Author's notes: Thanks to everyone who has favorited, sent kudos, or reviewed the last few chapters. Your continued support of the story means a lot!

A quick continuity note: I know I've gone back and forth on this. But I'll put my foot down here: Maria has blue eyes, not brown. One tiny continuity error in 500K+ words isn't bad, lol.

Anyway, enjoy!


Chapter 49: The Majlis

Even though the megayacht party continued throughout much of the night, the al-Ketbis politely excused themselves relatively early, at around one-thirty in the morning, to prepare for Friday jummah. Lucas, who had angrily stalked both the American couple and the al-Ketbis post-foot-assault, was left alone at the party. Their helicopter boarded the yacht and, with the Saudi prince's blessing as well as his request that they meet again the following Tuesday, departed for Dubai, taking along Luigi and Daisy. By half past two, the Americans were dropped at the Armani Hotel at the Burj Khalifa. Ali promised to come back around two in the afternoon, following the midday jummah prayer. Then passing by the front desk, Luigi requested a late check-out, as his business associate would not send for them until the afternoon. The concierge staff, many of whom were Muslims from Palestine, Lebanon, Turkey, and Bosnia, readily understood the situation and assured him that it would not be a problem. Having finally entered their room, Luigi and Daisy stripped their evening clothes, leaving their undergarments, and crawled into bed. Luigi wrapped his arms around her torso and pecked her on the cheek; Daisy intertwined her left hand with his. Desiring an intimacy deeper than sex, they fell into a deep sleep, spooned together.

Six hours later, the mid-morning desert sunlight woke the couple from their slumber. Stretching briefly, Luigi blinked at his lioness, who was laying with her back to him, and greeted her with a sensual kiss. "Good morning, cat-face."

She did not move, instead murmuring, "Hey."

Immediately on alert, he gently turned her toward him. "Hey, what's wrong?" The woman bit her lip to prevent a flow of tears, which only worried her lion more. "Please, cat-face. Tell me."

"I'm an idiot, kerido. You were right. Now that I've time to start processing … last night, I … I screwed up, and my father would be so disappointed."

His arms still around her, Luigi touched his nose and forehead to hers. "I don't understand, but … nothing you did or could've done is beyond repair. Tell me."

Daisy sniffed. "I … I followed the Evil Toothpick. I got that USB drive. All of that you know." He nodded in response. "But, uh, he caught me. He taunted me by … forcing my hand on his …"

The plumber's blue eyes flashed dangerously like the detonation of a thermonuclear device. Like Mario. "Fu … That motherfucking piece of shit!" he hissed.

"I stomped on his foot with my heel," she stated, interrupting his rage. "Fucker felt it, too." Though the magma dropped a bit within the Luigi Masciarelli volcano, his eyes remained critically hot. "I thought I was going to be a hero, that I could play, too, but …"

"But you did," he said simply. "Daisy, I won't pretend that I like the idea of you sticking your neck out, especially for me. In fact, I fucking hate it. Not because I don't trust you or your ability to handle yourself. It's because it … makes me so … vulnerable. If you're hurt or … It's like with Mario; I don't have much family left. And …" He trailed off uncertainly while glancing at the expectant woman in his arms, unable to voice his thought.

"And I'm family to you," she finished for him. "Me, Mario, Peach, Giuseppe, Lucia, their daughters, and Salvatore." He gave a slight nod. She smirked, adding, "And your nonna, whom I've yet to meet."

"There's Aunt Maria, Uncle Tony, and their kids, too. You can, uh, meet 'em. If you want," he offered shyly.

"I'd like that," she affirmed, running her right hand through his thick hair. Despite his distress, he let out an approving purr. "I won't risk myself again."

He laughed a little. "Yeah, you will. You wouldn't be Daisy Abravanel, future lawyer and investigator, ass-kicking kung fu-ista, and … California Hellraiser if you didn't. Just … promise me that you'll ask for help … if you need it."

She held up a pinky and replied, "Io faccio giurin giurello."

Hooking his pinky with hers, he leaned over to kiss her. "Ti amo."

After exchanging several kisses and flirty touches, Luigi rose from the bed and called the kitchen to put in a breakfast order. To Daisy's surprise, he chose the more expensive, multi-course Middle Eastern menu: orange, mango, and pineapple juices; a three-egg omelette; slow-cooked fava beans; thick labneh with khubz, za'atar, olive oil, tomatoes, and cucumber; fruits, dates, and halwa; and black tea. While they waited for their food, the couple took a leisurely shower, brushed their teeth, and, in Luigi's case, shaved. As they finished dressing, he watched her compare two jellabas against her cream-colored pants suit and butter-yellow silk shirt.

"Everything okay?" he asked, tucking in a pink dress shirt and zipping up his gray suit pants.

"Yeah," she huffed absently, still comparing the two djellabas – a silver-embroidered, periwinkle in her left hand and a black-embroidered, coffee-colored one in her right.

Her boyfriend chewed her lip. "Minchia, I hate those things. You look so professional and beautiful as you are."

She briefly grinned. "Grazie. However, I don't want to detract from our meeting with the Ketbis. It's better if I am, uh, covered."

"Fine, I guess. Uh, the brownish one. Café au lait, I guess."

Nodding in agreement, she laid it on the bed, selected a matching black headscarf, and packed the other djellaba in her suitcase. "I'm actually taking the dress and shoes from last night. It's a Marchesa, so screw him." As she stuffed them atop the djellaba and rest of her laundered clothes, Daisy heard Luigi's approving chuckles.

"You beat him, principessa mia; the dress and the USB. What do you think's on it?"

She shook her head. "I haven't a clue. I know it was, at the very least, some sort of hacking tool. Lucas used it to break into the prince's computer."

A knock rapped against the door. Moving toward the door, he sniggered, "A perfect job for Miles." Looking through the peephole to confirm that it was room service, he allowed two men carrying a large tray of food to enter. Luigi directed them to set it on the desk and, per Daisy's approving eye, handed the staff a generous tip. Once they departed, they sat down to eat, with the New York plumber eyeing the ful – the fava bean porridge – suspiciously. As his lioness happily indulged in the spicy, refried-bean-like dish, he took a piece of flatbread and dipped it into a little of her ful. Snickering at the outraged growl, Luigi popped into his mouth and gave a single nod of enjoyment. He then spooned some from the serving bowl onto his own plate. While she poured herself some of the mango juice, he plucked a piece of fruit off her plate. Her eyes narrowed, warning him that any further infractions would not be tolerated. In response, he deliberately licked his fingers of the sucrose, giggling as her frown morphed into an outright glare.

"Hey! Get your own, pendejo!" she cried, swatting his looming hand away from her plate.

"Nope, cara mia. Food's meant to be shared!" teased Luigi.

"Asshole," she mouthed, putting her hands around her dish protectively, ready to swat at a moment's notice.

Her boyfriend ceased his taunting to eat his breakfast before it became cold, as he imagined the ful to be, like refried beans, less pleasant when lukewarm. As he took a sip of the still hot black tea, his iPhone buzzed insistently. Cursing under his breath, he reached over to view the incoming encrypted message from Miles with a request to accept his videoconference link in email. After wiping his hands with his cloth napkin, he opened the laptop and the link. "Miles, Christ, don't you sleep?" inquired the plumber to the blond dressed in a MIT sweater and plaid pajama bottoms.

"Yeah, I took a nap earlier, as I knew I needed to be online," he explained.

"Man, you're in school," said Luigi, glancing up to his lioness who had moved to appear in camera. "This can't be good for you."

"Don't worry; I've passed my exams and am making progress on my thesis and publications. My advisor even says that I might be out next year." At his friend's reluctant nod, he coughed to change the subject. "Anyway, we got trouble, Lou. I, uh, got into the Douchebag's phone. The plan worked. But, uh, I intercepted a call. Hence why Mario was with me, Yosh, and Birdo earlier."

He and Daisy exchanged a hesitant look. "What call?"

"I can officially confirm that Lucas is working with someone. A woman. It has to be Polina Lepeshinski, Marco Bowser's … first wife, whatever. We overheard a conversation between the two of them. Since Daisy doesn't appear to know anything about it, it must have occurred sometime at the party when neither of you were privy." He bit his lip in a mixture of anxiety and anger. "They're, uh, planning to kill you or throw you in jail. Lucas screwed up so badly that Polina's trying to cover her tracks. It was he who proposed this recent plan."

"Of course it was," she spat sarcastically. "Well, lucky for us, he's an idiot."

"Except that Polina's working with someone who has international reach," breathed the hacker. "I … I think you both should think about returning in the next few days. Mario thinks that he can buy you time; he took over from José Hernández, but he can't hold off the union indefinitely."

"Yeah, Uncle Sal thought that there was someone on the inside working with the Bowsers. Could … Could it be Pete Morello?"

Miles shrugged. "Honestly, I doubt it. Both Polina and Lucas want him dead. Plus, we don't even know where the hell he is. Except …"

"Except what, Miles?" prompted the plumber.

"Mario's hosting Sam Carlino. He's in Bensonhurst, courtesy of Fat Tony! I don't even … I don't even know where to begin with that one!"

"Interesting," remarked Daisy. "It seems like neither he nor Fat Tony knows if Pete Morello's dead or alive. Schrödinger's capo." Both males chuckled at her observation.

"Heh, only if you wager a lookie-loo do you know the actual position of the mafioso," joked Luigi while caressing her lower back. Then, affixing a serious expression, he continued, "I know he was worried about Pete's whereabouts. If he's going to be in Brooklyn, perhaps it's better for everyone involved that Mario's watching him. But, to change the subject briefly," he glanced at his girlfriend, "it's about Lucas. The fucker hid a large amount of cryptocurrency from the Moranos and Morellos. He hid it in an account owned by Prince Abdulaziz Mamdouh al-Sa'ud. Daisy saw him transfer it to one of his accounts."

The blond engineer paled. "Shit. How much did he hide, steal, whatever?"

"I don't know exactly how much off-hand, but it said 200,000 in coin," she replied.

They watched as Miles typed in a query off-screen and did the mental math. "That's … roughly seventy-five million dollars. If he leaves it as coin over the next couple years, it has the potential to become a cool billion dollars. Easily."

"While in the car, Lucas bragged to me that he, Pete, Fat Tony, Matt, and Sam stole a fair amount of money, but that he – Lucas – took some more when they weren't looking."

Miles snapped his fingers. "There was a heist earlier in the year. One fifty million over, I think, several months. Think Office Space – taking the equivalent of pennies from bankers and investors so no one would notice until it's too late. Cybercriminals stole it from Whitaker Investment Group." The three exchanged a look of recognition. "It must've been them."

"Sounds right up their alley," deadpanned Luigi. "A fucking three-trillion-dollar investment for the Mafia. It also explains Fat Tony's association with a little prick like Lucas. And what do you want to bet that Polina's also after that money?"

"I won't take that bet," spoke Daisy.

"Neither will I," agreed Miles. "But honestly, you guys should come back to New York – the sooner, the better."

Luigi glanced at his girlfriend, then nodded. "We will. Monday or Tuesday at the latest. There's something else. Daisy got Lucas's USB stick. That's what he used to hack the prince's accounts."

The hacker's eyes rounded. "You … ? Did you open it?!"

"No."

His posture relaxed somewhat. "Okay, good. It could have Spock-knows-what on it – worms, trojans, ransomware, rootkits. I'll need to open it with special equipment. I'll send you a FedEx label with my dummy LLC account so you won't be charged for the shipping. All you need to do is bring it to a FedEx office in Dubai – I'm sure there's one in the Burj Khalifa area. But whatever you do, do not open or otherwise access the USB! I also want you to get this sent by today, as in within the next hour or two. If … Lucas realizes that it's missing, and he screws up his courage to let Polina know, then you guys could be facing some real nasty characters." They gave a nod. "You're sure about staying?"

"Yeah. I think that, as long as we're with Mohammed and Ali al-Ketbi, we'll be alright. But you're right that we shouldn't stay longer than Tuesday," Luigi responded, glancing at Daisy for confirmation. She put a reassuring a hand upon his shoulder to indicate her agreement.


Mario glared at the two mafiosi slumped on the main living room couch: Pete Morello laying against a frozen steak; Sam holding a bag of peas to the underside of his chin. "Youse are lucky that my fratellino shops for an army of hungry plumbers whenever he goes to Costco!" he growled menacingly. "Now, what the fuck are you," he gestured to the wincing capo, "doin' in my house?"

He did not reply.

"Okay, cut the shit, asshole. I know you're runnin' from Polina Lepeshinski Bowser." Pete's eyes widened. "Yeah, I know the name. That fuckin' bitch's workin' with Lucas Kariolis. I'm thinkin' she set you up. How, I haven't a fuckin' clue. And frankly, I don't give a flying fuck off the G.W. What I do fucking care about are two people," he said, flashing two fingers. "My fratellino and his ragazza. You wanna engage in some Mafia-style self-licking ice cream cone? Prego!"

Before Sam could interject, they all heard a soft knock from outside. Mario gently grabbed his Smith and Wesson and, taking the safety off, approached the door. Gun in his right hand and in a defensive position, he peeked through the hole. Exhaling in relief, he put the safety back, opened the door, and waved in his maternal uncle. The tired older man was wearing a pair of black jeans, an old Carroll College tee-shirt, and a black jacket. Upon sighting the two Denver mafiosi in the living room, he winced. "Mario, I can …"

"Oh, you better fuckin' explain, Sal!" hissed the plumber, locking the entrance. "And don't give me the tired bullshit about how it's your house. It's our house – mine and Luigi's – per our parents' will. Why the fuck are you hiding – and yeah, I know it's you – a motherfucking Mafia captain? One that is on everyone's shitlist. Parli!"

"Mario," he began carefully, "whether you like it or not, Pete's the only one who can save Luigi from Mafia."

"Oh, bullshit!" yelled the younger man. "That motherfucker blackmailed my father – your brother-in-law – into making Carlo Morano Luigi's Padrino. Compare. Mafioso! Whose side are you on?! Huh?!" Pete's eyes narrowed angrily at Mario's insults, yet he did not vocalize his budding hostility or indignation. "Start talkin' or I call DK."

Salvatore took a step toward his eldest nephew. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. No cops."

Mario put his hand near the handle of the Smith and Wesson that he had tucked into his shorts. "I don't know what the hell you're playin' at, Salvatore, but I'm not playin'. I got a few good guesses as to what Polina is, and she will kill Lucas and Luigi to cover her own ass. That what you want? See, I'm not a mafioso, but I am a trained member of a certain elite group. You think I didn't run into the Russians? Terrorists? Yeah, you don't know who the fuck you're dealing with. Frankly, the LCN's a bunch of fuckin' amateurs compared to them. They got no rules."

The former mafioso raised his finger to chastise his nephew when they all heard Pete mutter gruffly, "He's right, Sal. And none of the Morano crews have anyone even remotely at Mario's level of ops. They're used to street trash, not sophisticated cyberterrorists and, well, actual terrorists. Not even," he sighed wearily and put a reassuring hand on his nephew's back, "Sam here has actually seen these assholes. Online, yes; but not real world. And make no mistake – a war's coming."

Chuckling mirthlessly, the plumber turned toward his first cousin. "And you want me to help youse? Yeah, nah, fuck you. This is your mess. All's I care about, Pietro Morello, Pete Morell, or whatever the fuck you call yourself, is getting Luigi Masciarelli and Daisy Abravanel back from Dubai alive. And like I fuckin' told your padrino, I'm not above doing it myself! Capisci?"

He watched with a mixture of annoyance and amusement as Salvatore and Pete silently 'discussed' their options as well as his implicit threats. Sam warily kept his eyes forward, pretending not to hear or 'notice' the discussion until specifically told to engage. "Alright, let's … consider this, plan this out," Pete finally decided. Sal sternly motioned for Mario to sit. Reluctantly, he did so, sitting in the armchair next to the couch as the Sicilian quickly grabbed a chair from the kitchen. Once everyone was seated, Pete spoke once more. "We have a problem. Well, three. First, getting Luigi and Daisy back to the United States. Second, Polina Lepeshinski. Third, the Kariolises and their connection to … the Moranos. Are Luigi and Daisy in immediate danger?"

"Immediate?" Mario repeated in a somewhat incredulous voice. "Not immediate as in Arab or Mafia terrorists are knocking on their door as we speak. I know Luigi made some fuckin' contact there. Al-Ketbi, I think. They're in Dubai construction. But that fuckin' Kariolis and the Bowser Bitch have discussed killing them over there. I'm not waiting past Wednesday. If they're not back, then I go."

Pete leaned back against the partly-thawed steak and put on the best poker face that he could muster. "And how do you know that? Or is that speculation on your part?"

He scoffed. "You really think I'd lie to my zio," he nodded at the now visibly worried Salvatore, "or a fuckin' caporegime? I know it for a fact. Let's just say I heard it."

"You got access to Lucas's phone?!" exclaimed Sam, who then recoiled at his boss's piercing look.

In response, Mario crossed his arms, smirking ever so slightly.

"Interesting," stated the Denver capo. "And just how in the hell did you get that?"

He shrugged, arms still crossed. "Assuming it happened, it's classified. Priority-one-asshole clearance required."

"Or, more likely, it's the same talented individual who alerted me of Lucas's stunt in Colorado," Pete concluded neutrally, though his regard was fixed upon Mario, whose stone face gave away nothing. "What exactly do you want?"

"I told you – Luigi and Daisy alive. Furthermore, you'll drop this bullshit about Luigi joinin' youse. I know for a fact that he doesn't want to be a mafioso. He wants – like Uncle Joe, like Pops, like Mama – a normal life. If this thermal gadget does what he says it's gonna, then he'll make a fortune just on that. He runs the shop for youse; let him be an engineer. He's good at it. Makes him happy. Daisy makes him happy, too."

"Well," began Pete, "Luigi's … path in life is his, not yours." He squinted briefly at Salvatore and commented, "Not even mine. But we agree that Luigi and Daisy should and will be returned to New York alive and safe. The problem is that I don't want you going over there. If you have control of the shop, you need to remain there until Luigi returns. It's the most beneficial position for both sides: you protect Luigi's interests; we know that we aren't getting screwed by an unknown actor. The Padrino is likely preparing an … extraction team of his own. If Jackie has his hands in it, it will get all sorts of fucked up. Given my current predicament, I can't go there. And if either Sam or Sal goes, the Moranos and the Russians will know something's up. Gene and Matt are needed at home." He exhaled, gazing once more at the priest. "So the best thing to do is to see if Luigi and Daisy can return on their own." At both Salvatore's and Mario's palatable outrage, the latter bolting from his seat, he held up a gentle hand, "But that doesn't mean that we can't help in another way. Matt and Sam here can assist technologically. And it seems as though you have an … effective weapon on your end."

Slowly, Mario sat down once more. "Yeah."

Pete nodded. "I do want to hear what was said. And don't try to bullshit me, Mario – I know you'd have recorded it. Or someone did. I also think Joe should hear it."

"Why?" interjected Sal. "Pete, you leave Joe alone. He's not in any condition!" he warned.

"I know you both want to protect him, but he's been involved with Luigi since the beginning. I'm a parent; if my kid had been threatened, I'd sure as hell want to know about it. It should be his choice."

"Sul mio cadavere!" shouted the priest angrily.

"Zio, Pete's …" he studied the captain's abruptly blank expression, "Pete's right, and I'm loathe to say it. Joe's gonna be pissed if we don't tell him. You're right that he's not in any condition. But he's always been overprotective when it comes to Weegie, so much that he absolutely will risk his own health if we keep shit from him."

Salvatore rubbed his face, shook his head, and then steepled his hands. "No, no, no! Leave him out of it!"

Unexpectedly, Pete rose from the couch and gestured for his cousin to follow him outside and downstairs to the hiding space in the makeshift cellar. As Mario and Sam moved to follow them, the capo put out his hand to indicate that they should stay. The two older men disappeared for fifteen minutes; the plumber and the Coloradan waited in silence, each pondering just what the hell that was about. They returned as calmly as they had left, only the priest seemed more subdued and tense.

"Right," Pete voiced, resuming the conversation. "Mario, here's what I propose: contact Joe and leave it to him. Now, this brings us to Polina Lepeshinski. But let me cover the third point first: the Kariolises. I'll let Carlo take care of that problem – I'd rather not make any moves until Polina actually shows herself to us. There's … a mole. Joe and Luigi are aware. Sal and I do not believe for one fucking moment that she's acting without someone on the inside. Given what happened in '95, I don't doubt it. We need to sit tight for now until we get more information. And that's an internal problem."

"So what do you want from me?" barked the now impatient plumber.

"First, we need to listen to that recording. Second, you stay as interim boss of the shop until Luigi returns. Third, we may need your assistance with the Russian problem in the near future. The truth is that your skills as a Green Beret will prove invaluable, and I cannot protect Luigi or Daisy without a … crew. At the same time, going to the FBI or NYPD is out of the question. I won't ask you to do anything illegal. I'd be 'hiring' you as an investigator only."

Mario stared at Pete and internally weighed his options. How can I trust this guy? The motherfucker lies – literally and figuratively – as a profession. On one hand, everything he proposed or observed was superficially true; staying in Brooklyn was the best defensive measure, especially if Polina had some sort of control over the union. On the other hand, he found it difficult to believe that he would simply abandon his four-decade-long loyalty to Carlo Morano. He also noted that Pete sidestepped the question of Luigi's future; the capo refused, without outright refusing, to leave his brother alone. Eyes quickly darting to the photo of his father upon the mantle, he wordlessly questioned the firefighter as to what would he have done differently.

Use your head and not your fists.

That statement was always ironic. In the two weeks following his father's murder, a heartbroken, traumatized Mario marched down to the recruiter's office and signed up for 18X – Special Forces – to be sent over to Afghanistan for the sole purpose of blowing the shit out of the terrorists responsible for 9/11. While he did a fair amount of that as an army engineer, next to the West Point graduates, the Green Berets were considered the 'smart guys' – the talkers, the instructors, the enactors of atypical warfare. One of the first things he had learned in the field was when to talk and when to shut the fuck up. He learned to do it to an extent, or as much as a hotheaded Bensonhurst Italian could. Having pulled rank on the Italian plumber, the Green Beret clearly saw that it was time to shut the fuck up, step back, and observe.

"Let me think about this. Give me until tomorrow. I'll have a decision after work," he finally answered. Pete blinked in surprise as Salvatore quickly put a hand over his mouth to hide a smile. Sam merely raised an eyebrow without uttering a single word.

"Yes, of course. Excellent idea. I'm, uh," the Denverite chuckled self-deprecatingly, "not going anywhere. That brings us to another matter."

"Yeah, it's safer for everyone involved if you're holed up," finished the plumber. "We can't risk the crazy bitch findin' out." Glancing up to Salvatore, he added, "You can take Luigi's room if you want. I know Halloween and All Saints' Day are comin' up; however, I don't want to attract any suspicion by someone seein' you out at two or three in the morning."

Too worn-out to argue, Salvatore nodded. Silently, he stood up, stretched a little, and made his way upstairs. Sam volunteered to stay with Pete in the basement area; when they were certain that no one was watching, they slipped downstairs, making sure to seal the door and arrange the lock in an inconspicuous manner. The living room now vacant, a drained Mario made his way to the Lazy-Boy and dropped his weight into it. Grabbing the yarn blanket on the arm and putting his firearm within a second's reach, he arranged himself to sleep. Nonetheless, his eyes would not close; instead, they fixated upon an unremarkable point on the ceiling's night-time chiaroscuro. He was tired not only of the Mafia bullshit, but moreover of spending yet another week without Peach. Another week in the Lazy-Boy; another week without a family.

Just like how Luigi and Giuseppe had felt for years.

As he continued to stare into the abyss, he heard footsteps quietly descend the staircase and approach the couch. "What're you doin', Zio?" he whispered.

"Couldn't sleep," responded the priest just as softly. He sat down on the couch and blinked.

They both gazed blankly at the dark ripples on the ceiling until just before sunrise.


At a little past two o'clock, Ali pulled up at the Armani Hotel in a black SUV, which was a relatively modest car among the BMWs and six- to seven-figure Italian cars ornamenting the highways and main streets of Dubai. After greeting them warmly, he popped the trunk for their suitcases and invited them to sit in the seat behind his. Once they were inside the vehicle, Ali hurriedly drove away; he negotiated several backstreets, then merged onto an unfamiliar part of the highway that became more and more desert-like and desolate.

"Yo, uh, Ali, where are we going?" Luigi asked the driver, glancing at the equally confused Daisy next to him.

"Luigi, relax. We're going to Muscat in Oman," he responded with the hint of a smile. "It's a four- to five-hour drive, more or less, but we'll stop for a coffee about halfway."

He and Daisy exchanged an uneasy look. "I, uh, thought you'd want to be with your family. Since it's, you know, Friday. I thought we were going to your, uh, office."

Ali nodded at them in the rear mirror. "Yeah, we will be going to the office … eventually. My family's already in Oman. My parents and siblings took the flight this morning. I attended jummah in Dubai so I could meet you there. We'll arrive in time for dinner. Then we can perhaps go to Wadi Shab tomorrow. It's a two-hour drive from Muscat. Best hiking and swimming in the Gulf."

"I didn't know your parents were Omani," replied Daisy.

"Well … yes and no. My father is from Abu Dhabi. Both his parents are Emirati. My mother's family's Emirati, but her mother was Omani. According to our laws, only the father's nationality matters, so she's Emirati. And there was a coup d'état that caused the Omani side to move to Abu Dhabi. After Sultan Qaboos took power, my maternal grandparents returned to Oman. For my parents' wedding, they gifted them property in Muscat. Once the economy stabilized, we started to develop and use it. It's nice; nothing major happens in Oman. Plus," he snickered while holding up a finger, "Oman has cheaper gas!"

While Luigi gave him a loose smile, he put his hand upon Daisy's to communicate his true feelings of unease.

"It's a quick flight to Muscat? Like an hour and a half, right?" she inquired.

He nodded again. "More like an hour and fifteen minutes. It would've been quicker, that's true. However, we – my father and I – thought it was better if we take the, uh, how do you call it - jameela – in English?"

"Scenic route," she supplied.

"Sa'hiya, the scenic route. Yes, so a few extra hours? Eh, it's no problem." As the plumber opened his mouth, Ali verbalized the inevitable question, "Why the long way? Well, we did a background check on you both. Apologies, Luigi, Daisy; given our position with the government, we need to be careful. You are who you say you are. Not married, but you've been discreet, which is greatly appreciated. That being said, we are … concerned about your business partner – Lucas Kariolis. Aside from his recent behavior in our country, he has some rather disturbing connections abroad in Greece, Syria, and Lebanon. He and his father, who's a wanted man in Beirut." The two people blanched at Ali's revelation. "You did not know?"

Luigi rubbed her hand, silently telling her that he would speak. "No. Last night, that sonofabitch bragged to Daisy about visiting Syria and Lebanon. Although I've unfortunately known him since high school, it's the first time that I've heard about it! Given a situation that happened in Germany and Mexico, I've put distance with him, as you know."

"We figured as much. We don't know who he's working for. Truthfully, our competitor – Ahmad al-Husseini – wouldn't go as far as helping a bunch of terrorist and trafficking scum. At least not publicly. He wouldn't risk embarrassing the Sheikh or the Saudi king." He changed lanes and checked his rear-view mirror before continuing, "Anyway, it's for the best that we avoid airports for the time being."

"How do you know all of this, Ali? Even as … well-connected as you are, as your father is, you wouldn't have access to knowledge of George Kariolis's … problem in Lebanon. What did he do, anyway?"

He smiled a little. "Here in the Gulf, Luigi, everyone knows everyone else. It's been that way for centuries. You don't need to be a Saudi royal to have a bit of … influence. As for what George Kariolis is accused of, I cannot comment on specifics. What I can say is that it is related to financial and trafficking crimes."

Daisy furtively grabbed her phone and, out of Ali's sight, typed a brief message to Miles regarding Lebanon, the Mafia, and George Kariolis.

The plumber shook his head and placed a hand upon his girlfriend's lower back. As they could not outwardly show affection, she noticed that he found little ways of doing so, from holding her hand to touching her back or shoulder. When no one was paying attention, he directed very heated looks to her; when they were alone, his pent-up state of frustration unraveled in the bedroom and shower. Traveling to Oman and being under the ever-present eye of Mohammed al-Ketbi, she shivered with anticipation over just how frustrated he – they – would become. "Jesus Christ," he eventually whispered, and she speculated to whom he was really speaking. "I … I always thought Lucas was a spoiled asshole. His father's a billionaire, so he could do whatever he wanted, even … Still. I never knew the rest."

The Arab nodded again, every so often glancing in the mirror. "We all have had a friend like that. But then we grow up."

Luigi interlaced his fingers with Daisy's. "Yeah."

None of the car's occupants spoke for the next hour. Daisy occasionally stroked his dark brown hair, which was thick from the Mediterranean-like humidity. In response, and though he continued to be pensive, he lifted her left hand to his lips. By a quarter to four o'clock, their SUV pulled into the line for the customs checkpoint at the Oman-UAE border. Ali pulled up to a window where an immigration officer was waiting. "Don't worry about money; I'll need your passports, though, for the stamp." Lowering his window, Ali greeted the man in Arabic, collected his passengers' passports, adding his Emirati passport to the top of the stack, and fetched several crisp bills. The officer immediately returned his passport; as an Emirati citizen, he did not require a visa. Next, he examined the American passport, gesturing for Luigi to come into his view. He held up the passport to compare its photo with the passenger. "Purpose of trip?" he demanded in broken English.

"Uh, tourism," he answered.

The man nodded. Ali handed him money for the visa tax; setting it next to him, he flipped through Luigi's relatively blank book and stamped an Omani visa next to his entrance visa to the UAE. Next, he studied Daisy's Brazilian passport; this time, however, he directed a series of questions to Ali in Arabic. Unexpectedly, the discussion lasted for a full thirty seconds, Ali's tone becoming more saccharine and pleasant, as if he was attempting to con the Omani. The immigration officer eyed him, then barked a "Daquiqa!" Closing the window to keep them from taking their passports and driving off, he left momentarily. Daisy's whiskey-colored eyes enlarged, and she rasped, "What's happened? Something about my passport not being valid?"

"La'bas, Daisy. Easy, we'll be fine. They just haven't seen many Brazilian passports. I told him that …"

Before he could elaborate, the man re-opened the window, explaining something to Ali, who nodded and thanked the man. He stamped Daisy's passport book, processed the payments, and returned both passports to Ali. The driver smiled, thanked him again, and proceeded to the final checkpoint. An armed man raised his hand for them to stop, and Ali popped the trunk to allow him to search the vehicle. After glancing inside and inspecting Luigi and Daisy's passport stamps, he waved them through, and Ali pressed on the E44 toward Muscat. Handing the passports back to them, he said, "No problem. Al-hamdu l'Allah, his boss must've set him straight. They get Emiratis, Qataris, Saudis, Kuwaitis, Jordanians, British, Americans, Indians, and Chinese. So they're accustomed to knowing the visa rules for them. But Brazilians? Not really – at least not at this border crossing. He thought that you needed to apply at your consulate, which some countries are required to do. Brazil is not one of them. Now you're a celebrity!"

Daisy and Luigi traded a relieved look and laughed with him. "Thanks, Ali," the latter replied.

"No problem. We've got another hour or two on the road, then we'll stop for coffee."

Luigi's eyes rounded in surprise as desert suddenly changed into rugged brush and brown and blue mountains. "I'm going to sound like a stupid American, but I didn't know that there were mountains on the Arabian peninsula. I mean, we think of sand and desert, you know?"

Laughing heartily, the Emirati responded, "Oh, yeah. These are called Jebel al-Hadar – our Rocky Mountains. They're not as high as the American or Canadian ones, but they're nice all the same in the summer."

"Yeah, they remind me a little of the mountains just outside of Denver."

"Oh? You've been to Colorado?!" he inquired with a hint of surprise.

"Um, yeah. Some of my mother's, uh, cousins live in Denver."

"I've heard the skiing is world-class. For about three years, I've been trying to persuade my father to spend winter vacation in Aspen. At the very least Chamonix! But he hates the cold. He," Ali snickered lightly, "thinks twenty-five degrees is too cold! It took my mother cooking his favorite dishes straight for a month to get him on a plane to New York. In the springtime. He enjoyed himself, but he complained about how New Yorkers were crazy for tolerating the snow and winds. When were you last in Colorado?"

"I was there in April. We – my cousins and I – went skiing at – I forget the name. It wasn't Aspen or Vail, but close enough to it."

"Are you a snowboarder or skier?"

Luigi chuckled while giving his appreciative lioness a discreet caress. "Neither. It was my first time, 'cause, y'know, there's not a lot of skiing in New York City."

"No, there's not. But you didn't go to Vermont? Even Canada has a few nice spots."

"Nah. My older brother wasn't much of a skier, though I think if someone had challenged him, he'd have done it. And Pops – my father – was a notorious penny pincher." At Ali's frown, he clarified, "Uh, he was a stingy Italian. He didn't like to spend money for much. I mean, I get why – my mother had passed when I was three, and he never remarried. I had my aunt and uncle around, but they were the same way. Pops's idea of a vacation was a night at Mets Stadium. It was a huge deal when he spent money for my passport and airfare to Italy in eighth grade. School trip."

He nodded. "And what about you, Daisy? Do you ski?"

"Yeah. My father, stepmother, and I used to go up to Tahoe, Mount Hood in Oregon, and Whistler near Vancouver every so often. My father's Brazilian raised in Boston, so he absolutely needed, for some reason, to learn to ski. When he came to California for law school, he practiced every winter up to and after my birth." She side-eyed her boyfriend and flirtatiously deadpanned, "East Coast guy thing." Luigi raised his eyebrows several times in good humor. "He taught me, and eventually, I caught up to him on the black diamond slopes."

"Oh, Whistler! Now that's another place that I want to visit. Vancouver might be more acceptable to my father." He hummed in thought, as if considering a new plan on how to persuade Mohammed al-Ketbi to try British Columbia instead.

They fell silent once more. This time, it was Daisy who stared out of the window to observe the brownish, almost desert flatlands, power lines, and bluish-brown mountain range whizzing by their SUV. No doubt her father would be calling her at eleven o'clock in the evening Dubai Time. Provided that she was able to come to the phone, what would she say to him? Papai, eu estou em Omã em este momento. No, that wouldn't go over well. She could also envision several of her friends in Senegal, the UK, France, Brazil, and Israel demanding why in the hell she would go to the Arabian-Persian Gulf – they're dangerous! While her European and American companions might have shared a more neutral opinion, her African and Israeli friends would be far more pejorative in their condemnation. And that was to say nothing of Yael, who, as a half-Yemenite, half-Ethiopian Israeli, had never given an even remotely positive opinion about the Emirates or Saudi Arabia. However, as Daisy glanced at her similarly pensive boyfriend's tanning jawline, upon which his facial hair had begun to form a dark, sexy shadow, she shocked herself by admitting that there was no other place that she would rather be. She had always loved adventure; despite the danger involved in this particular excursion, she discovered that experiencing a journey with Luigi, her kerido, made her heart race in new and intoxicating ways. The jawline turned, and she was met with a pair of bright sapphire eyes. She gazed into them, spying a swirl of the familiar and primal dark blue, periwinkle, and a new shade. The latter was not as dark as the bedroom color; nonetheless, it conveyed a similar electricity – a rare, lightning blue. She found them equally mesmerizing. Unable to ignore those eyes, Daisy persisted in her regard, even when she felt a feather-light touch on the nape of her neck and heard a murmur, "Grazie per essere venuta con me, in questo viaggio. Ti amo."

Over the next hour and a half, Ali steered the SUV through the mountains; halfway to Muscat, he turned on an Arabic-language radio channel while Luigi and Daisy took turns napping. At around 6:15 in the evening, he maneuvered the car to a hipster café in Sib, a suburb twenty minutes outside of the Omani capital. Luigi groggily woke up in Daisy's arms as the energetic Emirati parked and shut off the engine. Re-adjusting her hijab and djellaba as they exited the vehicle, she soon followed them inside to a pungent smell of roasting coffee beans, cardamom, and rose water. Ali ordered three coffees, which the twenties-something woman brought out in espresso cups to their indoor table. She also set down a common plate of dates and nuts. The New Yorker sipped the coffee, which was every bit as strong as its Ethiopian, Italian, or Colombian counterpart; unlike the usual Italian espresso, he noted the slight sweetness of the rose water and the distinct taste of cardamon. Lacking the usual American cane sugar, to which, according to Ali, Emiratis and Omanis were unaccustomed prior to World War II, he reached for the sugary dates to balance the bitterness. He took out his phone and snapped a few photos of the experience, barely noticing the two new voicemails from Giuseppe's number, no doubt questioning when his quasi-son would get the fuck home from that shithole.

Thirty minutes later, they resumed the last leg of the drive to Muscat. The sun had already set, and the capital's modern lighting created a beautiful, Riviera-like backdrop of neon and fluorescence against the ink-like corniche and mountains. Both Daisy and Luigi breathed a sigh of relief that they had reached Muscat, passports and luggage intact. Ultimately, they made their way to the Al Qurum Shatti district on the eastern side of the city, which resembled parts of both Santa Monica and Marin County to both foreigners, from the palm-tree-lined boulevards to the white buildings and parks along the seashore. Weaving through more residential streets, the SUV arrived at a metal gate and pulled into a secure parking area with five cars. A Pakistani man in his fifties came out immediately to greet the Emirati in Arabic and English. As the American and Brazilian tiredly walked to the car trunk to retrieve their luggage, they heard the Pakistani call out, "No, no, no. I've got it. Please." Before they could insist, he unloaded their roller suitcases and backpacks, carrying them inside to the house.

"Jawed has served my family for twenty-five years," Ali explained. "His wife is our cook and housekeeper. Their son, Vaheed, goes to university in Toronto. When we're not here, they occupy the property and maintain it. Please, welcome."

Leading them inside the property, both Daisy's and Luigi's eyes widened at the golden chandeliers, marble flooring and main staircase, and black and ivory-accented doors on each side. After they removed their shoes, Ali guided Luigi to the left door while one of the women servants, whom Daisy assumed to be Jawed's wife, started to escort her to the right. Sensing the Brooklynite's confusion and building anxiety, the host clarified, "Both men and women eat dinner together in my family. But for the majlis – coffee and introductions – it's gender-segregated." Despite his intellectual acceptance of the cultural difference, Luigi's resistant blue eyes flickered to his girlfriend, whose brown orbs reflected ease and confidence, conveying that she would be fine.

Nodding, he mouthed, "See you at dinner. Ti amo." She smiled, whispered a ti amo, and allowed the older Pakistani woman to lead her to the women's majlis. Ali noted Luigi's reluctance to be separated from his lioness as well as the flash of lightning in his blue eyes, warning his housekeeper not to cross any lines. Then the plumber allowed himself to be led to the men's red and gold-themed majlis, where Mohammed, Laraib, two middle-aged men whom he assumed were additional uncles, an older man, three males around or slightly older Ali's age, and his younger brother, Khalid, were already settled. Ali introduced his paternal grandfather, Ibrahim, first, followed by Mohammed, Laraib, Faisal, Bilal, Abdallah, Ayan, Amir, and Khalid. A moment later, the unexpectedly self-conscious Luigi positioned himself on the plush, red pillows along the wall, flanked by Ibrahim and Mohammed. Unlike in a traditional majlis, they did not sit directly on the carpet itself; the seats were raised slightly on a bench, allowing Luigi's long legs to hang a little. Ali immediately greeted the servants who had brought in a metal pan, pestle and mortar, a silver water pot, a smaller dallah, coffee beans, whole cardamon seeds, an electric heating surface, several small coffee cups, and a large plate of dates, setting them on a central gold table. The plumber observed carefully as Ali knelt down at the station; he started the spectacle by roasting the coffee beans, the spicy and rich aroma filling the room after every flick of his wrist. He let them cool and, sliding them into the mortar, ground them into a fine powder with the pestle. As the men chattered quietly, knowing that this would take some time to prepare, the Emirati boiled the water, ground the cardamon seeds, and added the coffee.

Once the assembly was completed, he began by serving the dates, first to Luigi, second to Ibrahim, and third to everyone else in descending order of age. Retrieving the dallah and a small cup, he crouched before Luigi; with his left hand, he poured the light-colored coffee into the cup held by his right hand. "Okay, this is our coffee ceremony. Accept the coffee with your right hand. Tfadhal," he offered, bending forward toward Luigi. Per Ali's instructions, he made sure to take the small cup, which had been filled one-quarter of the way, with his right hand, thanked him, and sipped it. The Emirati smiled, then moved to serve Ibrahim as the patriarch and his relatives in descending order of age. After a bit, he circled back to Luigi who handed him the coffee cup, thinking that he would dispose of it. The older men laughed as Ali returned it filled with another round of the coffee.

At the New Yorker's polite, though perplexed look at the refill, Abdallah whispered to him, "Wave your hand like this when you're fine." On Ali's third and final tour, Luigi waved his hand back and forth to indicate that he was satisfied. Nodding, the Emirati took the cup and moved to his grandfather. The awkward guest wished that Daisy were next to him, ensuring that he did not make any cultural mistakes and to translate the Arabic around him into English.

Sensing his increased anxiety due to the language and cultural barriers, Abdallah, Ayan, Bilal, whose English was far better than their elders', engaged him in light conversation about New York, his family, and Daisy, for which he was straightaway relieved. Soon, Ali rejoined the group and helped facilitate dialogue between Ibrahim, Faisal, and Luigi. Mohammed and Laraib, who already knew the answers to their questions, ate a few more dates from the coffee plate. As for the two youngest, Amir and Khalid, they respectfully listened to avoid the taboo of interrupting their seniors. Halfway into the majlis, the New Yorker felt relaxed enough to speak a bit more freely and even joke a little with Ibrahim and Faisal. According to the patriarch, and much to the pouting looks of his two eldest sons, Mohammed and Laraib "were like their mother – way too serious about life!" Luigi laughed a little, recalling a eerily similar comment from Nonno Mario about his beloved, though vexed wife; the difference was, however, the Abruzzese tongue-lashing that Mia had given her husband in response, and Mario Senior's and Giuseppe's smirk at their father for the rest of Sunday dinner.

Shortly past eight-thirty and after washing their hands, they all moved from the majlis into the main dining room, where a large and long table had been set up for the adults and a smaller kiddie table for twenty children up to age twelve. A grinning Daisy came out with several of the women – Huda, Ali's eldest sister, Aisha, and Ibrahim's stern-looking wife, Khadija – and greeted her boyfriend. While the women were minding their siblings or children, she murmured in Italian, "Having fun, kerido?"

"Yeah. I did the coffee ceremony. You?"

She nodded excitedly. "Yes. Amazing experience. The little kids were, uh, energetic, but the women were so nice, especially given my rather shoddy Moroccan Arabic."

The plumber puffed out a low chuckle. "Crazy kids, huh?" She nodded tiredly. "But you're right; it's been amazing. Honestly, I'm glad we're here."

Before she could reply, Ali called them to dinner. Daisy whispered one final comment that he needs to mind his hands at dinner, as women can't make contact with unrelated men. Gesturing a grazie, he trailed behind the men who sat on one side of the table and their hijabed wives and adult daughters on the other, presumably to avoid the aforementioned contact. An assortment of dishes decorated the adult and kids' tables: fattoush, al machboos, hummus, and various flatbreads which had been strategically placed near Mohammed, Laraib, and Ibrahim. The room abruptly fell quiet as the latter led the family in the bismillah, the Muslim equivalent of saying grace: Allahumma barik lana fima razaqtana waqina athaban-nar. Bismillah. Subsequent to the children's loud bismillah, causing boisterous giggling from the adults, the patriarch signaled that it was time to eat.


In order to accommodate Giuseppe, who was resolute in coming to Bensonhurst, a beat Mario returned to the house by four-thirty in the afternoon. Much to his surprise, Salvatore arrived a few minutes afterward; though he would need to be present at St. Rosalia's Church by eight o'clock, like his Masciarelli counterpart, he insisted on attending, especially given that he was responsible for Pete Morello's presence in the basement. Clutching a small backpack, the priest cautiously glanced out of the back door to the basement; certain that there were no onlookers or people walking past the house, he stepped outside and disappeared down the stairs. Mario waited semi-patiently as three people entered the living room, one by one every two or three minutes – Sal, Pete, and Sam. The plumber was checking the blinds to ensure that no one could see inside when he glimpsed a truck pull up to the curb. His blue eyes widened as he saw two people exit the vehicle: a weak Giuseppe from the passenger side; a determined Cousin Maria dressed in jeans and a purple hoodie from the driver side. Grumbling several Sicilian curses, he waited to unlock the door until they made it up the short staircase. Salvatore's grin at seeing Joe immediately faded upon sighting her.

"Who the hell is this?!" demanded Pete, gesturing to the woman. Ignoring the capo's demand, Maria walked her father to the Lazy-Boy and eased him into it.

"Maria," began the red-hoodied plumber, but she glared at him. He gave a quizzical look to Joe, who merely shrugged.

The angry female lion then turned on the scowling Salvatore, irritated Pete, and confused Sam. "We received a call on the asshole phone. You rang?"

"Meet Maria Masciarelli, Joe's eldest daughter," stated Mario, who pulled up a chair near Joe.

"Yes, well, I don't recall inviting her," barked the capo.

"I did, you rat fuck," interjected Giuseppe from the Lazy-Boy. "You stupid motherfucker. Luigi's now in the Gulf – terrorist central. Your goddamned crew not only put my daughter in danger, but now my son. And since he isn't here, I figure it's time you answer for your bullshit by facin' one of its victims. So shut the fuck up and listen."

"Joe, this is not the time," said Father Sal.

"The hell it isn't, Sal!" He twisted his head and nodded at his daughter. "Prego, bambina."

Although the two older mafiosi puffed up their chests in a sign of bravado, they studiously avoided the woman's piercing blue eyes. "You know what happened to me. My spine still isn't right because of that bastard. Yet I survive – no thanks to youse. It's thanks to me, to my family.I also know what you did to my uncle. And we might seem so … small to you. We're not millionaires, we don't have a famous last name, so youse figure, 'Gee, what the hell' to using us like pawns. But this shit always – always – comes back to haunt you. Don't think for a fucking minute that being a caporegime or," she scoffed at Salvatore, "a priest will prevent that. If Luigi or Daisy are harmed in any way, we got nothin' to lose. You have made us your enemies forever. You will be judged, and Hell won't be deep and dark enough for youse."

Pete calmly raised an eyebrow to the young woman. "Are you making a threat?"

Maria smirked. "You bet your ass I am. See, you can kill one or two of us. Maybe everyone here. But that little recording? Well, that's why there's Anonymous. And that will leave on forever."

"Not to mention that I can give that little fuckin' recording to Carlo himself," Mario chimed in from his seat, amused at the men's garden-fresh squirming. "And then you can kiss your Colorado ass goodbye. Believe me, Pete; I'll shed zero tears."

Salvatore coughed uncomfortably. Facing a stern-looking Giuseppe, he began, "Joe, listen, I …"

"Shut the fuck up, Sal!" he hissed. "You weren't gonna tell me that Luigi was in the fuckin' rats nest. Were ya? What fuckin' right do you have to do that to me?"

The Sicilian's brown eyes burned with a mixture of molten emotions. "Tesoro, you were in no condition! It's bad enough that Luigi's over there, and I can't follow! But if I …" He trailed off, willing him to understand.

Joe sneered angrily, weakly crossing his arms. "Yeah, I've heard that before." Lip tremoring faintly, Father Sal fell quiet, unable to continue. Directing his steel blue eyes to Pete, he snarled to his nephew, "Play the fuckin' thing. I'm sure it'll be … enlightening."

Mario nonchalantly took out his iPhone and, increasing the volume to its max, played the recorded conversation between Mrs. Bowser and Lucas. Throughout, the Masciarellis did not take their blue eyes off the mafiosi, who had no discernible reaction to the exchange. However, when they discussed Luigi's potential fate, Salvatore's skin blanched, Sam's eyes narrowed, and Pete crossed his arms.

At the end of the call, the portly plumber growled, "Having listened to this shit a number of times today, here's my theory. The crazy bitch – Polina Lepeshinski Bowser – decides to work for the Russians, just to get back at youse. Can't imagine why. She gets enough power and influence through someone in the Morano crew to bribe Slaughter. Only Slaughter fucks up. But here's what I don't get. Where the fuck did Lucas get seven-five million dollars? Hmm?" He watched Pete and Sam become stone-faced, and Sal's eyes widen. "Yeah, that answers that question. Obviously, this is your fuck up. And I don't give a flying fuck about your little operation. However, youse fucked around with the wrong people." Glancing at Maria and Giuseppe, Mario continued, "I've given you the first two conditions. As for the third? See, I got my own counterproposal 'cause I figure I got youse by the balls. I don't trust you or Carlo to fix this without getting Luigi and Daisy killed. I really, really fuckin' don't. First, I want the name of the asshole who's working with the Bowser Bitch. And we all know there's someone on the inside. Second, this is my operation. I'm the only one here who's got a chance against these Russian pricks. You can handle the Moranos. You're … experts at street trash." Pete's eyes constricted at Mario's quip, yet he remained silent for the time being. "Third, Pete, if I find you're lying to me in any way, this recording will appear at every New York and Denver law enforcement office. And you know technology – like my cousin says, there's no way to make that disappear! All of you – capite?"

"Alright, Mario," bit out the capo. "To answer your question, I don't know who the insider is." His demeanor shifted from outrage to defeat. Sitting on the couch and scrubbing his face, he went on, "In our … organization, deceit is part of the game. Everyone's a liar. Frankly, it could be any of my … friends."

"And what's this shit I hear about Syria and Lebanon?!" demanded Giuseppe. "Huh, Pete? Did you seriously help the people who murdered Mario?! My brother?Because I'll fuckin' kill you right now if you did!"

Pete's eyes changed into dark pits. "What? Are you out of your mind, Joe?!"

"Oh, you didn't know?" interjected Maria, sarcasm underlying her tone. "Yeah, apparently, your rather lowlife friends have friends in even lower places. As if that was possible," she commented with a cat-like hiss, glancing at Father Sal whose temper was beginning to slip away from him.

"We have it on good authority that George Kariolis may have gotten into some trouble in Lebanon," sneered Mario. "I'll wager money on one or more of three possibilities: human trafficking, drug smuggling, or arms dealing. He a competitor of yours?"

"Fuck …" mouthed Pete, standing up indignantly.

"We'll take that as a yes," snickered the woman.

"No!" he insisted, rising from the couch and pointing a finger at them. The priest moved to calm the two sides, but Joe glared warningly at him. "I would never help those bastards! I do a bit of the third option, but within North America and to the Armed Forces! Our fucking spineless government was short-changing the troops, so I provided the service at a discount or in exchange for certain information. I do not sell drugs or people! I never have!"

"Jackie sells drugs," muttered Salvatore. They all faced him, save the capo, who glowered at the rat. "Oh, cut the cazzate, Pete. That's not protected information, and you know it. He's been selling smack, heroin, and meth for the past thirty years. Carlo's always looked the other way because the money's good. As for human trafficking, he was into prostitution back in the day. I don't know if he still is, but I wouldn't put it past him."

"Did you?" demanded Maria, crossing her arms irritably.

Before the now hostile Salvatore could reply, Joe interrupted them with lifted, yet limp hand. "Aight, basta. Luigi's a target for these people. He's target because of his family – both sides!" The Denverite cast his eyes away from the sickly, gasping man. "And Daisy's a target because she's a siriana and his ragazza." He scowled pointedly at Pete. "So, you Mafia fuck, what are you gonna do about it? Huh? 'Cause I see a lot of bullshit comin' outta your mouth, but no action. You wanted me here for a reason. Why?" Eyes shifting to Salvatore and Sam, he added, "Why in front of them?"

For the first time during the family sit-down, Pete became calm, and he returned to the couch. Staring at his childhood friend for a few poignant seconds, he finally answered, "Because whether you like it or not, Joe, you're involved. With us Rigassis." He gestured with his head toward Father Sal. "With Sal." The former mafioso slowly moved to face his cousin, his brown eyes now a stormy black.

Mario and Maria traded a confused glance, with the former voicing, "Zio, what the hell is he talking about?"

As Joe opened his mouth, Pete cut in, "You have responsibilities. You're ill, true, but that doesn't mean that you're exempt." Stunning the others, he immediately leapt up, snatched the phlegmatic Joe's left hand, and turned it palm up to display the decades-old scar. "You know what this means. Fai parte della famiglia! Fai parte della nostra famiglia!"

Unable to remain indolent, Salvatore grabbed the capo by the collar and physically threw him back to the couch. Sam stood up to answer the deathly serious crime of laying hands on a made man, yet the former mafioso squared off against him, making sure to act as a barrier between the Colorado crew and Giuseppe. "I would back off, kid. I have no beef with you. But if you get in my way, you will feel my wrath. Capisci?"

"It's alright, Sam," Pete rasped between puffs of air, though his calm brown eyes were fixated upon the irate priest. "I'm alright. I think I've made my point." Reluctantly, Sam retreated from the man in black, though he positioned himself near his boss in case of a subsequent attack. Without turning his back, Salvatore stepped closer to Giuseppe, halting at his side. As Maria inched closer, his obsidian-like eyes lasered through the young woman, cautioning her to stay put. Having caught his breath, Pete sat up straight on the couch and resumed, "I see Joe has left out a … great deal about his youth. An impending war is no longer a theory. I won't allow Luigi to be killed. Daisy's an innocent. The choice becomes how innocent you are and want to be."

"Luigi's an innocent, you fuck!" shouted an indignant Mario. "He was forced by youse to become your goddamned associate! Nah, screw you. If you, Sal, and Joe want to play Mafia Overlord, be my guest!" He cupped his hands dramatically and snarled, "Burn the fuckin' saint in your hands! Weegie and I? Nah. Count us out. I'll get him back myself. The hell with youse!"

"Ditto," echoed Maria, now staring down her weakened father.

"Mario, do you really think that's wise?" asked Pete softly, though not without an underlying edge.

"And do you really think I'll just hand Luigi over to you? Huh? Here's what I see, Captain!" He extended his thumb, "First, your Mickey Mouse club decided to dick around with terrorists and got burned. Well, golly-fucking-gee!" Next, he flicked out his index finger, "Second, whatever fucked up game you, Sal, and Joe were playin' back in the day has created this mess." Finally, he protracted his third finger, "Third, vuoi avere la moglie ubriaca e la botte piena!" At Sam's obvious lack of understanding, he translated, "Your uncle wants the drunk wife and the full wine barrel – to have his cake and eat it. In theory, he wants to avoid a war while furthering his own fuckin' career through Luigi. Well, you can't bring terrorists into this shit and expect to get the keys to the kingdom! You'll get everyone killed." Perceiving Sam's attitude shift slightly, he inquired, "What do you think, Calamaro? What's your Navy training say about this situation?"

"Talk to me," warned Pete with a finger point.

"Nah, I think Joe has it right. If you're gonna play us like pawns, we outta have a say. That includes Rocky Mountain Squid here. Because he might not want to go to war over his second cousin who doesn't even want a part in it! He's also got nothin' to do with the senseless violence of the New York crews. Hell, he doesn't even speak Italian." Directing his words to Sam once more, he continued, "You don't need this shit. We don't need this shit! Luigi, Maria, Adriana, Lucy, Daisy, Peaches, your cousin, you, and me." His blue eyes piercing each of the older men, he lifted his jeans pant leg to display his prosthesis. "I'm the only one here who's actually been to war. Your street beefs and executions got nothing on that. Nothing. And lemme tell ya, there's nothing heroic about losing buddies in the fight. Because," his blue eyes suddenly became moist with unspoken emotion, "after a while, they're only memories. Memories filed somewhere between recruitment and the next Iraqi shitshow. And old memories will never replace the ability to make new ones with 'em. You never get that time back. You want that, Sam?" Twisting his head angrily at the capo, the priest, and the older plumber, "How about youse? You want to put your omertà bullshit where your mouth is? You want to face down a sniper's bullet? Or," he quickly tilted his head at Maria, "a fat, incompetent piece of shit? 'Cause, honestly, the next generation has been facing your problems. And we've been doin' just fine." Sighing, he concluded, "Family isn't just blood; it's who you commune with."

Maria moved away from her stunned father to stand to Mario's right. Briefly looking at the two mafiosi, Sam rose from the couch and, like the young woman had done, walked over to flank his second cousin from his left side. Wordlessly, they watched as Pete's face reddened, Salvatore's eyes fell to Giuseppe, and the latter connected with Mario and his cousins, visibly shaken by his eldest nephew's words. Nodding, the soldier replied, "This is our show now. Luigi and I aren't Mafia, and we'll never be Mafia. You want power, Pete? Do it by earning that respect you supposedly 'value.' Get your hands dirty. It ain't gonna be your underlings that fix this shit. It's gonna be you. I'm gonna make sure you do. Ti prescriverò qualcosa che ti farà tirar fuori le palle!"

Sam frowned again, wishing in that moment that he had listened to Pete about learning Italian; he was especially curious, as Pete bristled, Joe smirked, and Salvatore blinked in disbelief. Maria, who was watching the scene with an openly smug expression, spoke to the perplexed Coloradan, "Mario just told Coors Light here to take a dose of man the fuck up." His eyes widened at his second cousin who persisted in staring down the now visibly pissed-off caporegime.

"Ah, bene, now I got your attention. If, by Wednesday, Luigi and his Sfacciata aren't back to New York, Calamaro goes to Dubai. You're right that I have to run the shop and keep an eye out for any moles inside or at the union. And you can't stick your head outside without Fat Tony knowin' your ass's still alive. But you can run operations with your fuckin' son as well as Sam can. Plus, he's trusted – at least minimally – by Carlo. We need that. Sam going to Dubai might draw the mole out. We take out the mole, we can take out the Bitch. As for youse," he pivoted on his organic foot toward Salvatore and Giuseppe, "you better lay low. Whatever the fuck's going on between youse, we gotta assume they know it, too."

"Like hell!" they both exclaimed simultaneously. In an action reminiscent of her mother whenever he either said or did something particularly dumb, Maria rolled her eyes at the older Masciarelli.

Mario crossed his arms at his uncles. "Non-negotiable. Joe, you got cancer. Sal, you're a priest. And last time I checked, leisure suits went out of style thirty years ago." This time, Pete stifled a laugh at his offended cousins' expense. "I mean it. This could get ugly. Real ugly. Same goes for you, Maria. You run Joe's shop. Zia and your sisters will need you. Joe will need you." At their silent, yet unrelenting stares, he added, "C'mon – neither Weegie nor I are gonna cut youse out. But what good will it be if Joe gets sicker and Sal gets in hot water with the Diocese? You think that's what we want?"

The two older Brooklynites looked at one another. "Alright," Joe acquiesced, "I'll … rest if and only if I'm kept in the loop. If Sam here goes to Dubai, I wanna know about it. If, however, Luigi and Daisy return by Wednesday, I also wanna know."

He nodded. "You have my word, Zio. I'll let you know about anything that happens. Luigi's comin' home."

Father Sal made a gesture indicating his agreement. "I also want to know. I understand that this will get ugly." Eyeing Pete, he commented further, "All I want here is for Luigi and Daisy to arrive in New York safely."

"Aight, I think we're all on the same page," concluded the red-hoodied plumber.

Mutely, Pete observed the dénouement of the sit-down. Though he would never admit it openly, the capo was impressed by the hotheaded plumber's ability to wheel and deal so that everyone received a little of what they wanted, more or less. Having been in contact with members of the Special Forces, he knew that it was a part of the training, for which they were mocked by others in the Army, Marines, and Navy SEALs. According to the latter, Green Berets were sent in to "talk and not do much else." Within that elite group were the 18X Engineers who were the favor-traders and dealers; their task was, by any means necessary, to secure the required building and demolitions equipment for their team. In spite of his environmental conditioning and natural recklessness, the Bensonhurst plumber had in fact mastered those skills. Meanwhile, Luigi, the natural diplomat, was acting more boldly and decisively within a moment's notice. Two sides of the same coin. Like a certain pair whom he once knew.

A strange blast of cold air caused him to shiver uncontrollably. Back when kids could still play in the open spaces of north Denver without an unobstructed view, the young Pete used to watch and feel the telltale cold air of springtime storms building up their immense and destructive power over the mountain plains. Hours later, the sizzle of lightning, buckets of golf ball-sized hail, the occasional tornado, and acrid ozone would be left in their wake. Notwithstanding the closed drapes to the endless slabs of Brooklyn concrete outside, his eyes flickered toward the window to check for squall lines floating over the horizon.


" … Yeah … Yeah, I fuckin' … Dee, what the fuck do youse want me to do? Yeah, I know it's Halloween and youse got the kids to yourself again. No, I don't … Ah, c'mon now! When I gotta work, I gotta work, aight? Love …" Peering down at the home screen, the obese, olive-skinned, forties-something man in a gray business suit threw up his empty hand and let out a string of curses. He then shifted uncomfortably in the coach seat of the airplane.

"Another fight with the missus?" snickered a black-suited, portly New Yorker, who was sitting in the window seat next to him.

"Fuckin' A, man! She drives me crazy, Al! Yeah, I know I told her that I'd take the kids trick-or-treatin' tonight, but I don't make the schedule! When the boss says I gotta put in overtime, well, you know how it goes! How the fuck else does she think I pay for her fuckin' account at Saks? I can't just say, 'Gee, sorry, boss, but the kids are dressed up as Spiderman for the eleventy-fucketh time, so I can't travel!'"

Al shrugged a little in acknowledgement. "Women, huh?"

His companion, Mickey, snorted. "When you're the lowest head on the totem pole, you get the shit end. Or a fuckin' hole of quicksand. That's the way it works. What did yours say?"

"Ah, she stopped askin' a while back. She probably thinks I'm with Nadia."

Mickey's brown eyes twinkled. "Well, to be fair to her, she's right about half the time."

Rolling his eyes at the man's unruly laughter, Al muttered, "Quit breakin' my balls, asshole. Especially on a flight – you know how much I hate bein' on one of these goddamned tin cans."

"Yeah, I hear ya. But we couldn't, uh, make this a local job."

"Too fuckin' bad." Al glanced out of the small window to the flurry of lights against the dark skies over John F. Kennedy International Airport. As he slowly reclined in the small seat, he complained, "These goddamn seats are always getting smaller; since we're business travelers, you'd have thought the boss would've paid for a fuckin' upgrade. Twelve-hour fuckin' flight tryin' to squeeze my ass in one of these things. Jesus …" He waited five seconds in perfect silence before twisting to Mickey, who was reading a small book with a multicolored cover. "What the fuck?!" commanded Al as he read the title – Lonely Planet Dubai & Abu Dhabi. "Mick, I'm sharing some philosophical thoughts about airplane travel, and you're ignorin' me!"

"Yeah," he replied.

"What's in there, anyway?"

"Oh, I bought it on the way to Kennedy." Dropping his voice to a near whisper, Mickey clarified, "I wasn't gonna let the missus or the goomah see that. It's bad enough to have one woman pissed off at you. Two's just askin' for trouble. Anyway, I was curious – see what's good, y'know? See – 'Dubai & Abu Dhabi's Top 10.' Les-see, we got the Burj Khalifa. Those motherfuckers wanted to build a bigger skyscraper than the one they fuckin' knocked down. Might as well see if it's any good. The second one … a mosque? No fuckin' way. Three through five is shoppin' and dancin'. Jesus, I should've brought the family – they'd have loved that shit. Six … Exotic sucks. What the fuck? There are exotic sucks there?! What makes an Arab exotic suck?"

"Souks. It says 'souks,' you dumb fuck! A souk is like a … è un bazar, huh?"

"Okay, then why don't they just call it that? Might be worth it. They might have sucks, if you know what I mean?!"

A few rows behind the chuckling New Yorkers sat a slender man in his late forties with cropped grey hair, his bright blue eyes scanning an encrypted message on his Nokia phone that, when converted to plaintext, read in Russian: "убить одним выстрелом двух зайцев." As he deleted the message, the flight attendant announced over the speaker that their flight from JFK to Dubai would soon be ready to depart. He calmly shut off the device, tucked it into the inner pocket of his blue suitcoat, and secured the seatbelt across his lap.

Kill two hares with one shot.