses the line when the little Greek shit takes young Luigi, figlio degli New York's Bravest e mio pronipote, to the goddamned Middle East." His enraged eyes then shifted toward Scott Pichler. "Mario, I'm sure you know Scott Pichler here." Mario crossed his arms in response while the big guy returned, setting a whiskey by each man, starting with his boss. "Anyway, we got a problem. We still don't know why the fuck Luigi went with him. Perhaps youse," he nodded at both the plumber and Sam, "can shed some light on that."
Before Mario could answer, Sam interjected, "I have evidence, which I'll only show to the Padrino, that proves Luigi did not go to Dubai of his own accord. I don't know why exactly he went, but he's honest; he doesn't like Lucas any more than we do."
The men all exchanged looks and their volume increased, demanding to see the proof. Carlo gently raised a hand to quiet them. "Sammy, I will, at the appropriate time, see your proof. However, I don't think it's necessary right now. I highly doubt that Luigi would risk upsetting his fratello and zio by going to thatshithole in the desert. What I want to know is why." He turned toward Mario and waited.
Mustering all of his coglioni and refusing to back down from the don's piercing stare, Mario growled, "Because that piece of shit forced his girlfriend onto a plane headed for Dubai. I know because she was staying with me per his request. Because he was afraid that something was gonna go down, and smart kid that he is, he was right. So now, you have insulted my family twice. Personally, I'm ready to put my ass on that twelve-hour flight to get 'em back and drown that skinny motherfucker in the Gulf. And I know Giuseppe would give me the green light. My father, if he were here? Same fucking deal. My nonno? He'd have gutted the fuck like a fish, then made his intestines shark-bait."
Abruptly, the room fell silent, and all eyes were on the now visibly enraged Carlo, who nodded in comprehension and agreement. "This will get fixed. Luigi and the Portoghese will be on a plane back to New York, as soon as we can arrange it."
"Not good enough," the plumber spat. Several pairs of eyes enlarged in shock while others narrowed angrily at his disrespectful tone. Carlo did not react, however. "Nah, I don't give a fuck here. I'm gonna say my peace!" They waited with a mixture of awe, outrage, and nervousness. "You involved Luigi. For years, you've insulted him. Yeah, I'm aware of what was said. And that … attitude almost killed him! But guess what: he has the most balls of all of us. See, I went to that fuckin' place courtesy of Uncle Sam and twenty cocksuckers in the sky. And I can personally tell youse that it is a fuckin' shithole. Now there's a lot of history – it's the Garden of Eden; Mesopotamia, or close enough to it. But some of the people are lower than scum. Him? He chose to go for the noblest of reasons. And youse and I know someone's gonna take advantage of that. Not only do I want him and the Sfa … Portoghese safe and in my custody, but I want that skinny fuck out of the picture. And I want this shit to end. You may see him as a Rigassi. Bene. You can do what youse want. Giuseppe and I consider him a Masciarelli. Same goes for the Portoghese."
Mario crossed his arms again while some at the table erupted in mussitations of Abruzzese fuck and who the fuck does he think he is. A stunned Sam eyed his second cousin, tempted to whisper in his ear that he had just signed his death warrant. Fat Tony calmly sat in his chair and, picking his nose, observed the scene. After a moment, Carlo once again raised his hand, silencing the room. Dark eyebrow raised, despite his advanced age, he responded, "I'll let you speak to me like that just once, Masciarelli. Once in your fuckin' life." Mario continued to stare at him, unphased by the threat. "But you and your brother come from a long line of men with proper coglioni italiani. I could've used that in my own line." He threw a particularly nasty scowl at his eldest son before adding, "You want what we want. Luigi and the Portoghese will be returned to New York. Safely and quietly." He lifted his whiskey glass, causing his men to follow suit; the plumber slowly raised his. "Here's to the health of Luigi and his Portoghese. Salute."
As they drank the toast, in a middle-class, Staten Island guest room, Miles, Giuseppe, Lucia, Maria, and Lucy, having listened to the exchange through a similar watch-like device that the hacker had given Luigi, wondered what Cutthroat Carlo was planning. And where was Pete Morello?
Unable to sleep, Daisy slipped from Luigi's arms and out of bed to the large flat-screen television to watch the World Series' best-of-seven. Searching impatiently through the 130 channels until she found the live coverage of the game, the purring lioness quietly chuckled at the Kansas City Royals, licking her lips by the fourth inning when Sandoval marched across home plate to bring the score in the San Francisco Giants' favor, 3-2. By the bottom of the sixth inning, the sleepy, shirtless Luigi located his missing cat-face and encircled her waist, inquiring whether Bumplug was still pitching. She warned him to be quiet and resumed watching the game, ignoring his caresses and playful attempts to distract her. When the game had concluded with the Giants as the visiting victors, they still had not heard any drunken Greek-Americans enter the suite. After taking a quick shower and dressing in business casual and an embroidered jellaba respectively, Luigi and Daisy collected their belongings, leaving both the tuxedo and dress behind to avoid accusations of theft, sent a message to Miles to get ready for a shitstorm, and checked out of the hotel. Unwilling to risk the concierge providing clues to Lucas, Luigi merely requested a taxi. Once inside the cab, he asked the driver to take them to a car rental shop nearby the Burj Khalifa, though the necessity of having a car was briefly disturbed by the insanity of Emirati drivers who were notorious throughout the Middle East for their lack of proper merging and blinkers. Although most rental agencies were closed until ten in the morning, there was one that specifically catered to foreigners. Arriving at the agency, the staff helped them choose a plain four-door, four-wheel-drive Nissan. Luigi grumbled the entire two and a half kilometers to the Dubai Mall to park for breakfast, having reflexively honked at three cars which cut him off from his blind spot. Jesus, this place is turning me into Mario.
As they walked through the Armani Hotel and down to the reservation access to the Burj Khalifa's famous restaurant, , the Brooklynite's iPhone began to buzz and ding incessantly. Both groaning at the originator, he looked at his home screen so as not to open them:
(8:53 a.m. Dubai Time): "Yo, Weeg, where are you? It's breakfast time, my man!"
(8:59 a.m. Dubai Time): "What the FUCK? You checked out? Where are you?"
Momentary confused, as there was no direct access to the restaurant, Luigi ignored the barrage of texts and voicemails to ask the Armani Hotel concierge where to access the elevator for . A kind woman escorted them to the reservation kiosk downstairs, where Luigi received a final text from his enemy:
(9:02 a.m. Dubai Time): "Luigi, we need to talk. Whatever I did to piss you off, we can discuss it. Bros forever, remember?"
"What's he saying?" she asked softly.
Luigi scoffed, leaning down to whisper, "Same as usual; he's trying to play the victim."
Muttering a quick cabrón, causing him to chuckle in sympathy and agreement, she and her boyfriend approached the hostess's desk and explained that they were meeting an Ali bin Muhammad al-Ketbi. Strangely, the woman's eyes flickered, and her already welcoming demeanor became even more so. Confirming their reservation, she instructed them to wait for the private elevator which arrived a minute later. Luigi shook his head in disbelief as the lift skyrocketed to the 123rd floor, a full floor above the restaurant. Was every trip in Dubai a fucking labyrinth, he thought somewhat tetchily. The doors of the elevator opened to reveal a sign that read, "Welcome to . Please proceed down to the staircase on the left-hand side." Huffing a New Yorker's patented Jesus Christ and trailing the more curious Daisy, they proceeded down the glassy, twisting staircase along large windows with a nearly fourteen-hundred-foot view to the streets below. At the 122nd floor, they arrived at the second hostess's desk, who walked them into the restaurant. The smiling Ali, who was sitting at a round table next to a large window, gently waived them over; he stood up, greeted Luigi by shaking his hand, then nodding politely at Daisy. "Please," he invited.
Sitting at the table, Ali had taken the liberty of ordering a basket of fresh pastries, fruit juice, and coffee while they studied the menu to begin the remaining five courses: an organic Greek yogurt parfait; applewood-smoked trout; roasted potatoes with Wagyu beef bacon; twice-baked haddock; lobster scrambled eggs; and brioche French toast with Tonka bean ice cream. Having already explained to the staff that Daisy did not eat meat, they proposed alternative courses that would satisfy any vegetarian's tastebuds: eggplant caviar; roasted potatoes with grilled peppers; and caponata. Despite the device continuing to buzz during the first two courses, Luigi took pictures of their meals with his iPhone. By the third course, the plumber's stomach had started to expand uncomfortably, and he took smaller and smaller bites.
"Ah, you don't have breakfast like this in New York?" taunted Ali between bites of the Wagyu bacon.
He shook his head. "Nah, we just, uh, go for the nearest bagel shop. Can't go wrong with a bagel and a schmeer – uh, cream cheese."
"Yeah, I know. I spent a couple years at Tandon. Business and engineering. I transferred home and got my Master's degree in Electrical Engineering from the Abu Dhabi campus."
"Oh, yeah?" he asked with interest. "I didn't know NYU had a campus over here?"
Nodding between bites, Ali responded, "It opened in 2010. I graduated in 2012. I love New York – felt right at home there except for the winters and tunneling effect in Brooklyn and Manhattan. Ugh." Luigi and Daisy laughed understandingly. "But my father wanted me to come home and start helping with the family business. It made sense. Plus, my brothers and sisters missed me."
"How many do you have?" inquired Daisy.
"There are six of us. I'm the eldest. I have four sisters and a brother. Do you have brothers and sisters? Luigi, I think you said you have a brother?"
"Yeah," he quickly glanced at Daisy, who, between bites of vegetable, silently gave permission to answer for both of them. "I have an older brother, Mario. He's eight years older than I. He's engaged to a woman from Venice, so she's kind of like my sister-in-law. Daisy's an only child, so thankfully, I only need to worry about her father and stepmother kicking my a…behind." She cocked her eyebrow teasingly at him, to which he laughed and blinked an I-love-you at her. "I grew up with three first cousins, so they're kind of like my sisters – an older one and two younger ones."
Ali snorted. "Yeah, I get it. In sha Allah, I'll have that pleasure in a few years. And in the UAE, we all live down the street from each other – grandparents, parents, in-laws, uncles, aunts, cousins, second cousins, even third cousins. So we couldn't …"
"…get away with much, yeah, right?" finished Luigi.
He nodded. "It's the same with Italians?"
"Yeah."
"So, um, you guys came to Dubai … for vacation or … ?"
The American couple exchanged a wordless look before Daisy answered, "Vacation and business. Lucas … made us an irresistible offer to see the Gulf and UAE."
"Huh, interesting." He cut up his lobster scrambled eggs and ate some from his fork. "He's definitely an interesting guy. How'd you two meet, anyway? You're both from New York – I think I caught that part."
It did not escape either of their attentions that Ali was asking the same questions from the previous night's gala. What was his angle? Did he already know Lucas? "We went to high school together for a while. Recently, he asked if I wanted to go into the SCADA business. Right now, we're in the raising capital and planning stage. But big projects are a little difficult to find interest right now, so I'd like to start simple. I've got a HVAC thermal monitor that I've designed."
"Oh? And you're looking for a buyer in Dubai?"
Luigi smiled apologetically, dabbing at his mouth with the cloth napkin. "Ah … well, it's in its infancy. We still have to run QA on the functioning prototype."
"So, it regulates air conditioning? Heating as well?"
He paused mid-bite and used a tilting hand motion to indicate that Ali was partly correct. "Well, yes and no. It doesn't regulate air conditioning or its energy output as in the amount of BTUs. What it does do is send information to the plumbing or HVAC company to show how well the unit is working. That way, if a boiler or HVAC unit's about to fail, it'll let the technicians know before it happens. In, uh, New York, as you know, people are always in a hurry, so if they are the least inconvenienced, they'll be more likely to stay with a single supplier."
"You can predict failure?"
The plumber nodded. "Right now, yeah. But we want to make sure that it works with all possible units, including those in Europe. We got some funding in Germany for the testing."
Ali put his fork down and put his right hand to his chin. Daisy briefly glanced at her boyfriend, who was equally as puzzled. Finally, the former inquired, "You and Lucas got this funding from the testing? I would assume a start-up investment in Frankfurt or Berlin?"
"Yeah, Heimar-Grüner Capital. And, uh, no, Lucas didn't have much to do with this project, save for the plane tickets to Germany. Actually," Luigi gazed at his girlfriend adoringly, "Daisy had more input. She did the preliminary testing for the first prototype."
He gave a single impressed nod to both the funding and Daisy. "I'm not surprised; my mother mentioned Daisy's physics degree from Oxford. And yeah, I know Heimar-Grüner. My cousin got a few thousand for his start-up two years ago. They're a good investment firm; exacting, but fair." He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin and then took a sip of coffee. "When are you two leaving?"
"Well, actually, tonight," said the New Yorker apologetically.
The Emirati's smile fell immediately. "But you just arrived on Monday! Is there a reason why you are departing so soon?"
"Kind of, yeah. Daisy's got law school interviews coming up, and I got to get back to my shop. I've already spent a week in Germany, and my union may make me take PTO – personal leave – if I'm abroad for longer."
He nodded again, lost in thought. "Okay, cards on the table?"
Daisy and Luigi exchanged a quizzical look. "Yeah," she replied for them both.
"My family's company is an engineering firm. Climate control for major office buildings and hotels. That's what Dubai is now – one big park of skyscrapers and hotels. We were invited to that SCADA talk, as we're a major contractor in the UAE and Oman. Like you said, SCADA's hard to implement due to the sheer cost, and the Sheikh has made his wishes known that we invest in green energy and efficiency. If your device does what you say it can do, then … it might serve us both. I get that it's in the early stages of testing and won't be ready for a couple of years. That being said, a desert climate and one that is moreover artificial might be useful for Heiman-Grüner's expectations."
"Fair point," Luigi acknowledged. "Forgive the forwardness, but what's in it for you? Why do business with a stranger from Brooklyn?"
He smiled sheepishly. "I realize that you don't know us, and we don't know you. That's why I was asking when you were leaving. You can see our operations in Dubai and Muscat, and we can perhaps see a demonstration of your device."
Underneath the table, Daisy tugged at her lover's shirt, directing him not to give a definitive answer until they had a chance to discuss it. "Ali, that's a wonderful opportunity. But, uh, Daisy and I will need some time to discuss it. Not to mention that our families are expecting us home soon. Would you give us the day, if that's alright with you?"
The Arab grinned. "Of course. Just let us know by this evening?"
Following breakfast and Ali's insistence that they visit the observation deck on the 148th floor, Luigi and Daisy retreated to a somewhat obscured corner of the Burj Khalifa property and attempted to reserve a room last-minute. Unfortunately, the only availability was at the Armani Hotel whose price per night was on par with the Burj al-Arab. Upon arrival and check-in, the irritated Luigi handed the woman his bank card to pay for a single room on the sixth floor. Entering the wooden and metallic-themed room, which neither American felt was warm or welcoming, they set their luggage aside and, fully clothed, stretched out on the bed, with Luigi enfolding his lioness and nuzzling her neck intimately. She purred in response and enjoyed the brief moment together.
"I just noticed that your hair is growing out," she whispered as she ran a hand through his mane. "I like it."
His hand flattened against her stomach. "Yeah?"
"Hmm, yeah. Thick Italian hair's a turn on."
Kissing her neck more sensually, he crooned, "I'll keep it longer then." As she giggled, he froze and, refraining from doing more, leaned back against the pillows. "Shit. On one hand, this place makes me want ... On the other, I know it'll get us into trouble."
Daisy twisted to face him. "Kerido, the very act of sharing a room is enough." Taking advantage of his lack of response, she stroked his hair and asked, "What did you think of Ali?"
"Dunno, cat-face. It's tempting, but … we really should get the hell out of here. The longer we stay, the more likely we get stopped by the authorities or Lucas." He sighed in frustration. "I know we need to find out what the fuck he's up to. We can do something here, now. Yet I don't want you … trapped. As you were sleeping, before your, uh, win, I read some shit that Miles sent via encrypted text. These people don't fuck around. If you run into the police, deportation is your hope."
She nodded. "I know. But I meant what I said, sweetie. I am not leaving you here. If you stay, then I stay. It's that simple."
Groaning a little, Luigi kissed her lips and crown of her head. "Stubborn and beautiful. Inasmuch as I should drag you to the airport," he looked into her half-amused, half-offended amber orbs, "I don't think I can do this alone. I'm not Mario; I can't just go in charging alone to save the day. And inasmuch as I shouldn't, I want you here. Regardless, I'm … grateful that you are."
Without replying aloud, she kissed and rolled him onto his back. Before their hormones took over, they broke apart and interlaced their hands, Daisy laying her head upon his clavicle. They fell quiet once more, the taciturnity of the almost sterile, ultramodern hotel room strangely comforting.
A mechanical buzz interrupted the embrace. Luigi protested, swearing in English and Italian, as he rolled over to check his phone. Nothing. "Sweetie, did you hear that?"
Curious, Daisy slid from the bed to open the front pocket of her hand luggage. There was a single text-picture of a bouquet with a dozen orange and pink roses. "What the hell?"
Swinging his long legs to the edge, the plumber rose and walked up behind her. "What is it, cat-face?" She showed him the picture. "Fucking prick!" he hissed. "Does he not give up?"
"Apparently not," she deadpanned in disgust to her fuming lover. "I'm tempted to send him a rose-colored middle finger." As he chuckled and put a reassuring, yet slightly possessive hand at the small of her back, her iPhone buzzed once more:
(11:57 a.m. Dubai Time): "Last night was a misunderstanding. I won't tell him if you don't ;) But please let me make it up to you."
"I can't even …" snorted Luigi. "I can't believe he had the chutzpah to put that in print. He does know you're with me, right?"
"Something tells me that he doesn't care," the lioness mumbled as she replied with "Oh?"
"What – What are you doing?" he inquired when Lucas immediately wrote back, "Lunch? You and me. Public place? I know a great restaurant. 1 pm."
(12:00 p.m. Dubai Time): "Interesting, what about Luigi?"
"Daisy, what the hell are you …?" the plumber demanded, suddenly afraid for her.
(12:01 p.m. Dubai Time): "Let's keep this between us. Last night had nothing to do with him."
"Okay!" he growled, "tell him to go fuck himself!"
(12:02 p.m. Dubai Time): "You're right, Lucas; the thought of kicking you in the balls is all me."
"Cat-face!" he exclaimed in horror.
Phone still in her right hand, she put her left through his hair to calm him, which earned her a cross between a pout and a glare. "Kerido, I don't want him trying to claim that he and I slept together. I think that's where he's going with this."
(12:04 p.m. Dubai Time): "Wow, how rude. But I'm getting used to your feisty nature ;). Admit it: you're curious. I'll leave the … ball in your court. I'll be at the Zouzou near the Burj Khalifa. Good Lebanese food. I invite you to join me. A bientôt, ma rose!"
"Christ!" Luigi turned away from his girlfriend to face the large greenery surrounding the Burj through the window. Setting the phone down on the bed, Daisy trailed him and ran a sensual hand down his Oxford-covered back. He did not respond, still angry that she gave Lucas any attention.
"Kerido, do you trust me?"
Without looking at her directly, he groused, "Of course I do. It's him who I don't trust."
She slowly brushed lips against his cheek and murmured, "I know. But he's right – I am curious. Yes, he's going to play games. So can I."
Shaking his head, the plumber rasped his unreleased rage, "Why?"
He felt his head being gently, yet firmly turned to face her determined brown orbs. "Because if we don't, then we can't protect your shop and I … I can't protect you."
"And what do I do?"
Daisy flashed an impish grin and seductively ran her palms up his chest, causing his breath to catch. "You, my dear plumber, obey your princess and work on sussing out Ali. You think he's legit?"
Luigi shrugged. "My gut tells me he is, but this is Dubai – different culture and all that shit." His eyes widened and snapped his fingers. "But I do know someone whom I could ask. Rospo! I mean, he's from Libya, though he'd probably know something about the Gulf. I'll confirm we can stay a few days more." He winced, then added, "Joe's gonna be pissed."
"Ótimo. And I'll keep the Evil Toothpick distracted. As for Giuseppe," the Brooklyn lion raised his eyebrow at his plotting lioness, "blame it on me. Heh."
"As you wish, principessa mia. Just a warning: he'll go on a rant about Arabs killing Jews."
She took him into a passionate kiss and puffed against his hungry lips, "He'd get along smashingly with Yael."
Subsequent to a rather steamy make-out session in their hotel room, which she eventually had to stop from escalating into midday sex, much to their mutual displeasure, Daisy tracked and backtracked through the adjacent Dubai Mall to keep a potentially spying Lucas from knowing their precise location. At a little past one o'clock, she walked onto the outdoor patio of the Lebanese restaurant, where the tall man in purple was cheerfully waiting. She observed his outfit with both humor and incredulity: light gray Milanese suit, white Oxford, and a violet silk ascot and matching handkerchief tucked in the front pocket. He had foregone shaving to leave something akin to a five o'clock shadow and thin mustache. The lioness could not decide if the Asshole in the Ascot was attempting to imitate Gomez Addams or some warped version of a rich protagonist in a dime-store romance novel. Affixing her best resting bitch-face, she approached his table with a mixture of confidence and caution.
"Ah, Daisy, darling!" he greeted, rising from his chair and ignoring her cold regard.
"Lucas," she gruffly replied.
As they sat down, the staff brought out an assortment of flatbreads, hummus, and mezze. Though she mused that he was predictably the same controlling asshole as he had been at lunch in California and Cabo San Lucas, the auburn woman did make note of the order being entirely vegetarian. On the surface, the Manhattanite's attitude had improved: no cracks about vegetarianism, no leering comments, and no grab-ass. While that was considered the bare minimum for the rest of the world, it was, in Daisy's estimation, two steps below a miracle. Jesus, the guy can act like a gentleman, which only means that he doesn't give a fuck.
"Mmm, I was here, like, a year ago. Best Lebanese food outside of, well, Lebanon," he remarked.
"You've been to Lebanon?" she asked.
He nodded. "Yeah. Syria, too. I'd just finished my MBA. I took a month off just to mess around. I went to Europe, then for a lark, I used my Greek passport to enter Beirut and Damascus from Athens. You ever been?"
Between tiny bites of Fattoush salad, she shook her head.
"Beautiful country. I liked Beirut better than Damascus. It's like France, Morocco, and Italy all in one. Best pizza next to Italy and Greece." Cutting his flatbread up with a fork and knife, he continued, "So, I, uh, wanted this lunch to be a peace-offering of sorts."
She scoffed while wiping her mouth. "I find that very hard to believe. Other than manipulating both Luigi and I to come to Dubai, you've been a … pill since I've met you and probably since he's known you. So cut the crap. I can speak for your so-called 'bestie' when I say that we're tired of the games."
"Okay," he held up his hands, "point taken. I shouldn't have joked about the, uh, the-thing-of-theirs. It was a joke, mind you, but a poor one. I didn't know you guys would take me so literally."
"What do you want?" she growled. "And why meet me instead of Luigi?"
Abruptly setting down his fork and knife, Lucas gazed at his lunch companion. The intensity of his dark look involuntarily made her shiver, and her body felt glued to the wooden patio. He leaned toward her, so that only she could hear him, and murmured, "Last night, I, uh, rented a woman around Jumeirah. Brazilian, just like you. Beautiful girl, just like you. I kissed her skin, made her moan. I was practicing.Know why, Daisy?" Still frozen, she did not reply. After waiting a few seconds, he went on, "Because … I was picturing you. I'm not going to lie, it ranked in the top five sexual experiences of my life." He leaned back, eyes narrowing a little. "I'm not here to make up with Luigi! He's stabbed me in the back one too many times. Now, you? Well, you're far more interesting. How many … women have been willing to come to Sodom-sur-mer to defend their paramours? Not many. Most expect the opposite. I've completely underestimated you. That was my fault. Believe me, it won't happen again." Reaching for a sip of water from his glass, Lucas spat, "Have you ever considered that maybe, just maybe, Luigi isn't the loyal, caring guy you think he is?"
Daisy finally found her voice. "How's that?"
"Let me guess: he's probably spun some bullshit tale about how I got him kicked out of Brooklyn City, right?"
"Brooklyn City's has come up once or twice," she answered cryptically.
He rolled his eyes. "Oh, I bet!" Dipping a piece of plain flatbread into the pool of hummus on his plate, he said, "I never kicked him out. He got himself kicked out. See, Luigi, uh," ceasing to eat, Lucas folded his hands and looked away in thought, "how do I put this? He had a temper tantrum over a poem that we had to read in English class. A poem! He went nuts; ran out of the classroom. Later that day, he purchased enough blow to knock out a small army and almost killed himself. Sad, really. And as you know, minor in possession is enough to be expelled."
She attempted to stifle a gasp, though unsuccessfully as Lucas shrugged in response.
"Exactly, ma petite rose. Luigi's very good at blaming others for his screw-ups. See, the thing is that he's very much like his Uncle Joe: when things get tough, he bails. That's not a mark of integrity, Daisy. I tried to overlook our past and help him, but he doesn't want it. Okay, cool. What I don't get? Why are you with this guy?" An unreadable Daisy did not respond. "Look, you're smart, beautiful, well-educated. He's a plumber! He doesn't even have a college degree. Smart? Sure. But he's not the type that you bring home to … nice Jewish parents." Daisy's face drained of color as he smirked. "Ah, yes, I finally figured it out. Well, actually, I had to do a little research. Anyhoo, I can't imagine that Daddy the Lawyer would be thrilled with his daughter's choice. Some bumpkin Italian Catholic plumber? Yeah, nah." His smirk fell, albeit briefly. "And I realize that this would put me out of the running, as well, even though I do have several degrees. Oh, well; it doesn't mean that I can't give you an experience of a lifetime."
"He already knows," she managed, grasping at the little composure that remained.
Lucas's eyebrows raised into his hairline. "Your father already knows?" He crossed his arms and whistled. "Wow. You really must be serious about him if you're risking your inheritance!" Glaring at her, he mocked, "I didn't know slumming it was your thing."
His last remark shifted her speechlessness to indignation. "Better slumming it than sleeping my way to the top or," she sneered, "using Daddy to give me millions to play with a supposedly loser plumber." Inhaling deeply to keep her temper in check, she regained a normal tone and clarified, "I mean, here's what I can't understand, Lucas. You're rich; you have your own company. You can go to Dubai at a whim. Why do you care about Luigi? Or me, for that matter? I'm sure you can pay for a date with, I don't know, the latest Playboy model."
He nodded. "I can."
"So? Why not do that? Go enjoy Dubai. Leave Luigi alone to his shop. Leave me alone to my legal career. Neither have any bearing on you. Less stress, I'd imagine, as well."
"True," he acknowledged. "However, ma petite rose des sables, I'm all about … experiences. The right experiences, the best experiences. More importantly, challenges. Now, frankly, Luigi's not much of a challenge – he's all talk and no show. You, on the other hand …" Before she could react, he seized her left hand, holding it firmly downward to avoid any defensive movement, kissed the top, then, with an evil grin, slid the ring off her finger. A fuming Daisy yelped as he plucked it onto his right pinky. Snickering, he spoke again, "See, I also love trophies. I know Weegie gave this to you." Holding it up at eye level, he examined it briefly. "Hmm. Looks old. Valuable."
"Give it back!" demanded the distressed woman.
Lucas pretended to think. "Hmm, no."
"Lucas!"
"Is it really that important to you? I mean, shit, I can get you a diamond ring that's far prettier. There's a jeweler not far," he offered, gesturing toward the Dubai Mall while biting his lip to hold in his laughter.
Daisy fidgeted in her seat, almost in tears. "Please, give it back," she whispered.
The Manhattanite regarded her with phony concern. "So it is important. Well, I could be persuaded …"
"What do you want?" she rasped angrily, biting her lip. He would not see her tears. "You want to humiliate either Luigi or me. Or both. So just tell me what you want. And no, I won't sleep with you under any circumstances."
He shrugged, sliding the ring tauntingly along his little finger. "Well, true and untrue at the same time. As I told you, I've washed my hands of Luigi. I offered him friendship, and he rejected it. I have no interest in him anymore. You, well, that's different. There's a saying in Dubai: 'Everyone has a price.' I think I've found yours. You value the, uh, little things, especially those given to you. Surprisingly, I respect that. Hence why my request is equally as simple: there's a private dinner tonight, and I need a plus one. Nothing sordid – it's with an investor. It's easy-peasy; spend the evening as my, uh, date and you'll get your ring back. Midnight sharp, Cinderella." Frowning abruptly, he mused aloud, "Or am I Cinderella? Dancing with the princess?" He hummed and refocused his attention on the troubled woman before him. "Anyway, what do you say?"
She crossed her arms disbelievingly. "And you'll give it back at the end?"
"Yeah. I have no use for it. But I need a date who speaks decent English, French, and Spanish, some Arabic, and," his eyes ran over her face and hair, "is pretty. Very pretty. I need you, Daisy Abravanel." Sighing in frustration, she nodded wordlessly. "Alright, it's a date! Since I know you won't tell me where you're staying, how about I pick you up outside of the Burj Khalifa at seven sharp?"
"Fine."
"Oh, and I have something for you. Once we're finished, and my driver comes around with the car, I'll give it to you."
A mortified Daisy felt a meagre amount of pride that she had not begun to sob until entering the thankfully vacant hotel elevators, a gold and black garment bag wrapped around her arm. Inside the lift traveling toward the sixth floor, she screamed and moaned into her naked hand. Although Lucas had handed her a golden opportunity to investigate his real goals in Dubai, the lioness raged at herself for losing a priceless heirloom that Luigi's uncle had entrusted to her. Well, I failed the pre-marriage test, she hissed angrily. Her ire immediately shifted to cold fear as the elevator arrived at the sixth floor. What would she tell Luigi?
Allowing herself to move on autopilot, she considered how to tell him, as well as her plan for getting the ring back, and imagined his disappointed or even furious reaction. Knowing now that she was unworthy of his love and trust, as he was right about her confronting Lucas, she steeled herself to get it back so that he could give it to his future wife. Her feet stopped at Room 620. Inhaling and wiping at her tear-filled eyes, Daisy held the magnetic card, which she had not remembered taking out from her pocket, over the door handle to enter.
Luigi, who was still dressed in his long-sleeved Oxford and jeans, lay on the bed watching television. His relieved hint of a smile fell upon the sight of the unhappy woman. "Cat-face, what's wrong?" Jumping off the mattress to approach her, his voice became dark with hostility. "What the fuck did he do?"
Instead of responding to her now worried lover, she dropped to the floor. He crouched in front of her, growing more and more alarmed at her harsh sobs. After a full minute, he yanked the garment bag from her, threw it aside, and curled his body around hers, rocking them both. She tried to push him away, yet he tightened his embrace, forcing her face to his and kissing her lips.
"No! Ti amo! Per sempre!" he hissed against her salty lips. "I was going out of my mind! And I'm going out of my mind. Please, kerido, tell me what's wrong."
"Luigi, you're going to hate me," whimpered Daisy. "The ring … He stole it! He pulled it right off my finger, and …" His eyes became a deep blue, and he firmly lifted her unornamented left hand. "I'm so sorry! I'll make this right, Luigi," he heard her plead.
Bringing the hand to his cheek, he shook his head. "I don't give a fuck about the ring! He could've hurt you!"
"It's your family heirloom. Salvatore …"
"Salvatore gave it to you to protect you! It hasn't!" He held her tighter, kissing her hairline. "Tonight, you're getting on a plane. I don't care if the only one we can get is to France, the UK, or Germany, but you're getting the hell out of here! I can't … bear the thought of him potentially hurting you. He touched you!" Pushing her away a few inches so that he could look at her properly, he shook his head. "If I have to choose between a ring and you? Easy choice." He smiled a little and added, "When we get back to New York, I'll get you another one."
Daisy's face became emotionless. "I … I don't deserve that. You were right. I shouldn't have provoked him, and now, I've lost something … so valuable to your family. I just … I need to make this right. I can't … look you or your family collectively in the eye without trying."
"Cat-face, he won't give it back to you. He did that out of revenge!" Biting his lip to keep from yelling, Luigi growled, "He wanted to hurt you by taking the ring. He wanted to hurt me by hurting you."
Taking a deep breath to prepare herself for the impeding argument, she replied, "Luigi, I … I'm not getting on that plane. Not until I find out what he's up to. And if I can get the ring back, I will. He's 'offered' me a chance."
He recoiled from her and spat, "By doing what?!"
"By, uh, attending a gala tonight. With him."
Staring at her incredulously, the plumber tottered to his feet and, indignantly grabbing the garment bag that he had tossed to the middle of the room, ripped the zipper open to reveal an aubergine silk and gold embroidered evening gown and matching high heels. He pivoted his head to face her. "You … You are out of your fucking mind!" he yelled, throwing the dress to the bed. "He's dangerous! He won't hesitate to harm you!"
"Kerido, please …" she begged. "I know … I know I screwed up. Please give me a chance …"
"To do what?! Kill yourself?!"
Daisy faced him evenly. "Do you have such a low opinion of me? I don't want to be protected, sheltered, while you suffer!"
"Suffer?!" Throwing up his hands exasperatedly, an act reminiscent of his paternal uncle whenever he argued with his wife, Luigi paced back and forth, every so often an Italian obscenity escaping his mouth. Finally, he halted and muttered, "You want to know what makes me suffer?! Suffering, Daisy, is when you've lost everyone around you. Suffering is when they leave you, and you can't follow them! Suffering is when you get them back, but they look right fucking through you. Suffering is when … the girl who you love more than anything is about to confront a psychopath over some goddamned ring! And if she …" He trailed off in a loud sob. Blinking away a tear, he forced himself to continue, "And if she dies or is hurt, and you're not fucking there, all you'll want to do is tear him apart and then …" She tried to approach him, yet he put out his hand and shook his head. "And then … drown yourself in the fucking Persian Gulf because your blood will be the only thing that will be good enough at that point!"
Upon hearing his words, she burst out crying and fell to her knees in shame. "It's not just about some goddamned ring, Luigi. I … I know how my family treated you, how my father treated Mario, Peach, Giuseppe, and S-Salvatore. I wanted to make up for it. Because …" She slowly raised her brown eyes to his pained, though expectant blue ones. "Because I wanted that ring."
Dropping her gaze in quiet disgrace, she closed her eyes against the burning salt of her tears. Maybe it wasn't meant to be. The air stilled for what seemed hours when she felt herself being pulled to her feet and lips connecting to hers, his Roman nose crushing her smaller one, and their tears mixing cheek upon cheek. "It's not the ring, amore," he spoke brokenly. Opening her eyes when he seized her left hand, she watched him take it in both his hands and press it to his heart. "It's this. And you've had it since you stepped on my foot in that pseudo-bodega. And he'll never take that from you. Nor will the fucking Mafia or the union or … your family." Through his tears, he chortled, "And since you bought it with a bagel, just try not to break it."
Daisy started to laugh with him. "As I recall, you bought my bagel."
Bringing her hand to his lips, he whispered, "With that bagel, I pledge myself to thee."
"That's why … why I need to try, kerido." At Luigi's opened mouth, she put her fingers to his lips. "Hear me out. Please?" He gave a single, reluctant nod. "The ring means that I'm a part of your family. It was … is mine, and I fucking want it back. But more importantly, I want to know what he's planning. Because I don't think he chose this place for fun – not entirely. He, uh, mentioned going to Lebanon and Syria in the past. He's also been here before. And for some reason, other than torturing you, he needs me. I think that's why he took the ring."
"Lebanon? Syria?" his asked in a raw voice. "He's got to be bullshitting you."
"Yeah, they're … not exactly places that many Americans or Greeks frequent."
"Shit, I like you going even less than before, and it was already in negative-number territory on a scale of one to ten." The plumber then mumbled a stoic fuck underneath his breath. "Don't get me wrong, cat-face; I do trust you, and I do think you can handle yourself. I just … I couldn't bear the thought of something happening to you."
"I know. And I don't want something happening to either of us," acknowledged Daisy. With a sigh, she inquired, "What do we do?"
He kissed the top of her head. "I don't know. Do you know where he's taking you?"
"No. When he gave me the dress, I tried to get him to tell me, but he refused."
"Fucker." Anxiously, Luigi nuzzled her neck, eliciting a moan from his lioness. "It's your call, sweetie. If you choose to do this, then I have one condition." Distracted by his kisses, she merely hummed. "Miles tracks you. I need to know that we can get to you if there's trouble."
She nodded. "Yeah."
"I guess there's a second condition." He unlatched his lips from her neck, leaving her disheveled and questioning him. Stroking her hair, he said, "If he tries … something, run away. Even if it's to the police. Don't fight him, not unless there's absolutely no alternative. I need you well, Daisy."
"Okay."
"Bene." He lifted her into his arms and marched toward the bed. "You may have to be his date tonight, but I want that stupid fuck to smell me on you for every minute of it," he growled sensually.
During the next several hours, Luigi kept Daisy in the hotel room bed, jealousy, disquiet, and tenderness fueling his desire. The dress had fallen to the floor, forgotten,much to his satisfaction. As for the lioness, she secretly took pleasure in and matched his ferociousness, digging her medium-length fingernails into his bare back and squeezing her muscular legs around his hips. At the intermission of their private orchestra, she persuaded him to order room service – shawarma with French fries and a chocolate lava cake – since he had not eaten since their large breakfast, and she knew he would refuse food or other comforts until she returned. Having requested the staff to drop the order outside of their door, Luigi brought the silver tray inside and arranged it on the foot of the bed. They carefully fed each other, with the plumber eating the sandwich and fries, and Daisy, who was rather full from the multi-course breakfast and small lunch, taking a few bites of the chocolate cake. Although he felt better from the sustenance, his stomach still burned at the upcoming gala, and he envisioned several possible endings, all of which involved Lucas's bloody demise.
Once they could no longer avoid it, Luigi moved the tray to the desk and joined Daisy in the shower. Twenty minutes later, she dressed in the purple and gold A-line maxi dress which, surprisingly for Lucas's tastes, was conservative, covering the shoulders and knees with the gauzy lace extending down the arms. Upon seeing the beautiful woman thusly attired, the plumber irately threw on his clothes and shoes, insisting that he would come with her to the pick-up point. Daisy, who was already concerned at her lover's barely suppressed jealousy, did not argue. At six o'clock, he logged into his computer, secure VPN, and opened the videoconferencing link from Miles, who had received Luigi's mayday. While he and Daisy arranged themselves in front of the camera, the link revealed a three-way conference: Miles, a fatigued Giuseppe, and Mario via telephone.
"Lou, I'm glad you texted me," began the hacker. "We got trouble. Be prepared for an incoming delegation of the Mafia."
"Yeah," replied Luigi uneasily, "that doesn't surprise me. Lucas's up to no good, as usual. He's here for a reason, not just to mess with us."
"What do you mean, Weegie?" inquired Mario, simultaneously muttering at the honking horns and the dense morning traffic of, presumably, the BQE.
"He's doing some sort of business with the locals tonight. That's, uh, why we called. Miles, we'll need you to track Daisy."
Giuseppe rolled his eyes and glared at the young couple. "And where're you gonna be, figlio? Don't you fuckin' tell me that she's going by herself with that little skinny shit!" Daisy and Luigi exchanged an uncomfortable look, yet did not deign to reply. "Oh, don't you … !"
The older Italian man bit his lip to refrain from exploding; however, his portly nephew interrupted boisterously, "Weegie, Sfacciata, are youse outta your fuckin' minds?! Huh?! This is the heart of the fuckin' Middle East! Aside from this being Lucas the Douchebag, she got a mouth! A big fuckin' mouth! And she's a Jewish ragazzawith a mouth! Nah, youse stay put in your hotel room tonight, then get on the next fuckin' plane out tomorrow! Carlo's pissed as it is!"
"What do you mean? Carlo Morano?" asked Daisy.
"The very same! That's what Dipshit meant about the 'Mafia Delegation.' I just attended a sit-down with Carlo and his goons over you! They're pissed off enough that there's gonna be a hit. He said he's gonna bring youse back to New York. Though who's to stay what he's actually thinking."
"Shit," voiced Luigi. "What about Sam? And Pete Morello?"
"Sam made it back to New York and is staying with Mario in Bensonhurst," answered Miles. "As for Pete Morello, no one knows. The rumor is that he's been whacked. That's what Salvatore told us before, uh, he went AWOL."
"Jesus Christ," breathed the plumber, looking away. The lioness put a comforting hand on his back.
"That's why you both need to get on the next plane back to New York. Let Lucas get his. If Pete did get whacked, then you're also making yourself a target by staying there, figlio. And Daisy has no involvement here."
"I think – we think," the woman corrected herself while glancing at her lover, "that it's bigger than that. Lucas said something really weird to me this afternoon. Well, weirder than usual."
The blond engineer knitted his eyebrows together in curiosity and dread. "Like what?"
"Now, I know he could be lying, but … he mentioned using his Greek passport to enter Lebanon and Syria. I know enough from my stepmother, the former IDF sergeant, that anything involving Syria is a huge red flag."
Silence fell upon the videoconference; they heard Mario pull over to the side and park the company vehicle to focus on the call. Giuseppe bit his lip once more, both in quiet rage and sheer panic. Miles wiped his mouth with a thin hand and murmured, "And he … injected how much into Lou's shop? If he is into terrorism, which explains how he knew about the Marco Bowser video, then Luigi and the union could be in deep shit. As in NSA, FBI, and Homeland Security deep shit. Mario, does Fat Tony know about this?"
"Who knows?" he responded in a dull tone.
"Motherfucker!" hissed the normally mild-mannered engineer, startling everyone with the vehemence of his swearing. "I should've known with the video … Goddamnit!"
"Kid, no one saw this coming," rasped Joe flatly.
Miles ignored him. "Then there's Marco's first wife. Polina Lepeshinski. Lou, she's Jackie's daughter, and we think she's helping Lucas – at least, in part. Which could mean that she's also into terrorism."
Luigi stared into space. "Great. Mafia and terrorism, hand in hand. This gets better and better."
Sighing in resignation, the hacker began to type something on his other screens. "Lou, do you still have the watch tracker that I gave you?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Give it to Daisy. My guess is that Lucas will take her phone, so I won't be able to track her. If he thinks she's just wearing a watch, he'll hardly notice."
Giuseppe and Mario both bellowed at the same time, "WHAT THE FUCK?" As the former protested loudly in Abruzzese dialect, the latter roared in English, "Nah, nah, nah, we ain't doin' that! The Sfacciata stays in the room with Weegie until we can get 'em a ticket out of there!"
"Mario, I don't like this anymore than you or Giuseppe do," Miles retorted. "But this may be our only chance at getting ahead of the absolute shitstorm that's about to happen. A shitstorm in which Luigi and Daisy are now entangled. You said it yourself – Carlo Morano's on a rampage, and knowledge may be the only thing that'll save us all." The two plumbers fell silent again, feeling both angry and helpless in light of the young man's impeccable logic and pragmatism. "Daisy, I have some special instructions for you. Keep the watch with you at all times and stay as close to Lucas as you can. Aside from the obvious protection angle, I'll need your location to, uh, make a rather dangerous move."
"Fuck, just what we need!" snarled Mario. "Do you want to get them killed, Dipshit?!"
"No!" he shouted. "But I need information! If I can hack his phone, then we don't need to put Daisy or Luigi in harm's way!"
Luigi held up a hand and interjected, "Wait a sec. Miles, I thought you said hacking a phone was next to impossible?"
He nodded. "Normally, it is – or, at least, very, very risky. But I know his carrier, SIM card number, and accounts, thanks to the back and forth between him and Yoshi online. It's high-risk; depending on how booby-trapped his phone is, I could get caught, and he could backdoor me. If, however, I'm successful, it's high-reward. We can track him without playing these stupid games, and we can prove Polina's existence."
"Which … we can then use with Carlo to get them all off our backs," concluded Joe. "I see what you're thinking, kid." Murmuring several invectives and taking a sip of Gatorade, he exhaled wearily. "Aight, let's do it. Daisy, Mario is right about one thing: these types don't like Jews or women mouthin' off. Keep your mouth shut as well as a cool head. They won't bother you if they don't think you're a threat."
Quietly, she gave a single nod while Luigi kissed the top of her head and inquired, "Mario, what's going on at the shop? José's making schedule changes that I didn't approve. I made the schedule six weeks in advance."
"Dunno, Weegie. I was thinkin' that shit, too. I've been hanging out with Johnny – lunch, mostly. Either, he's a real good actor, or he's clueless. He's Fat Tony's guy, so I doubt he'd risk crossing him. I don't know if José just trying to antagonize Alassane or if he's up to something else."
"Could you find out what José's doing? Something's not right here. Something's really not right," said Luigi.
"Yeah, okay, Weegie. On one condition: you and the Sfacciata are on the next plane out. I don't want youse there when Carlo's muscle arrives."
"Once Daisy plays her part, we'll get the hell out of Dubai."
"Aight, fratellino. I gotta get off the phone. José's having me work a regular nine to five, so I got a ticket in the Bowery. Vi voglio bene, huh?"
"Yeah, Mario, ti vogliamo bene. Ciao."
After Miles requested that they text him a few minutes prior to meeting Lucas, they ended the videoconference and, hand in hand, waited until seven o'clock.
Vested in a 1980s Denver Broncos tee-shirt and ten-year-old blue jeans, Pete Morello finished his third novel, chosen from a small cardboard box of books that had been provided for self-entertainment. He could not complain; most soldiers in his current predicament would have been executed, buried, and forgotten, unable to worry about cable or satellite television or Internet access. For his protection, his host had turned off and smashed his phones – including his Mafia-issue burner – so that neither Carlo nor the unknown actor could track and assassinate them.
That fucking prick. He should have listened to Gene when he begged him to give the order on Lucas. While he and Gene saw eye to on eye on business and personal matters roughly fifty to sixty percent of the time, he had been more loyal and a better partner in this business than his own Padrino, who, like his son, possessed an itchy trigger finger and thought nothing of signing his death warrant over rumor and two Greek pricks' unreliable word. Pete glanced around the windowless living area fifteen feet below the Brooklyn street level – no sunlight, no open space, no mountains. Many years ago, he had been arrested in New Jersey and spent a week in jail; though it was a little dirty and process invasive, he knew that he would be released. For the sixth time in an hour, he checked the clock on the wall and listened to the constant tick-tocks echoing throughout the soundless studio. If he made it out alive and returned to Colorado, he promised the Almighty that he would repent his arrogance, give more control to his brother-in-law, and separate himself from the perfidy of the New York crews. That type of power, he had discovered, was not worth the price.
Seeing the doorknob to the secret room rattle and turn, the capo immediately became alert. Though he was assured that no one else knew about this place, as a mafioso, he always kept the reputation of Murder Incorporated in the back of his mind. A moment later, the door slowly opened, and a tall man in black priest's clothing walked inside, carrying a brown bag of basic groceries. "Sorry it took me a bit longer than expected. I, uh, had an emergency at the church."
Pete's apprehension softened upon seeing his first cousin.
