Chapter 51: Adjudication

Slowly, Hamza approached the aggravated Emiratis, Luigi, and Daisy. "Ma'sha Allah, Muhandis Mohammed, I apologize," he spoke in Arabic. "I did not see them enter. They should not have, as there were women present!"

Sensing the tension radiating from the Brooklyn plumber, who had moved protectively next to his abaya-covered girlfriend, the older man held up a hand and replied in English, "It happened. Religion police is difficult. Perhaps we … have new tour to avoid new problem." Then he nodded toward the exit at Ali. The younger Emirati obeyed his father, guiding the unreadable Huda, stunned Daisy, and irate Luigi out of the mall. Out of earshot, Ali snarled in English, "Iraqi dog!" However, his mother, who was glancing left to right for more mutaween, roughly shushed her eldest son.

"What the hell happened back there?" demanded Luigi as they walked briskly toward the valet parking. Ali looked around, then stopped to a relatively deserted corner out of potential eavesdroppers.

"Mutaween are feared in the Gulf, Abu Yusuf," explained Huda. "They patrol shopping malls, offices, even places where they are prohibited. You were a convenient target because you're foreign. But aggression is strictly haram this month, especially today. It's the 10th of Muharram – Ashura." Underneath her niqab, Daisy blanched in recognition while Luigi stared at the woman blankly. "Ashura, for us in the Gulf, means a few things. First, it marks the time when Moses, aleyhi salaam, led the, uh, 'ahl al-Kitaab, across the Red Sea. Second, it also marks the death of Hussein, alaihis salaam, who was killed by the Syrian Umayyids over the Prophet's succession, sallallahu alayhe wasallam."

Ali smiled shamefacedly as he checked for passers-by. "We normally fast on Ashura, but since we're travelling and are with you, we can make it up tomorrow. It's not obligatory, unlike Ramadan."

Luigi wiped his mouth and mustache. "So, the religious police were pi – upset – at youse not fasting?"

"Possibly," affirmed Huda. "But it was haram for them to enter the family section unaccompanied and to approach you in such a manner. On Ashura as well as Muharram, one must treat enemy and friend with kindness and peace."

The younger Emirati grinned to lighten the mood. "I must say, Luigi, I learned something new: treat every difficult problem with coffee, al-hamdu l'Allah. The looks on their faces – this American from New York offering them coffee!" He snorted, adding, "The humrain had to choose between a makruh and a haram! Serves them right!"

Luigi blushed a little, and Daisy gently interlaced her fingers with his. "Um, yeah, al-hamdu l'Allah. Just, uh, seemed like the thing to do in the moment, y'know? Very Italian." He wiped his damp brow with his free hand. Turning to his girlfriend, he murmured, "Stai bene, kerido?"

Though she tremored a bit at the question, she eventually nodded. "Si, kerido. Sto bene, grazie." He directed a meaningful gaze at his lioness – I'd kiss you if I didn't worry that it would get you into trouble.

Sensing someone approaching their position, Ali and Huda spun to glimpse a relaxed Mohammed and a muted Hamza. Luigi did not know whether to dislike or pity the man; although he should have been more alert to the lurking of the mutaween, the Iraqi seemed truly shaken when he saw the two men questioning him. After the valets pulled up with the SUV, Hamza respectfully helped Mohammed inside, followed by the women, and finally, he and Ali. The older man calmly requested his son to take pictures with his camera phone as they drove around the city center. Since Prince Abdulaziz would be expecting them for lunch at around three o'clock, Mohammed reasoned in both English and Arabic they could do a little tourism at al-Diriyah, one of the 'Old Quarters' in Riyadh, which would be a bit more accepting of Westerners.

While they could not directly approach the old medinah of the Diriyah due to on-going renovations of the centuries-old buildings, they were free to walk along the barrier and take photographs without harassment. Ali joyously acted as photographer and videographer, capturing the brown, fort-like edifices that resembled those in Timbuktu or in the Southwestern United States, groves of tall palm trees, a stream of water from an aqueduct, and lush green gardens as well as the red, black, blue, green, and orange-painted, diamond-patterned, antique doors. In front of the bright red doors, Ali, much to Huda's horror, encouraged Daisy to remove the niqab for a photo with Luigi. Hamza and Mohammed kept watch for religious police or easily-offended Saudis as the maskless woman took a brief, yet tasteful picture with her boyfriend. Re-applying the niqab, they resumed their stroll near the green space of the park near the modern part of the Diriyah.

Twenty until three in the afternoon, they made their way to the Diplomatic Quarter where the prince had one of many private residences in country. Hamza negotiated the narrow streets, arriving at a high-walled compound where several servants from Jordan, Syria, Iraq, Lebanon, and Pakistan were waiting to greet their guests. Removing their outdoor shoes and given rather comfortable slippers to wear indoors, the head manservant escorted Mohammed, Ali, and Luigi to the men's majlis. As for Huda and Daisy, an English-speaking Pakistani woman brought them to the women's sitting room, where another serious-looking woman in a black abaya and hijab was waiting. Huda frowned, knowing that this was not Prince Abdulaziz's wife, Amira. Before she could inquire as to her identity, the Pakistani woman brought out the customary coffee and dates to the female guests, beginning with Huda, the mystery woman second, and Daisy last. As the latter had seen in Oman, the woman offered coffee to each person three times, always offering and accepting the small cups with her right hand. The older Emirati made conversation with the woman in her thirties – a Fatima al-Mansouri. Even though she was very careful not to speak to Daisy directly, she did acknowledge that she was from Abu Dhabi, which instantly put Huda on alert. At this time, the Pakistani servant re-entered the room and invited them as a group, first to a basin to clean their hands, then to a Western-style conference room with an enormous black oval table, comfortable chairs, and blue-purple Oriental rugs and paneling. Luigi, Mohammed, Ali, Prince Abdulaziz, and another forties-ish man dressed in a thobe and ghutra were already sitting at the table. Guiding them to the segregated edge opposite the Saudi, they sat down.

"Ahlan wa Sahlan," greeted Prince Abdulaziz at the head of the table. "Thank you all for coming and welcome to Riyadh. I thought that a change of scenery might be beneficial. With respect, I do know that today's Ashura, but I have been told none of you are fasting due to travel. Please – lunch will be served promptly. Normally, it would be customary for our esteemed ladies to enjoy a bit of peace; however, given the circumstances, His Majesty, the Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques, has given his consent to such an adjustment."

The servants brought out two heaping dishes – one for each gender – of chicken and rice kabsa with plenty of bread and shattah, a spicy, harissa-like sauce. A slightly panicked Luigi scanned the room for silverware, to which Ali patiently and subtly demonstrated proper etiquette to his American friend: with the right hand, roll the cardamon, saffron, and turmeric-flavored rice around the meat and eat. The plumber, who had been accustomed to his father, uncle, and aunt slapping his hands whenever he attempted to eat with his fingers, overcame his embarrassment after a few minutes of consuming small pinches of the dish. He observed the quiet Daisy who, between bites, appeared uneasy around the unknown woman, allowing Huda to direct the conversation. However, she seemed to relax a little at dessert, during which they enjoyed red tea with the date cake-like hanini and ma'amoul.

Once certain that his guests were well-fed and at ease, the prince ordered his staff to leave tea, water, and a plate of cookies, then spoke once more, "I have invited two additional guests from the Abu Dhabi Police Department: Lieutenant Colonel Tariq al-Nahyan and Lieutenant Fatima al-Mansouri of the Special Tasks Sector. Their commander is a friend of mine as well as of Muhandis Mohammed. Given the seriousness of the situation, we all recommended that you, Abu Yusuf and Um Yusuf, be moved here." He nodded, muttering a tfadhal, as the Colonel took out a tape recorder and placed it near Daisy.

"Salaam alaikum, ya Um Yusuf," he greeted her politely.

"Wa alaikum assalaam, ya ustedz," Daisy replied in Arabic.

"I have been told that you speak some Arabic, but so that we can all understand, I will conduct the interview in English," he began gently. "To confirm your identity: you are born Daisy Trott Abravanel on 21 April 1990 in Bermuda?"

"Yes."

"Father's name is Henrique Azoulay Abravanel. Mother's name is Claire Trott. You are a dual citizen of Brazil and United States, betrothed to Luigi Masciarelli, whose father's name was Mario Masciarelli, born in New York on 3 June 1986? And he is present as the mahram?"

"Correct to all," she answered respectfully.

"Very well. Please describe the events of 30 October 2014 aboard the yacht of His Royal Highness, Prince Abdulaziz Mamdouh al-Sa'ud."

"I was compelled to attend the yacht party by Lucas Kariolis, the former friend and business partner of Luigi's. It is important to mention that he had forced me to travel to Dubai by threatening Luigi's reputation and life. They had been in Germany on a business deal when he 'surprised' both of us with this impromptu trip to the UAE."

"Excuse me, Colonel, Your Royal Highness, but I would like to ask a question," interjected Fatima. At their nods, she inquired, "Madame, how did this Lucas Kariolis compel you to attend the party and why did you not go to the local police?"

"Because, Lieutenant, he stole an heirloom of Luigi's," she held up her left hand for their collective inspection. "This ring has been in his mother's family for centuries back in Italy. It was entrusted to me by his maternal uncle, Father Salvatore Rigassi, who was worried at my potential treatment in the Gulf as an unmarried foreign woman. It was for this reason that I did not go to the police."

"Understood. Please continue," the lieutenant retorted.

Daisy nodded underneath the niqab. "With Luigi's permission, I attended the party, which was a condition of getting the ring back. On the way to Abu Dhabi, he bragged about having stolen money-turned-cryptocurrency in a Saudi prince's bank account. At the time, I did not know that he was referring to His Royal Highness."

"When did you know?" asked the Colonel.

"I suspected that Prince Abdulaziz was the target when he introduced himself as the host. By this point, Luigi had arrived with Muhandis Mohammed and Ali and was able to recover the ring. Kariolis tried to goad Luigi in front of His Royal Highness; when that didn't work, he decided to recover the money. I saw him go into the private quarters of the yacht, so I followed him."

The woman lieutenant folded her arms skeptically. "And why did you not alert security? Why did you take it upon yourself to confront a dangerous man?"

"For the same reason as I mentioned before, in addition to the likelihood that he was going to set us up. Plus, cryptocurrency can't be easily traced; if he was preempted, then he would have found another way to steal it, and, with all due respect, you'd have difficulty trying to recover High Royal Highness's money. I don't know with absolute certainty that the sum Lucas stole wasn't a little extra, if you know what I mean. I obscured myself and watched him use an USB to hack into the prince's computer and transfer 200,000 in coin to Hera Bank. It was too far, however, for me to see identifying information. But I did manage to grab the USB."

"And you have it in your custody?"

"Colonel, if I may?" interrupted Luigi. The man gestured for him to speak in spite of some irritation on the lieutenant's face. "We have a friend. Well, I have a friend who's a cybersecurity expert. He's a doctoral student in computer science and engineering, but he has been hired by elite companies and firms to check their security. He has the USB in New York. I made the choice to send it to him as an insurance policy. It was frankly too dangerous for it to remain in our possession. I Fedexed it to him on Friday from Dubai. This can be proven. I learned that Lucas was working with, uh, some really unsavory characters back in New York. Italian-American Mafia and possibly the Russian Mafia."

"With all due respect, Mister Masciarelli, why would the Mafia have any interest in your business?" demanded Fatima, who made it clear that she did not buy their story.

"Because this particular crime family – the Morano Family – owns my plumber's union. Lucas Kariolis is their, uh, associate. He does their bidding, though I have heard that he acted independently of them, which has angered the boss," responded Luigi flatly. "And I know this for a fact because I am related to them. Unfortunately." The police officers' and Prince Abdulaziz's eyebrows disappeared into their hairlines. "Carlo Morano, the boss, is my maternal great-uncle. I do not approve or participate in his activities." Glancing at his lioness, Luigi added, "Neither does Daisy. She took action to protect me. While Carlo would not harm me, because we have some reason to believe Lucas's acting independently of his orders, he may be working with others, specifically Russian organized crime. And with all due respect, Lieutenant, we didn't know anyone in Dubai; we met Muhandis Mohammed and his family by chance at an engineering gala. Since our arrival in the Gulf, and this is the God's honest truth, we have been afraid of being murdered."

"And why did you not leave?" she asked, the skeptical lilt to her voice having faded a little.

Mohammed lifted his hand to speak, which the prince and police officers allowed. Using his native language, he explained that following their encounter at the gala, he invited Luigi and Daisy to stay longer in Dubai, as he was interested in the New Yorker's thermal monitor. The trouble created by Lucas necessitated a change of plans, and he arranged for Luigi to demonstrate the device in Muscat, in part to establish his credibility. Per the independent evaluation of his engineering team, the plumber was not only its clear inventor, but moreover forthright and just in his claims. The engineer then testified to overhearing a phone conversation between Luigi and Lucas in Muscat, in which the latter attempt to blackmail both he and Daisy into handing over the prototype.

The lieutenant exchanged a look with her superior, who cleared his throat and asserted, "We did receive a police report from Lucas Kariolis in Dubai accusing Madame Abravanel of stealing the money in question. My Dubai colleague communicated with me this morning, having conducted a background check on both Madame Abravanel and Mister Kariolis. Her … origins aside, or rather those of her grandparents as Israeli citizens, her history is consistent with what you have told us. We checked with the airline company, and her plane ticket from New York to Dubai was purchased by Lucas Kariolis – open-ended, which is unusual. Madame's actions were ill-advised, but with good intent. He, however, is another story. His father, Giorgios Kariolis, is a suspected arms dealer to Hezbollah terrorists in Syria and Lebanon. He was wanted for questioning in Beirut, but he fled the country prior to being placed in custody. Did you know this?"

Luigi shook his head. "No. I didn't know that he had ever visited the Middle East. And frankly, if I had, Sir, I'd have kicked the crap out of him. I assume you know why."

Nodding, Prince Abdulaziz solemnly responded, "Yes, Abu Yusuf. We are aware of your father. Not to mention your wife and her family."

"Yeah," he bit out, raw emotion affecting his speech. "So, that's it. That's what we know. Daisy was never supposed to be here, and I had left the United States for a business trip to Frankfurt. That's it."

Concluding their notes, Colonel al-Nayhan pulled his subordinate aside to the far corner of the room to discuss their observations and notes in semi-private. Both giving a nod of agreement, they returned to their seats, and the senior member re-commenced in English, "Tayeb. Your Royal Highness, our recommendation is to investigate and put under caution Mister Lucas Kariolis. We do want the contents of the USB drive that Madame Abravanel had in her possession. Provided that we receive this from Mister Masciarelli's colleague, and via law enforcement in New York, be it the FBI or New York Police, we see no reason to prevent their departure tomorrow morning. Furthermore, we do want to have access to their phone numbers for additional clarification or questioning."

Prince Abdulaziz turned to Luigi. "Abu Yusuf, do you agree? Can you have your colleague send the USB contents?"

"I think so." Wincing a little, he took out his cellphone from the inner pocket of his suit coat and switched it on. Once it booted, he wrote a quick encrypted message to Miles requesting that he turn over the USB to either the NYPD or FBI. A moment later, he received an acknowledgement: "Gave it to Department of Justice." Facing the police, he said, "My colleague has already turned it over to a contact at the U.S. Department of Justice. I, uh, don't know to whom exactly, but I assume you have contacts?"

"We do," affirmed the colonel. "Let us confirm this before you leave. In the meantime, proceed as planned to Jeddah." Setting his pen upon his small notebook, he addressed the Saudi. "What are your thoughts, Your Royal Highness?"

He leaned back in his chair at the head of the table and swiveled for a moment. "I have no idea why this cryptocurrency was placed in my account. There are 12,000 – or more – Saudi royals. However, the deed has been done, which requires a response. I have met both Abu Yusuf and Lucas Kariolis. It's my opinion that … the latter is far more likely to be guilty than Abu Yusuf or his wife. So far, and from what I have been told as well as from my own observation, Abu and Um Yusuf have been respectful of their place here. Muhandis Mohammed is a friend, and I value his assessment. I would also like to see what is on the USB. Thus, we are in agreement. What of their future status? Would they be free to return to UAE, ya Colonel?"

Colonel al-Nayhan shrugged. "If the USB justifies their story, then we have no objection to their returning to UAE. I do not think the government would object. Ya Muhandis Mohammed?"

"No objection," the Emirati responded directly.

As the Saudi smiled, ordered another round of coffee, and paused for the Maghreb prayer, Luigi eased into his chair and gave a reassuring and loving glance to Daisy, whose amber orbs conveyed a deep sense of relief. Although Miles had not elaborated on just what he had found, the plumber knew that it must have been extremely serious if he turned it over to the feds. Furthermore, Daisy's intuition had been indeed correct; there was more to the story involving Lucas, his father, and possibly Polina Bowser. The one detail that had not been mentioned, which everyone except he and Daisy seemed to know, was Prince Abdulaziz's position within the Saudi government. His Royal Highness had raised an interesting point: of the thousands of Saudi royals, Lucas superficially chose him at random? His ex-friend was either incredibly stupid or reckless; worse, both were equally possible.

By a little past six in the evening, Prince Abdulaziz arranged for transportation to the airport for each group. The Abu Dhabi police officers took their leave, thanking their host and assuring him that they would keep him apprised of the investigation. This left the Emiratis, Luigi, and Daisy, to whom he extended an invitation to stay for another tea before their flights to Dubai and Jeddah. After a bit of back and forth between the prince, Mohammed, and Luigi, the former grudgingly consented to their departure. As Hamza brought the car around, Prince Abdulaziz gave a kiss on each cheek to Mohammed, shook the offered hand of Ali, and put his hand to his heart for Huda and Daisy. As for Luigi, he pulled him aside, signaling to Hamza that the young man would be along shortly. "Ya, Abu Yusuf, we have a saying in Arabic," he remarked to the curious plumber. "Actually, it comes from Egypt, which, given this day's Ashura, seems fitting. 'Hunak isheblu min dthaak il-asad – This cub is from his father, the lion.' Be well, Abu Yusuf."

Shaking his hand, Luigi murmured a stunned, "Shukran, ya, uh, Prince Abdulaziz."

The Saudi chuckled a little at the mixture of Arabic and English, then nodded. Guiding him to the SUV, Hamza helped him into the middle row, closed the doors, and drove to the airport. As had been the case upon their earlier arrival, the royal guests were guided through security to the VIP Terminal. Ali promised to return from Jeddah the next day while Luigi and Daisy proffered a heartfelt thank you to Mohammed and Huda who smiled genuinely and promised to be in touch about the investigation and the thermal device. Of the two separate private jets, the Emiratis' return flight departed first, just after the Isha prayer; the second leaving for Jeddah became airborne roughly fifteen minutes later. During the two-hour journey westward toward the Red Sea, Daisy softly catnapped in her chair while Luigi logged onto the plane's server and emailed Miles their itinerary – Saudia Airlines, Jeddah to New York-JFK nonstop, departure at 5:55 a.m. local time with an estimated arrival around 12:00 p.m. Eastern Time. Luigi blinked in surprise at the tickets, which were first-class seats for both he and Daisy. Within thirty minutes of his original dispatch and attached itinerary, he received a response in hex. Whereas the engineer normally limited his answers to a single line at most, this time, he had exceptionally written multiple:

"4c 6f 75 2c 20 68 6f 77 20 74 68 65 20 68 65 6c 6c 20 61 6d 20 49 20 73 75 70 70 6f 73 65 64 20 74 6f 20 65 78 70 6c 61 69 6e 20 74 6f 20 47 69 75 73 65 70 70 65 20 61 6e 64 20 4d 61 72 69 6f 20 74 68 61 74 20 79 6f 75 27 72 65 20 61 72 72 69 76 69 6e 67 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 66 75 63 6b 69 6e 67 20 53 61 75 64 69 61 20 41 72 61 62 69 61 3f 21 20 20 4e 6f 2c 20 72 65 76 69 73 69 6e 67 20 74 68 69 73 3a 20 77 68 79 20 74 68 65 20 48 45 4c 4c 20 61 72 65 20 79 6f 75 20 69 6e 20 53 61 75 64 69 20 41 72 61 62 69 61 3f 20 20 44 69 64 20 73 6f 6d 65 6f 6e 65 2c 20 6c 69 6b 65 2c 20 6b 69 64 6e 61 70 20 79 6f 75 3f 20 20 57 61 73 20 69 74 20 4c 75 63 61 73 3f 20 20 4d 61 72 69 6f 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 75 6e 64 6f 75 62 74 65 64 6c 79 20 63 61 6c 6c 20 53 6f 6e 69 63 20 61 6e 64 20 68 61 76 65 20 6d 65 20 73 68 69 70 70 65 64 20 75 70 73 74 61 74 65 20 74 6f 20 61 20 76 65 72 79 20 6c 6f 6e 65 6c 79 20 73 68 65 64 2e 20 20 41 6e 64 20 49 20 64 6f 20 6d 65 61 6e 20 73 6f 6d 65 20 77 6f 6f 64 65 6e 2c 20 70 72 65 2d 49 6e 64 75 73 74 72 69 61 6c 20 52 65 76 6f 6c 75 74 69 6f 6e 20 73 68 61 63 6b 20 74 68 61 74 20 73 6f 6d 65 68 6f 77 20 64 69 64 6e 27 74 20 67 65 74 20 62 75 72 6e 65 64 20 64 6f 77 6e 21 20"

Luigi's eyes rounded and, with every number, his eyebrows gradually raised toward his hairline. Even without the hex-to-text translation of his rant, it was understood that their presence in Saudi Arabia distressed his poor friend. Once he and Daisy were safely back in New York, he would arrange for a series of gifts, all of which involving mint, to mitigate the inherent dangers of notifying Mario of their itinerary. The plumber sighed; he anticipated texts or emails from his older brother containing variations of "fuck" and "Lucas's a dead little shit" – not that he would particularly disagree with his assessment. The mention of notifying family made Luigi wince in his seat; a confrontation between him and one Harry Abravanel was inescapable. He hoped that his recent successes would allay the man's understandable wrath. As the lioness slept tranquilly next to him, he reached out to trace strands of auburn hair. What if he asked him to give Daisy up? Mentally shaking his head, the New Yorker knew he could not, not without cutting out his heart. From an ethical and completely logical standpoint, he should; the Moranos were his family and Lucas had been his friend. Yet sometime between February and November, Daisy Abravanel transitioned from crush to partner, without whom he would never have escaped the Middle East. He owed his heart and his life to her. Only if she rejected him would he leave.

The private plane arrived at King Abdulaziz International Airport just after a quarter to ten in the evening. Since they were VIP guests of the Saudi royal family, they were escorted through security and deplaning. A driver from their five-star hotel met them at the private entrance and chauffeured them through Jeddah to the recently constructed edifice among the sprouting ex-pat and tourist communities on the Red Sea. Though the city was arguably more liberal than Riyadh, for their safety, Daisy kept the niqab on until they reached their suite. When Luigi whispered to the young Emirati that there must have been a mistake, as they were given a luxury penthouse, Ali laughed and commented that had the prince been in Jeddah, they would have been lavishly received at his home. The Saudis were legendary for overspending to welcome a guest. Refusing the gift would be an insult. The stunned plumber nodded, bringing his and Daisy's luggage to their extravagant room. Despite the late hour, they returned downstairs to meet Ali for a quick and last-chance stroll along the Red Sea. By midnight, they came back to the hotel to sleep a few hours prior to their early-morning flight.

Luigi, Daisy, and Ali rose, dressed, and met downstairs in the lobby by 3 a.m. While the latter's plane would not leave until he desired, he insisted on giving his new American friends a proper send-off. There had been no word at all from the Abu Dhabi police, so they decided to proceed to the airport. After reporting to the first-class desk and depositing their luggage, they stopped at the male and female first-class passenger screening and queue. Both the un-niqabed Daisy and Luigi profusely thanked Ali for his and his family's hospitality as well as their protection. The two men embraced, with Ali inviting them both once more and a promise to make it to New York soon. To their collective relief, each foreigner passed through inspection without incident and were guided to the first-class passenger boarding lines. About thirty minutes proceeding departure, they were invited to board, locating their seats – side by side – on the right side of the aircraft. Much to the punctual Luigi's irritation, the polychronic, Saudi and Gulf culture was permissive of meandering, waiting, and late-boarding of a variety of passengers, thus delaying taxi and takeoff by a full forty minutes. Sensing the American's fatigue and impatience, the flight attendant provided him an abundance of fresh orange juice, coffee, and little snacks, which abated the man's hanger. Meanwhile, Daisy switched on her phone for the first time since Oman; there were several emails and messages, three of which came from her worried and angry father, one from her boss asking her to return to work the following week, one from her advisor demanding her last two chapters of her thesis, and another from Harvard Law School summoning her for an interview. She leaned over to her exhausted boyfriend and showed him the email, which brought a grin to his early-morning scowl. He pecked her on the lips as the plane started its ascent toward New York.


Lucas was growing bored of the constant view of the Burj al-Arab's infinity pool. Despite having gone to the Dubai police on Sunday to spin his sob story regarding the nefarious Daisy Abravanel and her bubbling fuck of a boyfriend, there had been complete silence on their end. They had neither contacted him for details, nor had they arrested either American. In fact, both Daisy and Luigi had ostensibly disappeared. Scanning the al-Ketbis' website for the sixty-third time, he knew that the Fucking Arab Toad relocated them somewhere in the Gulf – Muscat, Doha, or Manama were his guesses. Glancing to the fat Italians in stretch pants and tee-shirts lounging on the pool chairs next to him, the Manhattanite frowned. There was no goddamned way he could fly to Oman or Qatar without them in tow; since Sunday afternoon, they had become the worst guests, each day having polished off the morning fruit bowl within an hour's time, only to complain about the food not being like the fruit and tomatoes of Jersey. Aside from the Fat Jersey Fucks, he was moreover in a foul mood over misplacing that USB drive. Though it was likely at the bottom of the Persian Gulf, his father would be pissed off at its disappearance. Like he had promised Lady Bowser, he was supposed to have taken care of Luigi if he would not be suitably cooperative or bumbling; he was not supposed to have stolen the Saudi asshole's money – or rather, he was not supposed to have hidden stolen Mafia money, only to steal more from the aforementioned Saudi asshole. Furthermore, he was not supposed to have used the contents of that USB drive other than to install an impromptu upgrade for his father's friends in low places.

Frankly, his father could go fuck himself with his newest bimbo. Giorgios probably was; last Lucas heard, he was somewhere in Istanbul. The money was his severance pay with which he could live in the Caymans. He would have brought Luigi along had he not been pussified by that Jewish bitch. Prior to Daisy, he had a neutral opinion about Jews and Israel; now, he hated them and her with the passion of Joseph Goebbels. If only the stupid Arab fucks would hurry up, he could be on his way – but not before buying Brooklyn Plumbing and Mechanical Worksand ruining both Luigi and Mario's lives. Joe the Plumber would die of both cancer and heartbreak, leaving the Pretending Priest bereft and doubting the sanctity of God. He checked his watch; it was 5:17 p.m. in Dubai, which meant that the business day was just beginning in New York. Deciding to order a healthy snack for the two fatties and him in his suite, after which he would phone Scott Pichler and play 'Mother, May I?' with Crazy Lady to facilitate the purchase of the Asshole Brothers' shop, he rose from his pool chair and ambled toward the elevators. The wiseguys immediately trailed behind him, curious to know exactly what he was planning.

Approaching the elevators, he noticed a group of uniformed police waiting at the desk. The concierge, who was attending to the men, nodded in his direction. Lucas halted to receive his extra guests. "Mister Lucas Kariolis?"

"Yes, can I help you?" he asked neutrally.

"I am Lieutenant Adnan al-Shehhi. We have been requested by our superiors to escort you to the police station for additional questioning. I see that you're in swimming attire, so we please request that you change into more appropriate clothing."

Finally – bye-bye, Jewish bitch. "Yeah, of course. I was actually headed up to my room. Would ten or fifteen minutes be acceptable, Lieutenant?"

The police officer exchanged an unreadable look with his two colleagues. "Yes, ten minutes."

"Cool beans. Be downstairs in ten. Thanks!"

Lucas ambled into the elevator, shadowed by the Jersey wiseguys. Once inside the suite, Mickey and Al paced outside of the younger man's bedroom while he changed into an eggplant-colored Oxford and light gray Italian suit. "I don't fuckin' like this, Al," griped Mickey. "Those cops don't seem to be there just for 'questioning.'"

Through the door, Lucas called out, "Mickey, will you fucking relax? They do this with witnesses. It's more formal here in Dubai, my man. None of that cloak-and-dagger shit in Newark or, shit, in the city."

"Yeah, that's what worries me!" retorted the wiseguy. "I don't care what fuckin' country it is – America, Italy, or the United Arabs in the Desert! The more serious they are, the more likely you're gonna get pinched."

Opening the door to reveal the now business-like Lucas, he rolled his eyes and replied, "Well, if I do get pinched, it won't affect you. But honestly, they'll be less interested in a Greek-American businessman than an Israeli Jewish bitch. They'll think she's a spy, especially with the, uh, guerre froide that has been going on between Israel and virtually every country in the Gulf." He slapped the man's meaty arm. "Relax, my man. Just play it cool."

"And what about the kid?" inquired Al.

The Manhattanite shrugged. "He'll probably be detained at the very least. He's her lover and thus guilty of sex outside of marriage. Normally, they'd ask 'em to get married and shit, but they won't have him marry a Zionist. He'll go directly to jail and be forced to wipe his ass with a used rag; don't worry. He can't be the Rigassi Prince from an Arab shithole. Besides, other than whacking people, isn't that another way how you guys, uh, remove, in my parlance, incompetent people?"

They eyed each other and gave a nod. "Yeah," answered Al affirmatively.

"Okay, so?"

"Aight, Lucas, we'll play it your way for now," said Mickey skeptically, pointing a finger at him. "But the boss was clear: this has to be cleaned up. Luigi and his ragazza can't return to New York. Capisci?"

He theatrically put up his hands. "Yeah, that's what I'm doing. Give the Pro a bit of time to work, huh? Jesus! I didn't know you, uh, compari were so dramatic!"

"Ey! I can get more dramatic if you keep flappin' your lips, pezzo di merda!"

Rolling his eyes, the tall man grabbed his Greek passport, his wallet, and keycard. "Well, I'll leave you gents to graze on the upcoming fruit bowl. I'll be back in a few hours. Just, uh, push the gold button for the butler." He then left the suite and rode the elevator to the ground floor to meet the Dubai police officers as he had promised. They climbed into a large, unmarked black SUV – Lucas in the rear seat – and pulled away from the roundabout in front of the hotel. Twenty seconds later, another black SUV drove toward the main intersection, keeping a distance from the obvious police vehicle. Its driver, the slender man with cropped grayish-blond hair, had waited patiently for that American жопаbrat – to fuck up and expose himself, both literally and figuratively. Unbeknownst to that hedonistic fool, he had posed as a server in the kitchen and brought him and those fat American pigs both breakfast and a bug hidden in the fruit bowl. He had followed him to the police station on Sunday; while he was unable to place a bug on his person, the Russian could reasonably guess what transpired – that he blamed his use of their property on an innocent woman. However, the arrogant American was apparently unaware that even the most uncordial of governments talk to each other. In this case, close friends of friends of his president as well as intelligence officials from the UAE and Lebanon tipped them off both to the whereabouts of Giorgios Kariolis's ingrate son and the item that they stole from a distracted Muscovite moron in Beirut two years prior.

The USB that he presumably used to set up the plumber and the Daisy Abravanel woman.

What an idiotic plan. Yet idiots are neither sown nor reaped; they appear by themselves.

Changing lanes to hide behind a line of cars, he considered the best way to carry out his orders. Even though the Abravanel woman had seen the USB, it was unlikely that she fully understood its contents. Adverse to harming innocent women, especially those with whom he had a shared history and responsibility, the Russian decided to let her go. Furthermore, her plumber boyfriend was not to be touched, per the agreement between the president, his superiors, the National Electronic Security Authority in the UAE, and their tipster friends, the latter of whom had their own reasons for paying back Kariolis and their Italian hired guns. He hoped that their disappearance meant that their UAE connections had arranged for their safe return to New York; that was all he could hope for. Nevertheless, Lucas and the two fat Americans, whom were certainly Italian-American Mafia, were legitimate targets. First, he decided to trust, but verify; if Lucas fell into the custody of the UAE, his colleagues could easily arrange for an accident in prison. Less work for him. Second, he would take care of the Italian problem. Easy, given how bumbling those corpulent bastards were outside of America. Third, he would locate and arrange for safe transport of the USB back to the Russian Federation.

Eventually, the two cars arrived at the nearest Dubai police station. From a discreet distance, the Russian observed as the arrogant man serenely trailed the two officers inside. He commenced the wait.


The thirteen-hour flight touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport. Daisy and Luigi disentangled themselves, having fallen asleep to some weird Icelandic film that they had been watching to pass the time. Beaming at his tired, though reassured lioness, the plumber pecked her on the lips and joked that she would zip through immigration with her Brazilian passport. Subsequent to the long taxi and wait to deplane, which was JFK's way of welcoming tourist and New Yorker alike, his prediction turned out to be right. While the recently-opened Terminal 4 had been updated to employ passport scanners, supposedly in order to expedite increased international traffic, funneling cranky New Yorkers through a progressively confusing process added roughly twenty minutes and fifty f-bombs to the lines. Collecting their luggage from the customs area, Daisy nonetheless waited patiently for her annoyed lion, who had received extra questioning by passport control for the Saudi visa. Since they had nothing to declare, they passed through quickly and made their way to the arrivals' platform. On the way, Luigi turned on his cellphone and saw two emails: one from Miles cryptically stating to expect a pick up at Terminal 4; another from Ali containing all of their pictures from Oman and Saudi Arabia. Showing their friends' messages to his girlfriend, they inhaled deeply and, a few minutes afterward, walked into the cool Queens air. Three cars were waiting: the Staten Island blue SUV, Mario's black Honda, and another black rental car. The passenger doors of the SUV straightaway opened; despite Lucia's pleas for him to wait, a weakened Giuseppe climbed out, then wordlessly pulled Luigi into a tight fatherly embrace. As Luigi happily returned the hug, a worried-looking Mario, Peach, and Lucia, a pale Salvatore, and reassured Miles and Yoshi soon came up behind them.

Reluctant to let him go, Giuseppe stepped a footstep aside for Lucia to kiss her adopted son on the cheek and, framing his face with slightly wrinkled hands, murmured, "Thank the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost you and Daisy are alright!"

"Yeah," gasped Luigi to his parents, his voice filling with emotion, "you won't believe where we've been."

Next came Mario and Peach while Lucia embraced a dazed Daisy. The red-hoodied plumber, mumbling a what the fuck and package deal, crushed his beloved fratellino; Luigi noticed with some alarm that Peach had gained an extra wrinkle on her normally smooth face. Salvatore began with Daisy instead of Luigi, raising her left hand to make sure that the ring had made it from UAE and was still on her fourth finger. Miles and Yoshi jumped in and high-fived their now crying friend. During the commotion and excited encirclements that she was receiving from the Masciarellis, Salvatore, Yoshi, and Miles, Daisy spied the other black car doors open, revealing an upset Harry Abravanel and Yael Massala, both dressed in business shirts and slacks. Seeing the fear in her amber eyes, Peach nudged Mario who rotated toward her rapidly approaching and irate-looking parents. "Minchia!" he muttered underneath his breath. The group that had gathered around Luigi and Daisy copied Mario, anxiously quietening for the Brazilian father's rebuke.

"Daisy, are you alright?!" he barked in Judeo-Spanish while Yael crossed her arms angrily.

"Sí, father. Estoy bien," she answered quietly.

Nodding energetically, he then switched to English. "Just what the hell were you thinking?! No, just … get in the car. We'll talk about it at the loft." At her hesitancy to move, he yelled, "Now, menina!"

Luigi stepped forward to stand somewhat in front of Daisy and timidly spoke, "Mr. Abravanel, please, just …"

"Just what?!" he hissed at the now tremoring plumber. "Huh, Mr. Cannoli? Thanks to that little stunt of yours, or your friend's, my only daughter could have been detained or worse. You think they like Jews in the Gulf, ijit? Before Brazil, my family lived in Arab countries for centuries; it wasn't exactly a picnic!"

"Hey," interrupted Mario firmly. "This wasn't Luigi's fault! That little shit, Lucas Kariolis, forced them both to Dubai. Luigi was only supposed to go to Germany!"

Harry's familiar brown eyes narrowed to slits at the portly plumber's rejoinder. "Really? And pray tell, if your brother was so innocent, then why would he keep friends like that? Why play his game? And it wasn't only Dubai, Mario! Saudi-fucking-Arabia!" Daisy winced at her father's uncharacteristic use of profanity. He then shook his head. "No, I'm done with this latest Italian bullshit. Daisy, get in the car." Unwilling to give her a chance to debate the issue, he grabbed his daughter's left arm and dragged the protesting lioness to the car. Before following her husband and stepdaughter, Yael directed a glare to the group. Mario, Giuseppe, Lucia, and Salvatore watched Luigi shift his weight from one foot to the other. Knowing that the younger man was seconds from challenging her parents, the two older Italian males silently agreed to handle the situation while Lucia reassuringly put her hands on Luigi's arms to restrain him.

"Mr. Abravanel," called out Giuseppe who moved slower than normal due to his recent bout of radiation therapy. Father Sal came up behind him.

Placing Daisy in the backseat like a child, and as Yael stood guard to prevent her escape, Harry tersely looked up to the older Italian. "Mr. Masciarelli … I appreciate you telling me about my daughter's arrival. You seem like an honest guy. But forgive me for my bluntness, this is no longer your business. Take care of your nephew."

He continued to inch closer to Harry and Yael. "Well, with all due respect, it is my business. I … I understand where you're coming from. I got three daughters of my own. That's why I told youse when you called me. But …" he glanced back toward the visibly offended Mario, anguished Luigi, and fearful Lucia, "Daisy has become one of us. Luigi … loves her very much. She's been good for him. And in return, he's protected her every step of the way, as best as he can. Please. She's his …" The concerned priest moved so he was next to Joe.

Harry's eyes slid between the ailing, spectacled man and the suppliant Catholic priest. "Don't you dare say that my daughter's his equal. No, she's better! While he wasted his life and his father's hope for him, my Daisy went to Oxford and is very likely going on to Harvard or Stanford and a bright career in the law! He's a plumber. He may own his own shop, and my congratulations to him, but that's a whole world away from her."

Joe and Mario were about to vociferously defend their maligned family member when Salvatore cut in, "I echo what Joe here has said. Lucas, who is not Luigi's friend, threatened Daisy and our nephew! There's … history. You're right about that. But Luigi's a good kid. He's never been into that stuff. Por favor, o senhor," he begged, holding out his hands and stepping in front of Joe, "escuche lo que tenhamos que decir."

The lawyer raised an eyebrow to the Catholic priest who unexpectedly addressed him in his native Judeo-Spanish. The Mafia Catholic priest, he clarified with an internal sneer. Peering at his less than impressed wife, whose dark eyes flashed a warning to him not to trust the man's words, he switched to English, "Father Rigassi, is it?" At Sal's nod, Harry asked impatiently, "Give me a … gusto pekenyo – how is what you'd tell me different than what I've already surmised?"

Father Sal opened his mouth to respond when a New York Port Authority car drove into the lane next to the passenger pick up zone. "Hey, there's no parking or loitering here! This is for pick-ups only! Youse gotta move now."

Harry waived at the police officer. "Sorry, officer. We'll be on our way." Then he glared at the priest who had calmly ignored their warning. "Alright, I'll hear you out, Father Rigassi. Daisy will text Mr. Cannoli the address. I warn you – don't jerk me around." A moment later, he slid into the driver's seat, closed the door, and pulled away from the passenger zone.

Inhaling deeply, the priest spun on his heel toward the cars while the police officer growled at them that he would write them up if they procrastinated further. "Sal!" called out Joe from the front passenger side of the blue SUV. Not wanting to draw more attention, he climbed in the backseat next to Luigi, closing the door as Lucia began to drive to the airport exit. Both the priest and Luigi glanced in the rear window to see Mario right behind them.

"Okay, now what?" demanded Lucia in an icy tone. "Aside from the stress on Joe, I don't have a fucking clue as to where I'm going."

"Uh, Zia, just head toward Williamsburg. That's where they were before," Luigi directed with a whisper. She nodded, tossing Salvatore a glare in her rearview mirror.

"Sal, just what the fuck are you doing?" rasped Joe tiredly. "You think he's gonna change his mind? I tried to reason with him …"

The priest chuckled while placing a reassuring hand on Luigi's shoulder. "Joe, you were treating him as an Italian. He's Brazilian – a Sephardic Brazilian. Let's just say that they take social class seriously."

Lucia shook her head in anger. "Self-righteous asshole – sayin' that shit about Luigi, Mario, and Joe. Who the fuck does he think he is?"

"Enrique Abravanel, whose surname quite possibly dates to the thirteenth century. And if he's a Cohen, his aristocratic nature will be even more entrenched. He and the Rigassis have a lot in common," he deadpanned. "And … he's curious about me. So I'll oblige him."

The woman scoffed, mumbling in Neapolitan Italian about stupid Mafia dicks, much to Joe's amusement and Sal's annoyance. Luigi did not react; instead, he stared out into the freeway's afternoon traffic. Attempting to distract himself from Joe's wife's wrath, Salvatore spied Luigi's passport and carefully picked it up from the space next to him. The frail plumber watched his childhood friend flip to the Saudi visa. "I remember your first passport, niputellinu. At one time, we were worried about you going to Rome. Now … Dubai, Oman, and Saudi Arabia."

Their driver shook her again once more. Joe, who had taken the passport from Sal's extended hand, hissed, "That fucking becero! He could have gotten both Luigi and Daisy killed! Fuckin' asshole terrorists – all of them!"

"Hey!" exploded Luigi all of a sudden. "Not all of them! The only reason why Daisy and I made it out alive was thanks to the al-Ketbis and Prince Abdulaziz of Saudi Arabia." The car's occupants fell quiet at the youngest member's uncharacteristic outburst. Though he attempted to stifle it, a sob escaped his throat; Joe twisted away from him, remorseful for his comments, while Father Sal put his hand on his shoulder to calm him. "Maybe … Maybe Daisy's father's right," he moaned. "Lucas … he threatened her. And we had to fly to Riyadh to appease the Saudi prince, from whom he stole … millions. She saw Lucas do it with some, uh, USB. She'd have never been there if she'd never met me." Finally, he murmured, "Some fucking prize I am."

"Nipote mio, you are a prize!" insisted Lucia. "You aren't responsible for that piece of shit, nor are you responsible for Rigassi bullshit!" Once more, she directed a pointed glare at Father Sal, who merely raised an eyebrow at her. "And while, as a parent, I can understand Daisy's father's position, he had no right to treat you that way. None!"

The rest of the car ride was noiseless, albeit with a passive-aggressive escalation of hostilities between Lucia and Salvatore. Joe and Luigi were, however, oblivious to the brewing Italian Cold War, both of whom being exhausted from their respective descents into hell. Ten minutes from Greenpoint, Salvatore asked his nephew if he was hungry, to which the latter shook his head – the Saudis had fed them extremely well aboard the flight. His aunt offered to get him a coffee or a granola bar if he needed one. Her pallid husband mumbled that he could use a coffee, knowing that Luigi would continue to be stubborn unless the others would also partake. Nodding softly, understanding Joe's tactic, she was about to turn off the BQE when Luigi's phone buzzed. The iPhone shook in his tremoring hands; it was the promised message from Daisy, in which she had written a different address than the one from their Rosh Hashanah meeting as well as an appended message – I love you, Luigi. He's being an asshole! Luigi blanched as he read out the address – 250 West 55th Street, Manhattan. Whereas Salvatore chewed on his lip, Lucia swore bitterly, and Joe grumbled an unfeeling prick in his seat. Upon seeing Peach's second request for the address, as Mario's black Honda was only seconds behind them, Sal took Luigi's phone and texted the information, mouthing a Hail Mary that his eldest nephew would not murder Harry Abravanel. The remaining thirty minutes were spent in angry contemplation by each person; Father Sal had enfolded his anxiety-ridden nephew in his arms to soothe his visible quivers. Eventually, and per Peach's suggestion, they pulled into a parking garage a block from the large glass skyscraper.

"He's a lawyer, right?" barked Lucia, throwing open the door for the valet. "I ought to bill that fucker for gas and parking!" Giuseppe chuckled at his feisty wife's comments. Father Sal raised his eyebrows in silent agreement while helping the sniffling Luigi out of the backseat. Prior to shutting the rear door, he carefully removed and set the Catholic priest's tab and overcoat on the seat, leaving him in a completely black ensemble. Gathering outside of the parking garage entrance, the group of four waited for Mario, Peach, Miles, and Yoshi who were equally upset and expressive at the choice of location. On the way, Peach had endured Mario's Italian and English threats to decapitate that Masshole, and she knew his balled fists meant that he had not changed his mind. Forming a protective circle around the distressed younger plumber, they walked to the blue-glass building. Once inside, the security guard, noting the rather large group, instantly intercepted them. Giuseppe explained that they were here to meet Harry Abravanel; after checking with the administrative assistant at Abravanel, Aronson, and Porter, LLP, he directed them to take the elevators to the twentieth floor. The physician Peach immediately flanked her lover's brother, having recognized the signs of his budding panic attack, even as she eyed the red-faced Mario.

Arriving at the twentieth floor, they ambled through a maze of offices; following ten minutes of confusion and complaints, they came to a large set of glass and oak doors. They streamed single-file through them, which alerted the professionally-dressed woman sitting at the enormous desk, the gold lettering "Abravanel, Aronson, and Porter, LLP" along the wall behind her. "Good afternoon. Are you the Masciarellis?" she asked kindly.

"Yeah," responded Mario. "How ya doin'? We're lookin' for the Ma … Harry Abravanel, please." So I can cut his fucking head off, he added mentally.

She requested a moment. Pressing a single digit to speak with the senior partner in question, the assistant announced their presence. Adjusting her Bluetooth, she listened, gave a single nod of understanding, and pressed the button again. "Go straight down the hall and take the last door on the left. Please have a seat there; Mr. Abravanel will with you shortly."

Mumbling a collective thank-you, they followed her directions to a dark oak door. Mario twisted the gold brass knob to reveal an empty conference room that could easily accommodate twenty people: a mahogany oval table, gray Lazy-Boy-type swivel chairs, and, much to their horror, a panoramic view of Manhattan. Luigi, beginning to dry heave, ran to the nearest trash can. Peach jogged behind him and, rubbing his back, softly took his pulse. "Will someone see if they have any ginger ale? I don't want to give him anti-anxiety medication right away." Yoshi and Miles obeyed, exiting to the main area to see what could be done. "Bloody tosser!" she hissed. A few minutes afterward, they returned with a can of Canada Dry. "Mario!" she whispered, beckoning him to assist her with Luigi's slack frame; they escorted him to a corner obscuring part of the view. Yoshi cracked open the can, set it in front of his friend, and encouraged him to drink.

By the time everyone had settled in for what Giuseppe called the Abravanel Bullshit Hour, a spectacled Harry entered the room, a few manila folders in his left hand. "Alright," he began, shutting the door, "I'll hear you out now." Sitting at the head of the table closest to seven pairs of glaring eyes, he placed the folders on the mahogany surface and crossed his arms, waiting.

Giuseppe and Lucia looked to Salvatore, as if to say, it's your show now, amico. Making sure that Luigi was more comfortable, he replied, "Well, as I stated to you before, this was not Luigi's doing. If anything, he was trying to mitigate the damage that had been done to his shop, to your daughter, to my family." Everyone except for Harry and Salvatore shifted awkwardly at the latter's words. "Let's cut the crap, Mr. Abravanel; I know you know about the Rigassis. Hence why we're meeting here," he gestured all around them with his finger, "at your law office. Without the presence of your wife or daughter. This is business. Bene. I think we understand each other. However, the issue upon which we do not agree is Daisy. Luigi, please hand me your passport." Twisting his head, he pacified him, "It's okay, niputellinu." The visibly ill plumber took out his passport from his coat pocket and slid it to his maternal uncle. "Grazie. Now," he resumed, flipping to the page with the visa and slamming it upon Harry's manila folders, "Note the dates as well as the sponsor. You don't get that just for the hell of it. Niputellinu, tell us why you had to go to Saudi Arabia. If Mr. Abravanel wants the truth, then let's give it to him."

"W-w-well, uh," he stammered, "we went to Riyadh under the invitation of, uh, Mohammed al- …" he swallowed, "Mohammed al-Ketbi and … P-P-Prince Abdulaziz al-Sa'ud. Mohammed al-Ketbi is a construction engineer and the Saudi prince is, uh, I think, a government official. The reason … D-D-Daisy was threatened by Lucas Kariolis. First, he threatened my life to get her on the plane to Dubai. Then she, uh, saw him steal money out of the prince's p-p-personal computer."

Without moving his gaze from the lawyer, Salvatore commanded, "And how much was that, Luigi?"

"Seventy-five million dollars."

Harry blinked, yet stayed stoic, betraying no other observable reaction. Salvatore's dark eyes narrowed, and he deadpanned, "Well, how about that? So whose ass was saving whose here? Actually, let me rephrase: had Daisy not seen what she had, Lucas would've pinned it on one or both of them, and we wouldn't be sitting here. Would we? What else happened? Miles? I know you know."

The lawyer's eyes shifted to the equally nervous blond who, clearing his voice, answered, "Daisy took a USB port from Lucas as proof. Per my instructions, Luigi fedexed it to me. I'm, uh, computer engineer specializing in cybersecurity."

"You mean you're a hacker? A cybercriminal?" hissed Harry, clearly unmoved.

Miles glared at him crossly. "I'm a certified ethical hacker! A white hat! Wall Street companies pay me to check their security to protect them from those people. Now, let me finish my thought, you technological ignoramus!" Whereas the New Yorkers blinked in surprise at their normally mild-mannered friend's rejoinder, an impressed Salvatore nodded in agreement. "Since you've appointed yourself judge, jury, and jailor, let me break it down for you, Sir! That USB contained a designer virus on it! So designer, in fact, that I turned it over to the DOJ! I don't know how Lucas got it, but I know he didn't make that! And there's no way in hell that Luigi, Daisy, or even the Mafia could've foreseen that one!"

"What do you mean, 'designer virus?'" interjected Mario.

"Within the, uh, hacker world, there are several types of bad actors. Lucas's a black hat – an actual cybercriminal," he replied, grousing at Harry once more. "But he's an opportunist. Then there are sophisticated, niche black hats employed by governments. We have them in the U.S. – the NSA, Homeland Security, FBI …"

"Hold on, kid," the lawyer called out, raising his hand slightly, "are you saying that it belongs to our government?"

"No, I'd say it belongs to the Russians, the Chinese, or the North Koreans. Given, uh, what we already know, my money's on the Russians."

Luigi sank into his swivel chair. "That's why the Saudis and Emiratis wanted the USB. Fucking Bowsers!"

Uncrossing his arms, Harry looked at a point on the table, analyzing what he had heard. Luigi and his daughter had unwittingly fallen into a perverted Tom Clancyesque merda in which Lucas Kariolis had nearly succeeded in framing them for espionage as well as multimillion-dollar robbery. Had these al-Ketbis and the Prince Abdulaziz not come to their aid, they would never have been seen again. "Why did Lucas Kariolis decide to frame Luigi? Obviously my daughter was used against him." He lifted his eyes to Salvatore. "And why do I think you're responsible?"

The man in black sighed. "Because I am. Many years ago, I … I left the Mafia. I won't answer why. Here's what is important: by leaving, I vacated a position intended for a male with Rigassi and Campisi blood. My uncle, Carlo Morano, made Luigi's father pay that vendetta because he and Giuseppe helped me get out. I didn't know until much later what had occurred. The Moranos and their associate, Giorgios Kariolis, put his idiot son with Luigi at Brooklyn City to, uh, rope him into the family business. I was in San Francisco during that time, so I can't comment directly as to what transpired, but Lucas manipulated Luigi post-September 11th, stole his work, then used the administration against him to cover his own ass."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I recall that there was a whole scandal at that school. Mismanagement of funds, racial and class discrimination, and abuse of power. Okay, so the kid's an evil bastard. The problem is, however, this Mafia tug of war has put my daughter in peril. She did the right thing, as did the ijit, but let me ask you this – ask Giuseppe and Lucia this – what would you do in my place? If the roles were reversed, and it were your son?" He was met with silence from the older Masciarellis, to which he went on, "Yeah, my point exactly. This is way beyond some rich sonofabitch's joyride – this involves governments! As I said before, Daisy's meant for great things! Her salary's going to be more than anyone's in this room, even mine. She deserves a chance to excel, not look over her shoulder for the rest of her life. She also deserves a home with peace and quiet. Let's forget for a moment that Luigi's an Italian Catholic and a Brooklyn plumber; the Rigassi family, Father Rigassi, makes him unacceptable – he's not safe! Daisy can do better than this."

As an outraged Mario stood up to give the Masshole attorney a piece of his mind, Luigi weakly held up a hand, whose arm and tattoo all of a sudden zapped with an internal, almost static electricity. "Fratello, basta. He's … He's right. Daisy does deserve to have an illustrious career. She didn't deserve what happened in Dubai. I tried to send her home. I was prepared to … let the Dubai police take me. I wouldn't have cared about rotting in some shithole, so long as she was safe. But every step of the way, she ended up dragging me kicking and screaming." Facing Daisy's father for the first time since the beginning of the meeting, he said, "Daisy goes where she wants. I can give her all the reasons. In fact, I did. And before you say anything, I am not blaming her – she's braver than I! The point is that Daisy's been her own woman for some time now.

'And the truth is, I am a coward! For the longest fucking time, I hid behind Mario, Uncle Joe, Aunt Lucia, even Peach, Yoshi, and Miles, because I was too fucking afraid to live! Then in February, I go to this party in Brooklyn and here's this … knight. Know what she was doing? Kicking the shit out of two douchebags who were giving her girlfriend a hard time. That's the Daisy Abravanel I know!" Gesturing with his fingers, he sneered, "This other Daisy Abravanel, this delicate flower who needs protection? Yeah, I don't know her. At the same time, that motherfucker comes back into my life. Threatens me. Threatens my family. Threatens my friends and colleagues at the shop. Then I realize I'm the only one who can save 'em. What would you do?" He stared down the stoic Harry for several seconds before continuing, "Meanwhile, I'm growin' up. Why? Because I got to save them and be actually dateable for that hellraiser! In all of that, she's only asked one thing of me." He held up one finger. "She wants me to trust her judgment. No, I don't want her to fight! I didn't want her in the Gulf!" Swallowing against a swirl of emotions, Luigi nonetheless laughed. "But she's a sfacciata – she got a mouth!"

Harry opened his mouth to counter when they all heard a commotion outside and stomping footsteps approach the door, which soon slammed against the other wall to reveal Daisy, her face flushed from recent ire and tears.

A smug Mario crossed his arms, muttering, "Speak of the mouth."

The lawyer barked, "Menina, get …"

"Shut up!" she yelled, banging the door shut with her foot. The entire room, stunned at her actions, quietened. "You don't get to decide my life without my input!" Pointing her finger at her father, she growled, "You are such a hypocrite! How dare you judge Luigi and his family? You sit there, talking about how we need to ensure justicetikkun – when you only mean it for some people! Well, include me!" Her voice softened as she addressed the open-mouthed occupants, "Luigi knows this, but my mother – my biological mother – was born in Bermuda. She converted. Her mother's family were servants for rich Britons. They were part blackAfrican slaves – whom my grandparents never accepted! Her father's family never recognized her, either. Chinese! So the very people whom you insulted are me! And Luigi's every bit as industrious and ingenious as your ancestors were! And just like our family, his family has skeletons. You want to hold him responsible for his Mafia cousins? Fine; hold me as responsible for my grandfather's cowardice and inability to take responsibility for the child he created! For my lack of a pure bloodline!"

"You know I hate it when you use that term," mumbled a noticeably shaken Harry.

"Tough shit. You and Yael also seem to think that I'm some innocent flower. I'm not." Wiping tears from her eyes, she saw Luigi dart from his chair to comfort her, to which she put out her hand and shook her head. "No, kerido, I need to say this. When I was at Oxford … my boyfriend beat me for more than a year. I kept it from you because I felt so ashamed! I was naïve and dated a non-Jew, so I felt like I deserved it. Had it not been for a certain portly Brooklyn Italian, I wouldn't be here. I became the woman I needed to be – independent, tough, hard as a rock." She shook her head once more. "But it sucks to be the rock all the time. And now … I've finally found a man who doesn't see me as an accessory or a fuckdoll. He's not afraid to be my rock. You think he'll take away my future? Hardly. Those men you and Yael threw at me? They would've!" Inhaling to calm herself while wringing her hands, she went on in her normal voice, "I appreciate that you're worried. And am I going to bullshit you by saying that I wasn't afraid? No; I was terrified. However, we can do everything right, live a balanced, correct life, and still encounter danger. You know it; I know it. And they," she pointed to Giuseppe, Mario, and Luigi, "know it, too. You can't predict everything. And you can't … diminish all risk."

She waited for her father's reply. Speechless, he could only gape at her; as for the others, most of their expressions ranged from Goddamn to, in Mario's case, self-satisfied. Ambling to the tall plumber in green, whose eyes twinkled both quizzically and excitedly at his beloved lioness, she seized his hand and hauled him to his feet. Turning to her still dumbfounded progenitor, she stated in a confident, albeit stern manner, "You raised me to think logically, to use common sense. Well, I have. I did in the Gulf. If Oxford, Mali, Columbia, my job at the UN, and my general maturity aren't enough to prove my good judgment, then I don't know what will. You want to cut me off for picking Luigi Masciarelli, an Italian Catholic plumber? Fine. I'll go to Harvard, Stanford, or Columbia without you. But … I'll also use that shiksa's name – that's what your parents called her. Daisy Trott. Your daughter won't exist because the one you wanted … never did." Giuseppe, Lucia, and Salvatore inched their way out of their chairs while the auburn-haired hellraiser pulled her lion by the hand and toward the door.

"I just want you safe," rasped her father who, much to her disbelief, was on the verge of tears. "Given who his family is, miha, he's not safe. Because his family will be after him, and thus, you as well. And I couldn't bear losing you."

Despite being perceptibly affected by Harry's anguish, Daisy steeled herself and responded, "As a lawyer, I'd still risk being threatened, should I represent a whistleblower or take a case involving David and Goliath. You yourself have received your fair share of death threats. As for Luigi, you act like he's the aggressor and not a victim. Everyone here, including Father Salvatore, were and are victims of the Mafia. So they know. For how many generations will this continue, Papai? We already have three, just in Bensonhurst. Will someone finally fucking stand up and deal with them? That's what Luigi's trying to do. That's what …" she trailed off, looking toward the expectant New Yorker audience, "all of them are trying to do. Yet they have been constantly told by New York City, by society, that it's their problem – a problem that they neither wanted nor created. So, if you're going to judge the innocent for attempting to route a generations-old issue, then at least get out of their way. He who stops up his ear from the cry of a poor man, he too will cry out and not be answered."

Opening the heavy oak entrance to the hallway outside with her left hand, the young woman, still holding her plumber's hand with her right, was about to lead them both out of the room when the older Abravanel spoke, "Has ganado, miha. Has ganado …" Luigi stepped toward the ajar wood, gently cupped her face, smiling in wonder at his ferocious lioness, and shut it with his fingers. Hand in hand, they faced the distraught man and the group of amazed onlookers. He coughed uncomfortably. "I already lost Daisy's mother from similar, stupid bullshit; I won't lose my daughter, too. I'm … still not sure about you, Mr. Cannoli. Life is never as simple as we'd like. I have my doubts about your future with Daisy. But … she's always had her head on straight. Plus," he glanced at Mario, "I apparently owe a debt of gratitude to your family. The Bensonhurst problem is a formidable one. How to approach it, I wouldn't …"

"You're a lawyer, aren't you?" retorted his daughter.

He removed his glasses to rub his eyes. "Yes, of intellectual property law. Not of criminal law. You know that."

"Luigi's case is intellectual property. He has a prototype that he shopped to Germany and the UAE. It's his, built by him. Lucas and company are trying to steal it, Papai. This prototype could very well route out the Mafia from his union. We're talking thousands, if not seven figures, within the next year."

Harry's now interested brown eyes shifted to Mr. Cannoli, whose face flushed as he tried to hide behind his daughter. "That true, ijit?" In spite of the Bostonian insult, Luigi shrugged wordlessly. "Well … it would be a shame to see that little shit get away with intellectual property theft a seventh time."

"Seventh?" verbalized Yoshi.

Swiveling to the entire group, the attorney nodded. "Yeah, seventh. While on the way to the airport, Yael did a search for Lucas Kariolis through previous or pending cases. He's been sued seven times for intellectual property theft. All but one, which is on appeal with the Ninth Circuit, got tossed out of court due to the plaintiff signing an NDA. NDAs – a good idea in theory, now used by CEOs and bosses to hide illegalities of every sort. I also saw he went to Harvard. I have a few friends who're professors in the Math Department. I'm sure there's more."

"Papai, Luigi never signed an NDA with Lucas. He was never employed by him."

"Even better. However, the issue may be with the plumber's union. I'd need to see Luigi's contract as well as their bylaws." Turning once more to Luigi, he pointed at him, growling, "I'll help you, ijit, on two conditions. First, you stay away from the Mafia; any contact by them, you come to me. Second, you get my daughter in trouble again, and not only will I not help you, I'll personally drown your sorry ass in the Hudson."

"Y-y-yes, sir," stuttered the plumber.

Pivoting to Salvatore, he gazed at the neutral-faced man. "I really hope you're here to help your nephew. I grew up just outside of Boston in the '70s. I know about the North End – the Patriarcas. Made guys never leave their sworn family. You might be wearing that priest's frock, but to me, you're just another bandido. My ancestors ran from the likes of you – Católicos – for centuries and survived. Don't think for one minute that I'm afraid."

Mutely, Salvatore glared at Harry who, in turn, did not break eye contact. As the staring contest between the two men continued past a full minute, the room temperature seemed to drop inversely to the growing collective awkwardness. Ignoring Lucia's and Peach's pleas to sit down, Giuseppe and Mario simultaneously rose out of their chairs. Unexpectedly, the man in black flashed a wolfish grin. "I shouldn't hope that you would be."

Maintaining eye contact with the mafioso, the elder Abravanel pushed away from the table and stood. "I will be in touch in the next day. My administrative assistant will see you all out. Miha, I'd ask you to stay, please. Let Mr. Cannoli go home and get some rest. You can see him tomorrow."

"Papai, let me see them out. I'll come back," Daisy beckoned her father, to which he gave a faint nod. Subsequent to the man's adjournment of the meeting, they filed out, though Giuseppe stopped to shake the man's hand, which he reluctantly accepted. Moving down the main hall of the law firm's New York office, Mario, Luigi, and Giuseppe stopped upon sighting a larger-than-normal crowd gathered below a flat-screen television displaying a local news channel.

"Holy shit … It's been, what, thirty years?" exclaimed one male voice, presumably a junior partner from his business suit.

"Yeah, and in broad daylight near Times Square? How the fuck didn't the cops see shit?" replied another man, whose eyes remained glued to the sight of numerous police officers and blocked off streets on screen.

"Yo, what's going on?" asked Mario.

Without looking at the plumbers, the first man responded, "Some Mafia bigwig got shot off East 36th and 6th. Broad daylight, too. Him and his brother, I guess. Something Morano, I think. First big Mafia shooting since Castellano back in '85. Anyway, the cops have parts of the Garment District all the way down to Little Italy blocked off. Guess we won't be getting outta here any time soon."

The two younger plumbers and Daisy blinked in shock as Giuseppe interjected, "Wait – are you saying that Jackie Morano just got shot?"

"Yeah," answered the second man. "Jackie and Tommy Morano. Do you know them or something?"