Author's notes: This is an intense chapter; no blood or guts, just emotional. Reviews are, of course, always welcome.
Chapter 52: V for Vendetta
The Masciarellis, Daisy, Salvatore, and a few of the senior and junior partners continued to stare in disbelief at the television screen while the confused Harry Abravanel walked into the lobby area. "What's going on? Miha?"
"Papai, Jackie and Tommy Morano were shot by unknown assailants near East 36th Street and 6th Avenue. There's no news on their condition, but, uh, the NYPD's blocked off part of the Lower East Side," responded Daisy.
Harry's eyes first widened in surprise and then moved next to the Sicilian, whose olive skin had become noticeably whiter. Mario, Giuseppe, and Luigi failed to react to the conversation, too stunned to move. "Jesus," the Bostonian muttered. "Paul Castellano, 1985. So who's the Gotti this time?"
"Yeah, Harry," agreed his colleague, Jay Aronson, "that's what I was thinking, too."
Turning to Mario, Daisy's father lightly inquired, "You and Dr. Venier live nearby, right? Upper East?"
"Yeah."
"It might be wise to take your brother, uncle, and aunt there for the night, maybe a couple of days. Whatever the hell happened a blocks away, I'm not sure it would be wise for you, let alone Mr. Cannoli, to be in Brooklyn."
Despite his general dislike for the Masshole lawyer, Mario grudgingly admitted that he had a point. "Yeah," he rasped. Looking toward Peach for permission, who was in visible accord and understanding, he called out to his family, "No need to fight the traffic or cops tonight." At Luigi's stiff and sweaty reluctance, the shorter brother pulled his forehead down so that it touched his and whispered, "You'll always be safe with me, fratellino. I know you hate Manhattan. I know. But we'll be with you this time, huh?" Swallowing after a moment, Luigi nodded.
Following a few minutes of bickering in Italian and English between husband and wife over who would go outside to get the SUV, the stubborn Lucia accepted a compromise according to which Sal would accompany her; Mario would venture out alone, self-assured in the knowledge that any potential wiseguy – Italian or Russian – could meet a bloody end. Upon their arrival a few minutes later, the pale, troubled Luigi unenthusiastically bid goodbye to his remorseful lioness and allowed himself to be escorted downstairs by Peach, Miles, and Yoshi. For the young plumber's comfort and health, it was decided that he would ride with Mario and Peach, and Miles would go with the other Masciarellis; like a scared Siamese cat, they put a coat over his face to limit exposure to the skyline and surroundings, which helped him somewhat, even as Peach sat in the back to monitor his vital signs. When they entered the spacious apartment, Peach and Mario quickly closed the blinds and led the anxious man to one of the unused guest rooms, with Yoshi and Miles setting his bags in one of the corners opposite of the bed. Unwilling to leave him for even a second, Giuseppe slid into the space on the bed next to his nearly unresponsive son; Lucia helped arrange one of the pillows behind him to give the frail man extra support. The others brought chairs into the room to hold a vigil.
"Wow," Yoshi said, breaking the awkward silence. "Fucking Jackass's … Who did it?"
Standing near both Luigi and Joe and under Lucia's constant observation, Salvatore shrugged nonchalantly, although his hands trembled for a cigarette. "I don't know. But what troubles me is that … Carlo would've had to have given the order. The Commission. You can't whack a caporegime without authorization. And Jackie's been a big … screw up since the '70s. So why now?"
"What happens if someone did it without authorization?" inquired the Japanese. "You know, kinda like what the lawyers were saying. Like Gotti?"
"Well," he exhaled, moving closer to his nephew's head to kneel beside him, "if the guy who ordered the hit was outside of the Morano crew, then Zio Carlo will ask permission to go to war with the boss of the offending crew. If, however, it was within the crew, then it'll be kill or be killed."
"What the hell does that mean?!" demanded Lucia. "Kill or be killed?"
He glared at the recalcitrant woman. "It means your nephews and I are about to lose family members and even … become targets."
"Jesus Christ!" she hissed. "I thought you were 'out,' huh? Or was that bullshit, too?! Was Abravanel right?"
In spite of Giuseppe's weakly-growled basta to his wife, Salvatore stood to his feet and angrily approached the woman. Mario immediately moved between the two to make sure that the former mafioso kept boundaries. Staring at Lucia over Mario's shoulder, the man spat, "Yeah, I've been out for the past thirty years! And yeah, Abravanel's also correct that an uomo di rispetto cannot just leave! Do you really, really want to know how?! Do you really want that confession?! You got the stomach for it, vecchia?"
As Mario put up his hands to calm the situation, Joe tried to raise his voice, and the others looked on in horror, the now irate Lucia ignored them all, shouting back, "How nice for you, you sanctimonious prick! This is your fault! Was the money, the dead bodies, the screwing worth your goddamned family?! And I'm not talking about the Moranos or the Rigassis. I'm talking about Mario, Gabby, Joe, and your nephews!"
"No!" he yelled, tears falling from his brown eyes. "It wasn't worth it! And I regret it every day!But you try saying no to trained killers at thirteen or fourteen years old! When …" He sniffled, glancing at the glassy-eyed Luigi, "when your mother's dying right before you. No father; no money to help her. And you can't even get married to build a family! Anyway," he self-interrupted, wiping away the briny tracks on his cheeks, even as Mario and Peach frowned in utter confusion at his uncle's remarks, "I can't change the past, Lucia. I can only move forward. I can only pray for Jackie and Tommy's souls. As for Mario and Luigi, I'm here. Now."
"Yeah," she scoffed, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes. "But which one are we getting – Father Rigassi or the other one?"
"Aight, aight, basta!" the red-hoodied plumber bellowed to the bickering Italians. "I'm not even sure I wanna know just what the fuck this is about! And God only fuckin' knows who ordered that hit on Jackass. But let's just relax! Weegie's already upset as it is. He and the Sfacciata's been through the ringer, huh?" Fishing out his iPhone, he murmured, "It's a little after four. Dinner time's in a few hours, so let's just let Joe and Weegie get a few hours rest. We can order somethin' or get some groceries from the chef's market nearby. C'mon."
At their nephew's mere mention of food, the two Italians instantly backed off their verbal assault and retreated to opposite corners, with Lucia making sure to protect her territory – that which encompassed Giuseppe Masciarelli and her adopted son – and Salvatore, like a panther, taking the space nearest his youngest nephew and eyeing Joe's vicinity. The priest's hardened eyes became fretful when he saw the young man sweating profusely, blue eyes suddenly glassy. Joe turned to his figlio and put his hand upon his brow. "Shit …" he muttered.
Peach rushed over to her brother-in-law and patient to check his vitals. "Luigi? Can you speak?" she encouraged.
"Please … Don't check the backpack …" he whimpered in a detached voice. "It's my fault."
She turned to her boyfriend for an explanation. Mario shrugged and shook his head. Yoshi and Miles then went to Luigi's backpack, searching it, only to find nothing but the prototype in a padded pouch, his electronics, and a jacket. Giuseppe glanced to his wife, both realizing the event to which Luigi was referring. "Perhaps … we need to have a chat in the living room," she mumbled.
"Lu, you can … stay with Luigi. I'll do it," responded Joe. As she began to object, he raised his hand halfway, "I'm okay. It's, uh, better than it comes from me." Aversely, she gave a curt nod, switching places with her husband and, like she had done when he was a small child, cuddled the taller, mustachioed plumber. She watched as Salvatore jumped to his feet to assist the fatigued Joe who took twice as long to walk into the living room. Clearing the couch, Peach and Mario helped arrange his gaunt body while Salvatore covered him with a blanket. He knelt by his side; the others pulled up chairs or, in Miles's case, stood nearby. Peach, who had noticed that Joe seemed dehydrated, went to the kitchen to get some electrolyte water and cold-brew coffee. A moment later, with Miles's aid, she came back with glasses and two carafes of each drink.
"Grazie, amore," Mario said to his spouse.
Joe nodded. "Thank you, Peach." As he tried to sip the water, his bony hand shook with the weight of the glass; Father Sal put a firm grip on his wrist to support him. "Aw, shit …" he moaned.
"Zio, you don't have to …" Mario began.
"Nah. That piece of shit …. Those pieces of shit – Lucas, George Kariolis, Jackie – have gotten away with this for far too long." After gulping down a third of the water, Giuseppe continued, "September 2002. Luigi … had tried to … Despite the custody order in Jackass's favor, we brought him home from the hospital following the seventy-two-hour psych evaluation. He … wouldn't tell us why! I tried callin' the school, but that goddamned principal wouldn't talk to me 'cause I wasn't his legal guardian. I found out from Professor Omaya that the school was starting the expulsion process against Luigi! Expulsion!"
Yoshi and Miles exchanged a stunned look. "The Professor never told us that! Expulsion for what?!" demanded the former.
"Luigi had seen Lucas cheat on their physics exam. When he set up one of the other students – some Indian kid from Bed-Stuy – Luigi went to the V.P. and principal. They ignored him. That little shit retaliated by stealing Luigi's engineering project and, claiming it as his own, accused him of plagiarism. Of course, the administration supported the Kariolises. Lucas's father apparently gave them quite the donation." He took another sip of water. "Several days of stonewalling led me to go through his backpack. At the bottom … was this crunched-up poem. I guess it was some assignment for English class. Well, that fuckin' bitch English teacher, who also happened to be the V.P., passed out this fucking garbage. It was apparently being circulated among certain academics prior to it being printed. Amiri Baraka, former Poet Laureate of New Jersey!"
Everyone stared at him blankly except for the blond engineer, who bit his lip. Yoshi, who noticed his friend's angry realization, asked, "Miles?"
He coughed. "Yeah, I think I know what you're referring to, Giuseppe. The poem's called 'Somebody Blew Up America?'"
"Yeah, kid," affirmed the older man, even as Miles muttered an invective about Spock, Kirk, and Picard.
Yoshi's eyes rounded in recognition and disgust. "Yeah, now I remember. I think we had to read that piece of shit at MIT, right?" His friend nodded. The still confused Mario, Peach, and Salvatore waited for additional information. "It's a 9/11 conspiracy theory in the guise of being 'art,'" he growling, making air quotes. "Said that Israel and ever major Western government 'knew' ahead of time." He sneered. "Like Jews didn't die that day. Like other groups, including Asians and Arabs, didn't die that day. Fucking asshole."
A horrified Peach, who had looked up the text on her phone, showed it to Mario. Having stopped midway, the plumber hissed, "What the fuck …?!" Salvatore moved to examine it over his angered nephew's shoulder.
"That's what I thought," interjected Giuseppe, his blue eyes turning cold at the very memory. "That bitch intentionally sent Luigi over the edge. Her and that goddamned Kariolis. The next day, I went to that school and refused to leave until I spoke with 'em all. I pulled Luigi out and enrolled him at Staten Island Tech. He could've gone to Stuyvesant or Queens, but I wanted him home with us."
"But with a pending expulsion?" inquired Miles. "Not to mention that, normally, the Department of Education won't allow two-year transfers from one specialized school to another. I always thought and still think there's more."
He chuckled mirthlessly. "Yeah, I wanted to avoid that part. I wasn't in a mood to accept any bullshit. So … I invited Paddy McCollough along with. He was only too happy to let the fuckin' principal know that if they were afraid of the Kariolises, then they'd be terrified of New York's Bravest, who would invite the local papers to watch 'em picket their asses for targeting Jumpman's kid. A few years later, the principal got removed for embezzlement, favoritism, and general fuckin' incompetence. I drank a glass of prosecco when I heard."
Mario's body tremored in pure rage. "Why did no one tell me?! Was that what you meant? When you said that you were tryin' to keep Weegie alive?!"
"Yeah, nipote," Joe responded. He then eyed Salvatore who, like his eldest nephew, paced back and forth and gripped his rosary to abate the burning anger that threatened to erupt like Etna. "You were in Georgia and doing well. And I wasn't gonna have you go AWOL. That lazy, fat fuck didn't fight me for custody, which led me to believe that he and that fuckin' Kariolis were trying to kill your brother. Or he didn't give a shit if it had happened. Anyway, I got what I wanted – your brother. Alive. Out of their clutches."
"You didn't have to dissuade him from going to college!" barked the man in black, still furious at being told almost fifteen years afterward.
The older plumber raised a thin eyebrow. "You mean, my fratello's pipe dream? Had Luigi gone to MIT, Princeton, or wherever the fuck else, do you really think he was mentally ready? Hmm? After what happened to his father? What happened to him at Brooklyn City? You popped in and out of his life, Sal. You had your reasons, and I'm not gonna blame you for that. But he needed his family!"
"Bullshit!" he spat. "Luigi's always been braver than you, Joe! You never gave him a chance! And maybe that's what always frightened you about him!" Suddenly facing Peach, Sal rasped, "Where's the nearest smoking area? I can't take this anymore."
"You'll need to exit the building," replied Peach quietly.
He grimaced, nodded his thanks, and then strode purposefully to the apartment door. Exiting soundlessly, he rode the elevator down to the main floor and walked outside to the cool, late-afternoon sunshine. Stepping roughly fifteen feet away from the entrance, he pulled out a previously-opened pack of cigarettes, lit the tip, and crossed 5th Avenue toward Central Park. Letting his feet lead his racing mind, he felt his body walk in a northernly direction to an area of the Upper East Side that he spent the better part of thirty-three years trying to forget – March 15, 1981. The Ides of March. His twenty-first birthday. Not daring to come any closer, the priest halted at the juncture of 5th Avenue and East 76th Street. Too far away, he was unable to see the top of the Carlyle Hotel over the high-end boutiques, multimillion-dollar homes, consulates, and private academies, only half of which existed back in 1981.
Like him, the priest.
His predecessor, Salvatore 'Il Mietitore' Rigassi, was a young up-and-coming in the Morano crime family. Aside from his legendary executions, he was notorious throughout Brooklyn for a variety of crimes ranging from loan sharking to running a popular, albeit illegal, gentlemen's establishment in Midwood. The latter was rather ironic; contrary to Jackie's predilection for screwing and outright assaulting his waitresses and dancers at his club, Salvatore never felt attraction to them, which only encouraged the scorned and humiliated women to beg him for work. Provided that they accepted him taking sixty percent and pledged not to engage in 'side prostitution' or drugs, he did so without reservation. To avoid arrest, he used to give a discount for drinks and lap dances to the NYPD; among the regulars were Jimmy Bowser and the 61st Precinct. As only the monumentally stupid were unaware of his notoriety, very few men got out of line under his watchful eye. Everyone except for Jackie, who confronted him several times for 'stealing his business,' once even resulting in a fistfight which he, despite being nearly hundred pounds lighter and two inches shorter, easily won. However, Jackie was more popular with the street guys, and Carlo felt obligated to chastise Salvatore to keep the peace.
Workplace politics are the shits, even in the New York Mafia.
His 'work partner' and best Mafia friend – if there was even such a thing – was fellow wiseguy and hitman, Vinny DiScala. Every Friday evening, they would meet up at a local supper club in Bensonhurst to talk business as well as to bitch about their 'coworkers,' namely Cousin Jackass and his collection of Bensonhurst's biggest morons. Whenever he was in town, Petey Morello would join their weekly dinner. While the latter had picked up a few bad habits from Jackass, namely cheating on Michelle with a variety of Slavic and Scandinavian blondes, he quickly abandoned his cousin's lack of business acumen and instead copied Salvatore's and Vinny's finesse, minus the brutality. As the result of bouncing ideas off this new group of 'businessmen,' Salvatore Rigassi became a millionaire by twenty-one and, much to the envious grumbling of the old street guys, was not only made, but moreover elevated to the position of acting captain. He was handsome and successful; at every wedding, several older capos, even those from other families, offered to fix a date with their daughters, which he reluctantly accepted so as to avoid causing offense. Yet like with the exotic dancers, he was not attracted to them. Whenever he went out with Jackie and Pete, he pretended to drag women to the back rooms; behind closed doors, he paid them substantially for their silence. Many required little persuasion; familiar with his dark reputation, they gladly took the money and, over champagne, conversed with the surprisingly cultured mafioso about poetry, music, painting, and business.
To the Mafia and to the Catholic Church, his excuse was that he was still sowing his oats. He performed penitence over fake trysts and invented scenes of desire. To himself, he wanted someone off-limits, in this world and the next, and had since he was nine years old. With puberty, his desires became unbearable, and he spent nights praying, begging the Holy Father to take him in his sleep. In another irony, he hated religion back then; he hated Father Rosetti's empty sermons about God's love, Jesus's love, parental love, spousal love, children's love. What love? His life was devoid of love, like a pitiless black heart. He hated listening to Pete's stories about his idyllic picnics with Michelle at the foot of the Rockies and he loathed watching the lovey-dovey domesticity of Mario and Gabby. Most of all, he internally screamed with a primal wrath whenever that fucking fire-pisser separated him from his curly-haired bliss. Now as well as back then, Salvatore was a persistent bastard; whenever the frequently-absent rookie firefighter put up bricklike barriers, he would concoct and execute a scheme to jump over them or shoot them dead, whether it was dinner, a Sunday matinée viewing of a Sergio Leone flick, nightclubbing, or more brazenly, a Sicilian-style Natale at one of Carlo Morano's Manhattan restaurants in 1980. After yet another execution and dump-job, he figured that he would eventually die and burn in Hell, so he decided the hell with it. Enter the Carlyle Hotel, a five-star establishment known for both its luxury and strict confidentiality of its clients.
Upon hearing his latest confession, the ever-patient and liberal-minded Father Ramirez, a Chilean-American fifteen years his junior, encouraged him to take a personal leave of absence, whispering to him in Spanish, "You are being tested. While you may have repented, you still have to answer for your past, Salvatore. Embody the love which you've craved. Let it shine from everything that you do." Tears filled his brown eyes. Seeing his friend and colleague's wisdom, he requested the personal leave from the Bishop who, having heard gossips of an impending Mafia war, compassionately granted a short absence of three months. As he deposited the finished cigarette butt into the waste bin outside of the diocese office, he felt the indolence of the priesthood disappear and the darkness that had encompassed Salvatore Rigassi return, just before he was to meet Lucia and Joe to find Luigi and Daisy at JFK. Following the sit-down with Daisy's father, that woman was right; none of them knew just which Salvatore they were getting – the priest or the demon.
Heavy footstep after heavy footstep, the Sicilian returned to Peach's apartment. Giuseppe had fallen asleep on the couch, and Lucia was holding his limp hand. Salvatore stopped to gaze at the slumbering man, his left hand extended toward him. Lucia glared accusingly at him, to which he did not visibly react, except to brush his fingers over the rosary in his pocket, and he retreated into Luigi's bedroom where Yoshi, Miles, and Peach were keeping watch over their sleeping friend. Peach rose from the empty space on the bed and whispered to him that Mario had gone to check in on the shop and bring home dinner. Nodding, he took over for his niece-in-law, sliding next to the thin plumber and stroked his soft brown hair. The older man smiled a little; though Luigi had grown nearly a foot and had rounded out since his early teen years, he curled up self-protectively in the same way, especially post-argument between his father and Joe.
The apartment fell quiet for the next couple of hours; Sal had dozed off himself when the clicking of electronic texting woke him. Blinking against the Manhattan twilight, he first verified that his little nephew still slept, then he focused his attention on a worried Yoshi and Miles, who were having a technological conversation. He stood up and gestured to Luigi's friends to come out of the latter's room to explain. A moment later, they followed him to the kitchen; Lucia and Joe were napping, and Peach had presumably gone to her study to work.
Miles began softly, "The, uh, news hasn't said yet. I hacked the NYPD and FBI, and … both Tommy and Jackie died upon arrival at Bellevue. Got a few of their, uh, made guys, too. The police band was saying that … the weapons used were Makarovs, nine by eighteen millimeters."
"Cazzo! The Russians …" breathed Salvatore. "Did … did the police say anything about Carlo or Junior?"
He shook his head. "No. Additionally, I checked the UAE, and … Lucas Kariolis has disappeared. He went into police custody about seven or eight hours ago."
"Any movement for George Kariolis?" asked Yoshi.
"No, dude. I, uh, don't have his Greek passport information, so I have no means to track him. Just that douchebag. And, uh, because I don't speak Greek, I can't spoof or do my usual tricks."
Sal gave a slight nod. "This … isn't over, piccoli. Not by a long shot." Bracing his hands against the marble top of the island, he murmured, "Yoshi, do you have work tomorrow?"
The Japanese frowned. "Uh, no, sir. I, uh, took the rest of the week off. Luigi's my best friend. He's more important."
"And you still do karate and jujitsu?"
"Uh, yes, sir."
"Alright, you're coming with me. To Bensonhurst. Also, drop the 'sir' stuff – makes me feel old, kid. Salvatore will do." At Miles's confused and left-out look, the man put a hand on his shoulder. "Stay with Luigi, Mario, and Giuseppe. Keep them here in Manhattan at all costs, kid. We'll need your computer skills. I need to go get … Pete and Sam. Get them out of the city before Polina Bowser figures out that Luigi and Daisy escaped the Middle East." He sighed heavily, dark brown eyes full of dread. "It's a matter of time before she does, and … she'll come after Luigi. With Jackie and Tommy dead, Petey in hiding, and Junior and Carlo being unknowns, Luigi's in the line of succession. Him and Tony. And if the Moranos know that he's here in New York, they'll take him into custody. Do you understand why you need to stay, Miles?"
"Yeah," he gulped.
"Bene. And Miles … I won't ask you to lie to Joe. He'll want to know where Yoshi and I went. Just make sure that he does not step out of this apartment without Mario! And Mario stays with Joe, Lucia, Peach, and Luigi! I don't know how many people were involved in Jackie's murder, but you can bet that the Russians had insider help."
"Okay," nodded the hacker nervously. "What about Daisy?"
"Daisy should be safe for now. However, it depends on where the hell George Kariolis is. And if he finds out she knows about the USB, then he may try something. If you can …"
"… Figure out a way to find him. I'm on it," he interjected, finishing Salvatore's thought.
"Grazie, Miles. Aight. Let's go now, Yoshi."
While the others were occupied with work or sleep, Salvatore and Yoshi made a discreet exit into the shadowy streets of the Upper East Side. Following the Sicilian's brisk lead down several blocks, they came to a twenty-four-hour car rental shop, where he rented a black 2013 four-door Honda identical to Mario's vehicle. A stunned Yoshi climbed into the passenger side of the vehicle; it was the first time that he had ever seen Luigi's maternal uncle drive. In his and Luigi's youth, whenever Father Sal had come to visit the 17th Avenue house, he had either rode a beat-up blue bicycle or walked the short distance from St. Rosalia's School, which was on the same block as the church. More shockingly, he drove rather fast or what seemed fast – he eyed the speedometer which showed him right at or a single tick above the speed limit. Instead of taking the FDR, he suddenly turned on the BQE, heading across the East River to Queens. At Yoshi's silent question, Salvatore answered, "I don't want to risk heading south right now. The, uh, Morano crew, not to mention any Irish or Russian crews in the area or the NYPD, will be patrolling Lower Manhattan for the next several hours. Carlo, if he's still alive, is probably somewhere in Long Island; that means the soldiers will be in Bensonhurst, Brighton Beach, and Lower Manhattan. We'll need to get Pete and Sam to safety now – they won't survive the night if they're found."
"What about you, Salvatore?" asked the physicist. "They know … who you are."
He nodded without taking his eyes off the road and moderate, post-work traffic. "Yeah. Except that the Russians don't know who I am. And as for the Cosa Nostra, they're too chickenshit."
The young man's eyes widened once more. Whereas Mario Senior and Giuseppe had been farmore colorful, he had never heard Father Sal swear in English beyond "damn" or "hell." A tense silence fell in the cab until they reached the western edge of Brooklyn, speeding south to Bay Ridge and Bensonhurst. As Salvatore made a left turn on the Fort Hamilton Parkway, he commanded, "Yoshi, duck down and do not come up until I tell you. Hopefully, since this is the same make and model of Mario's car, the neighborhood eyes will think it's him coming to and from the house. If anyone sees you in the passenger seat, they'll know Luigi's in the States. Aight?"
Hurriedly ducking down so that no one could see him, Yoshi cried, "Jesus, there are eyes watching?"
The man in black chuckled. "Kid, you did grow up in Bensonhurst, right?"
He felt the car abruptly turn right and hustle down 62nd Street. It came to a stop at 17th Avenue, and he heard the older Italian grumble that the stoplight was the same slow piece of garbage twenty years ago. The engine roared to life at the fresh green light; Yoshi breathed a sigh of relief, believing that Salvatore would soon curb park, when the latter pulled out a clicker to gain access to the garage, quickly did a three-point turn so that the SUV parked rear-end first, whose centripetal force pushed the crouched man against the passenger seat and exit, and pressed the button once more to shut the door. "How … How the fuck do you have Mario's garage door opener?" squeaked his passenger.
"It's actually Luigi's. I borrowed it from his red P.O.S. in case I needed to move Pete and Sam. Um, you can sit up now, kid," sniggered the Sicilian while unbuckling his safety belt.
Giving him a weak nod, Yoshi unbuckled his seat belt and slid out of the rental car. He glanced at the red Suzuki, noting with some alarm that it was still locked on all sides. After he repeated a ball up, Miyamoto twice to himself, he trailed a few steps behind Salvatore through the darkened living room and to the back porch door. "Stay inside. It'll take me about five minutes to get them. Stay low to the ground and do not turn on any lights." Before he could protest, the Sicilian disappeared out into the backyard. Left with little choice but to obey, the Japanese knelt on the living room carpet and below the Masciarelli family pictures. Several minutes passed, and the tension which had constricted his trapezius and shoulders like twisted cotton started loosen when he heard the doorknob rattle. Yoshi turned in the direction of the front door.
"Yo, plumber's fucknuts, open up!" whispered a familiar voice from the other side. A second later, it added, "I saw your fuckin' shee-shee-ass city car drive up. C'mon, asshole, don't make me break in like I did the last time!"
As the physicist mouthed a quizzical the last time, the doorknob shook more violently. Panicked, he began scanning the room for a weapon, and his eyes zeroed on Mario's Louisville Slugger next to the well-used Lazy-Boy. The door stopped shaking; he exhaled in reassurance, only for a piece of plastic to be inserted between the lock and frame. Subsequent to a few slides and a twist, the door creaked open.
"Jesus, Mario," grumbled a tall redhead in a long-sleeved New York Yankees tee-shirt, "for a fuckin' Green Beret, your locks are …" His brown eyes met the smaller Asian holding the Louisville Slugger like a katana. "What the fuck is this?" he demanded, shutting the door with his foot. "Yo, Green Tea, if you're trying to be a ninja or some shit, you should really think about getting another hobby. Go make some egg-drop soup!"
"Why the fuck are you breaking into Mario and Luigi's house, asshole?" growled Yoshi, briefly ignoring Bowser's racist taunts.
"Hey, only Mario gets to call me asshole, Tokyo troll!"
Before he could voice an invective regarding the man's dead Irish grandmother and A-Rod, three figures entered from the back porch. Bowser's self-assured sneer quickly faded into a mixture of shock and dread. "Why, hello, John," greeted Salvatore superciliously. "Cousin Pete, meet John Bowser."
Pete, who was dressed in blue jeans, a gray quarter-zip pullover with a small Colorado Avalanche logo, and brown, REI-issue hiking shoes, mildly nodded. Setting his black roller suitcase aside for a moment, he gingerly walked up to the semi-suspicious Brooklynite, as if to offer his hand. Upon a flicker of relaxation in John's eyes, the capo grabbed the latter by his hoodie with his left hand and slammed the other into the man's solar plexus. Bowser doubled over, sinking to his knees while gasping for air. "Pleasure, asshole," muttered the Denverite. "Your name's renowned in our family."
"G-Glad," wheezed the redhead.
From behind his superiors, the gray- and black-vested Sam approached the man. "What do you want to do with him? He now knows Uncle Pete's alive."
"Good question," answered the Colorado capo. "Well, shithead? Before I decide whether to dump your worthless body in the East River, I'd like to know two things." He held up his index finger, "First, why the hell did you think it was a good idea to break into the Rigassi family home?" Then he held up his middle finger, forming a V, "Second, give me a very good fucking reason not to break your neck."
Still coughing and panting, Bowser responded, "Aight. I'm sure Father Rigassi here told you that Jackie and Tommy got shot earlier this afternoon. That's what I was coming to tell Mario about. Word on the street's that Junior got whacked, too. But with wiseguys, you never can tell whether they're full of shit or not." Taking a few puffs of air, he went on, "I don't know what happened to Tony or his grandfather. There's … a contract out on you, Morello. A million big ones."
Pete raised a dark brown eyebrow and crossed his arms. "That's all?"
Bowser shook his head. "No. Half the crew thinks you did it. You whacked Jackass 'cause he caught you stealing from him. You and your cowboy are fucked."
As Sam was about the slap the chuckling Brooklynite, Pete held up a hand. "How do you know Jackie's been whacked? And I'm supposed to be dead, remember?" John's smile disappeared, realizing that he had given up too much. After fifteen seconds of silence, Pete tilted his head at Sam, who picked up the large man like a ragdoll and kneed him in the lower back. Yoshi flinched at Bowser's scream of pain.
"I can herniate several discs with very little force, dickhead," hissed the cowboy. "And let me tell ya, sciatica's a bitch."
"Let's try this again," said Pete calmly. "You're either a circus clown or an informant. Either way, kiss your ass goodbye."
"C'mon, John," enjoined Salvatore, who had moved closer to Yoshi. "You've got eight children waiting at home."
Bowser immediately nodded, yelling, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Okay, okay!" They waited patiently, even as he moaned from the electric zaps above his waist and pelvis. "T-Tony's still alive. I honestly don't know about Carlo or Junior. But Tony knew that his dad had been whacked. I'm not sure exactly how since he wasn't in Manhattan, and the cops haven't said dick. But he's got NYPD on his payroll, so maybe that's how. Anyway, he and the remaining capos put that contract on you. You and your … nephew here."
"What about George Kariolis? Lucas Kariolis?" interrupted Sal.
"Lucas?" he scoffed. "That piece of shit's supposed to be six feet under. Carlo sent a few guys to Dubai last week, I think. As for Lucas's dad, who the fuck knows? Slimy Greek shit always manages to evade whomever."
"And Luigi?" demanded Yoshi, beginning to swing Mario's bat threateningly at him.
"Greenie and his Rottweiler are supposed to be recovered and sent back to New York. Alive. Tony never said when."
Pete and Salvatore exchanged a look. "Fine. Yoshi, take Sam to the car. Wait for us there, please," requested the latter. The two younger men hesitated, then submitted to the command. Sam gathered their roller suitcases and followed the Japanese, who had stepped on the man's foot and muttered a Yankee asshole on his way toward the garage. Now alone with the two mafiosi, the throbbing pains in Bowser's foot and back were outweighed by the cold fear spreading throughout the rest of his body. Was this the way that he'd go?
"Look," he pleaded, trying unsuccessfully to get on his knees, "I won't tell anyone about this! T-T-Tony doesn't need to know. And as Father Rigassi said, I got a family – eight kids. C'mon!"
"Oh, shut up!" spat the Denver capo, picking up the Louisville Slugger to inspect it. "God, I hate whiners!"
Suddenly afraid that those tremors would cause him to piss on the carpet, the bartender pressed his lips and legs together. "It's confession time, John," he heard Salvatore speak in an icy tone. The confused man turned toward the man in black. "Running your mouth seems to be your forte, so …" He bent down to meet him at eye level, "go to Antonio and talk. Tell him that Pete's alive and that I have been hiding him. Tell him that this is payback for his idiotic … How do kids nowadays call it?" He snapped his fingers, recalling the particular expression, "Yeah, situationship with Lucas Kariolis." Bowser's brown eyes grew large and terrified. "G'head. Tell him those exact words. And most importantly, give him the message personally. No one else."
"Y-Y-You're insane!" he cried. Pete abruptly pivoted and, with a forceful swing, hit him on the shoulder with the baseball bat. "Fuck! Okay, okay, I'll tell him!"
Leaning down to slap him lightly on the cheek, the Denverite snickered, "That's a good dumbass! Now, if we find out that you fucked us over, I'll make sure your body becomes shark bait. But before that, see, in Colorado, we have a nice little sendoff called The Jockstrap. It's when we cut your balls off while you're still breathing and feed it to the pigs. It makes the bacon crispier. Got that, Irish?" Eyes shut against the pain, John managed a single nod. "Good. One last thing before you take your sorry ass out of here: leave Mario and Yoshi out of your little report to Tony. This is our thing, our business." With those final words, Pete and Salvatore left Bowser on the floor. Once in the garage, the capo gently placed the Louisville Slugger in the corner, climbed into the backseat alongside Sam, and covered them with a black cloth that Sal had found among Mario's mess of plumbing parts from a long-abandoned project. Yoshi sank down in the front passenger seat as Salvatore jumped into the driver's side, turned out the lights, opened the garage door, and sped to the stoplight while pressing the button to shut the entry. Checking his mirrors to make sure that they had not been followed, the Sicilian merged onto the BQE to head north. The physicist sat upright and eyed the unruffled driver who piloted the vehicle as if he were taking a spur-of-the-moment jaunt through the city and had not just tortured John Bowser for information.
"So, uh, where are we going, Salvatore?" he inquired. He was afraid to ask whether they had maimed or even killed the man in question.
"Relax, Yoshi. Hard part is over. Now, a few hours, and we'll be in the clear," replied the mafioso casually.
Yoshi stared at him. "A few hours?!"
From underneath the black cloth, he heard Pete's muffled voice say, "Yeah, uh, Sal. I'm with Yoshi here. It's going to be a little hard to remain incognito for that long. I can't see shit, and I'm no spring chicken; my back's already killing me."
"Says the tough guy who 'hates whiners!'" retorted the driver. "You try improvising! Anyway … Once we're near Flushing, you can remove the cloth. The Diocese has a place near Hartford that's usually empty. I checked, and it should be. The Italians won't dare challenge the Catholic Church. As for the Russians, we'll know they're coming. There aren't too many of them in WASP country."
They heard a chuckle. "You think Tony'll get the message?"
The concealed Sam, who lay parallel to his uncle in the backseat, interjected, "What message? And how would you trust that fucking idiot to convey one?"
"Oh, he'll get it. Bowser will be too scared not to deliver it," declared Salvatore.
Yoshi frowned at the nonchalant Sicilian. "Wait, so … the capo that Mi … Mario was talking about, that you mentioned was behind attempting to kill Luigi and I, that was Fat Tony?!"
"Dunno yet, son," spoke Pete. "Although I doubt it. Fat Tony was a pimple on his dad's ass back in the '90s. He wouldn't have benefitted from your deaths. Jackass could've, but even he wasn't cold enough to murder children."
Salvatore nodded. "Agreed. Antonio's sneaky, manipulative even, but not that cold-blooded. The question is, how did he know that his father had been whacked? I do think he would commit patricide, especially if Carlo green-lighted it. Although … why blame it on you and Sam? Jackass had been a screw-up since the '70s. No one would've blinked at Carlo whacking him. Back in the day, I knew of three or four captains – Junior included – who were itching to do it themselves."
"My money's on the Bowser Bitch," growled Sam, pushing the cloth away from his mouth.
"Yeah, same, niputi. That would imply that she's working with Fat Tony," concluded the Denver capo. "Although Marco and Polina were behind Luigi and Yoshi's attempted murders."
"And Lucas bragged to Luigi and Daisy about being in Lebanon. Hence how he led you to that photo of Marco Bowser. That's not exactly Tony's taste," added their driver.
"Enter George Kariolis," interpolated Yoshi. "Uh … Does anyone know anything about that guy? Other than he's a rich Greek asshole?"
There was a long pause in the cab, and the young man wondered if he had overstepped some unknown Mafia code of silence when Pete finally answered, "He's an arms dealer. I'm not supposed to know that, but thanks to my nephews, along with a few inquiries made on my own, we do know that much. Supposedly, he made his billion dollars from investments in Greece and abroad, but like with certain TV billionaires, it's all bullshit. I never liked him, and I made that very clear to the Padrino." He sighed and, like Sam had done, pushed the thick fabric away to breathe. "However, Carlo likes money more than his own code of ethics."
"Rules for thee, but not for me," Salvatore unnecessarily explained in a sarcastic tone. "Alright, so George Kariolis has to be working with Polina Bowser. But he's an associate. Don't tell me Carlo's gone completely senile and let an associate know official business?!"
"Fuck, no," muttered Pete. He pushed the cloth completely away. "I can't talk like this. Fuck it. It's not like there are any lurking Russians or Morano guys on the BQE. Yeah, anyway, no, Carlo never did, and neither did Junior. I can't speak for Jackass." He then snickered, "I guess no one, including Jackass himself, can speak for Jackass now."
Freeing his right hand from the steering wheel, the priest crossed himself. "I'm willing to bet that he did, just to impress Mr. Billions."
"So now what? We don't know where Lucas went. We don't know where his father is. And we don't know who's doing what. I mean, what the hell's your end game here?"
Both Pete and Sam had become pensive at Yoshi's remarks. Glancing at the serious-looking younger man, who refused to break eye contact with the former mafioso, Salvatore's eyes softened and reflected a certain, decades-old tiredness. "Kid, I know that it must be … unnerving to be in a car-full of, uh, Mafia. But don't forget that we're all Rigassis – Luigi and Mario's blood. And as for our next move, well, we have to draw out the mole inside the Moranos' crew. Right now, they're all rats – including," he glared at Pete pointedly in the rear-view mirror, "Uncle Carlo. If he covered Jackie's ass for decades, I'm willing to bet, too, that he's protecting whomever ordered the hit on you and Luigi."
"And how do we know he," Yoshi tilted his head toward Pete, "isn't on it? His appearance is rather, uh, à propos, don't you think?"
Sam bolted up from underneath the black cloth and, pointing a finger at him against the street lights and shadows, was about to launch into a tirade when Pete held up a hand. "No, it's alright, Sam. It's a fair question." Without breaking eye contact, he leaned back against the seat and responded, "Yoshi, I had a golden opportunity to kill Luigi back in 2002. If I had wanted to kill him, I'd have done it then." The priest's eyes widened in realization over the incident in question, though he did not dare to express his thoughts. Pete's eyes, which had hardened in offense, morphed into a pained set of amber orbs. "Luigi's father made it very, very clear that he did not want me in his life. But that did not mean that I hadn't taken an interest. He is the youngest child of my cousins. But more importantly, he … resembles my uncle – Salvatore's father – in more ways than one. He's smart, loyal, and courageous. It took absolute fucking guts to go to the Middle East to defend his girlfriend from that little prick. I don't think even he realizes it."
The Japanese chuckled in agreement. "Nah, he usually doesn't."
"Also reminds me of someone I used to know," mumbled the Denver capo. Salvatore's eyes became suspiciously wet, and the young man watched him sniffle a little while keeping his gaze on the reflective paint of the BQE. "I'm – we – are trying to protect Luigi as best as we can. And that means playing a game of chicken with the Bowser Bitch."
Yoshi nodded, having considered the caporegime's words which, to his amazement, he believed. Settling back into the passenger seat, he reached into his pocket to check his phone messages. He had received two: one from Mario demanding just what the fuck he and Sal were up to; the second from Birdo, sent roughly five minutes previous, with a link to the New York Channel 1 page. He clicked on the link, and he yelled a "Holy fucking shit!" Though the mafiosi did not flinch, Pete inquired, "What the hell's the matter, son?" Wordlessly, he extended the phone to the older man who, grumbling about needing reading glasses for that small, goddamned print, read the header:
"Queens Investor and Wife Executed in Driveway"
As he skimmed the article, his brown eyes expanded in disbelief, and he exclaimed in a forceful voice, "Holy shit!" Handing the phone back to Yoshi, he announced, "Scott Pichler and his wife were shot in the back of the head. Bodies left in their driveway. That's not LCN, Sal. That's not Carlo." Unable to speak, the Sicilian merely shook his head. "Fuck!" Pete abruptly hissed. "We need to get Luigi now! They're going to be after him next!"
"Mario, Lucia, and Joe will never let me take him," replied Salvatore in a dull tone. "And he won't leave without Daisy."
"Well, we can get them both," reasoned Sam.
"Sam, is it?" asked Yoshi, to whom the Coloradan nodded. "Sam, Daisy's father is in town. And he's pissed off – a powerful, pissed-off lawyer. She defended Luigi, but he won't let her leave Manhattan. That's actually part of the reason why he's there right now. He never steps foot in the city if he can help it. He's doing it for her."
"Fuck," the wiseguy swore while his boss mulled over their options.
Luigi woke to the smell of freshly brewed cappuccino and the loud whirr of the espresso machine. He checked his phone to see that he had slept for sixteen hours, having missed a good-night text as well as another at dawn from Daisy stating holy-shit-you-gotta-check-the-news. Blinking awake, he recalled that Jackie and Tommy had been killed and, ironically, Daisy's father had suggested that Mario and Peach take everyone to safety in the Upper East Side – Manhattan. Making a mental note to click on the link that she had sent him after breakfast, the plumber pushed back the covers and, sliding out of bed, walked into the bathroom to relieve himself and shower. Fifteen minutes later, he came out to the kitchen where Lucia and Miles were sipping coffee and watching one of the local news channels. Upon glimpsing her young nephew, the blonde woman smiled a little, then brought him an espresso and an Italian cream puff.
"Bondì, nipote," she greeted, kissing him on the cheek. "Peach had a surgery this morning, but she brought these for us. She'll be back this afternoon."
Easing himself into one of the stool chairs, he bit into the pastry and asked, "Where's everyone else?"
"Joe's resting. He just got his final round of radiation, so he's too tired to return to Eltingville. Your brother went to the shop." Miles avoided eye contact with either of them.
The plumber's blue eyes narrowed at his friend and aunt. "Where are Uncle Sal and Yoshi?"
At the mention of the priest, the woman let out a disgusted growl. Miles stammered, "Uh, S-Salvatore took Yoshi to, um, help him relocate Pete and Sam."
"What?!" exclaimed Luigi. "Pete Morello's alive? Wait, back up. While I was in the desert, what did I miss?"
Lucia whirled around angrily. "Your idiot maternal uncle – mafioso idiot uncle – has been hiding Pete Morello in the fucking basement of 17th Avenue! Meanwhile, it's been confirmed that Jackie Morano and his brother are dead. That Scott Pichler, too."
He choked on the coffee. "Scott the Shitbucket's dead?!"
Miles nodded. "Yeah, Lou. He and his wife were shot execution-style. Back of the head. Russians."
Shaking her head, she growled, "God, I really hope Harry Abravanel hasn't caught on to Sal's bullshit. If he has, he'll never let you near Daisy." Her nephew turned pale in response and, having lost his appetite, pushed away both food and drink. Immediately, she enfolded her distraught adopted son and whispered, "Mi dispiace, nipote mio. I let my mouth do all the thinkin'. We'll think of something, alright?" He managed a weak smile, and she brought the plate and small cup back to him. "You've got to eat, Luigi. God knows how little you ate and slept in Dubai, huh?"
"Actually, Zia, they, uh, fed us really well. Like, really well."
She hummed abstractly. "Mangia, okay? It won't do to come home sick." As she kissed the top of his head and went to clean the dishes, Giuseppe ambled into the kitchen. Though visibly unwell, he smirked at Luigi's half-eaten cream puff and plucked it from his plate. At the young lion's protesting whimper, Lucia turned toward her husband and put a damp hand on her hip. "Just what the hell are you doing?"
The pallid man grinned. "Eatin' breakfast, amore."
Miles raised an eyebrow while Giuseppe's wife brought her nephew another cream puff, muttering about Masciarelli men. Ignoring his bickering elders, Luigi started to nibble on the pastry. The hacker helped Joe pull out one of the chair stools to sit next to his adopted son. After a moment, Lucia set a cream puff in front of him along with a glass of water. He looked at the water, then at her in protest, pinching his fingers together. "Drink the water, and then I'll think about giving you an espresso!" Rolling his eyes in annoyance, he took a sip of the ice water. Ensuring that the Masciarelli males were served breakfast, particularly the youngest, whose notorious hanger was well-known, Lucia asked the blond, "Any news on the Rigassis or that piece of trash?"
Without looking up from his laptop, he deadpanned, "Which ones?"
Mid-bite of the cream puff, Joe's eyes shifted from Miles to his wife. "What the fuck's going on?"
The younger males lowered their eyes, as the no-nonsense Lucia answered, "Oh, that fucking priest decided to go full Rigassi and went to hide Pete Morello and his nephew from whatever hit squad is comin' their way! And Scott Pichler …" she trailed off with a sigh, "well, he and his wife were executed last night. Him? He can burn in hell. But I feel bad for her, 'cause she probably had nothin' to do with it."
His blue eyes widened. "You're shittin' me, Lu! Jesus!" Then he glanced toward Luigi and let out a ragged breath. Upon his silent realization of the full extent of the situation, she nodded wordlessly. Giuseppe sipped the water, both out of thirst and desire to ruminate; eventually, the Moranos and Polina Bowser would find out Luigi and Daisy were alive and well in New York, and the hit squads would sent afterhim. Following Slimy Scott's demise, there was no way in hell that his figlio could return to the plumbing shop; alternatively, there was nowhere safe to hide out in the tristate area, nor could he be on the run forever.
During his adoptive parents' silent conversation, Luigi appeared deceptively calm, drinking the espresso and munching on the fresh cream puff. On the whiteboard of his mind, however, he too had arrived at same conclusion: the Moranos and Bowser-Russians were tying up loose ends, of which he was one. Daisy's father was right; how many people had to die or be victims to protect him? Gazing over at the fidgeting Miles, who was attempting to distract himself on his laptop, the plumber recalled happier times in which they, as children, would have Star Trek marathons; at each event, Miles brought his copy of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, much to his dismay, as the latter would inevitably sob for twenty minutes at the movie's conclusion.
The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one.
Someone needed to stand for what was right, even if it meant standing against hardened murderers. Luigi could not help but explore the outcome of sacrificing himself. Although Daisy and his family would miss him terribly, they would be safe from Polina and the Moranos. Pete and his crew of misfits would have little to do with the Masciarellis thereafter, and perhaps Mario and Peach would be able to move to Italy and start afresh. As for his beautiful lioness, he had little doubt that she would enjoy an illustrious career and find someone to love her as he had. He slyly observed the still bickering couple and best friend; he knew it would cause them immense pain, yet he could not allow his family to suffer any longer. He could not allow the greater community of plumbers and Bensonhurst shops to suffer any longer, especially if he could do something about it. That familiar, yet brief burst of power that he had felt in Saudi Arabia poured into his body; he was no longer a child hiding from the larger bullies, but a man who risked, worked, played, prayed, laughed, cried, fucked, observed, and loved.
The ever-present tattoo comforted him like a balm.
Finishing his small breakfast, he rose from the island and murmured, "I'm, uh, going to brush my teeth." The adults nodded, though the hacker studied his movements. Luigi quickly went to his bedroom ensuite; shutting the door to the bathroom, he used his electric toothbrush while he put on his socks and shoes. He exited five minutes later; after grabbing his coat and wallet, he located a pen and paper from his backpack, scrawling on it, "Mi dispiace. Vi voglio bene. Non seguitemi." Leaving the message on the bed and, following some internal debate, the green-shirted plumber ultimately decided to take his phone, if only to send a final ping once the time came. He switched the device off, put up his hood to obscure his face, and soundlessly slipped out of Peach's apartment.
Around midday, Daisy approached Mario and Peach's apartment building. Strolling inside, she purposefully entered the open elevator and pressed "6" to take her to the flat. As the lift began to move upward, she checked her phone again. Despite a multitude of texts that she had sent that morning, Luigi had not responded, which was unlike him. At the ding, she disembarked the elevator and made her way through the short maze of doors until she arrived at the Masciarelli apartment. Lifting her fist to knock, Daisy could hear several raised voices – Mario's, Giuseppe's, Lucia's, and even Miles's. Cold dread passed through her body as her hand rapped against the portal. The yelling abruptly came to a halt, and she heard footsteps running toward her. A moment later, the door swung open to reveal a devastated Lucia who sniffled, "God, Daisy, have … you heard from him?"
The auburn-haired woman's brown eyes dulled. "Luigi?" She nodded worriedly. "N-n-no! I texted him, but I thought that … he … he was still asleep. What's happened?!" Lucia pulled her inside the apartment and shut the door. Daisy wandered into the living room to find an almost lifeless Giuseppe slumped into the sofa, an enraged, pacing Mario, and a hyperfocused Miles typing away on his consoles. "What's happened?!" she demanded once more, her voice saturated with fear.
"Weegie fucking took off! That's what happened!" spat Mario as he pressed his forehead against the opposite wall, clutching a crumpled piece of paper in his right hand.
She stared at his family in disbelief. "What? What do you mean, 'took off'? This is Manhattan! He can't … He can't deal with Manhattan! No! This is some mistake! Maybe he went home to Bensonhurst?"
Angrily, he tossed the paper toward her. Glaring at his action, the young woman bent down to unfold it. She shook her head at the familiar handwriting. Then, letting it drop from her fingers like a feather, Daisy twisted on her heel and rushed back toward the door. From somewhere behind her, she perceived Giuseppe's disjointed voice command for her to come back, which she ignored. As her hand shot out to the knob, she felt a pair of iron-like arms drag her back to the living room.
"Let me go!" she screamed, slapping at him in vain.
"Nah! We ain't losin' another one!" cried the plumber.
Lucia approached the struggling pair. "Nipote, let her go!"
He dragged the lioness next to his uncle and, positioning her into the couch, pointed at her. "You. Fucking. Sit!" Even though the vengeful Daisy swatted at him with both her hand and foot, he nonchalantly stepped out of striking range. Joe reached over and took her hand in his. Lucia shot her eldest nephew a disapproving glare while he retreated into the corner, shielding his body from them.
"Miles, any luck tracing Luigi's phone?" rasped the older man.
The blond bit his lip in frustration, and he wiped a tear from one of his brown eyes. "No. He turned it off! I … There's nothing to ping. I don't know if he ran away or …" He stood up and ran a hand through his strands. "Why, Lou?! Why did you fucking do this?! This was incredibly stupid!"
None disagreed with the hacker's assessment. Whereas no one dared to speak, they each gestured their anguish: Lucia held her head in her thin, wrinkled hands; Mario laid his forehead against the wall; Miles gripped fistfuls of hair; Giuseppe intertwined his hand in Daisy's; the latter twitched to dart out of the apartment.
Suddenly, a knock sounded against the front door. "Hello? Mario? Joe?" called out a middle-aged voice.
Giuseppe's wife, who happened to be closest to the entrance, unlocked it, revealing a quizzical Salvatore. The group relaxed, only to gasp in unison when she slapped the priest across the face. He recoiled against the sting, wordlessly enjoining an explanation for the assault. "You motherfucker!" she howled in barely contained rage. "You Rigassi motherfucker! You did this!" As she went in for a second strike, Yoshi stepped in and encircled the fraught, sobbing woman. "You fucking did this!"
Salvatore's eyes were as large as saucers, particularly as Giuseppe, who had gone to comfort his panic-stricken wife, radiated pure hostility. Remorseful for an unknown transgression, he treaded inside the apartment, followed by an equally stunned Pete Morello and Sam Carlino. Yoshi closed the door after them. "What happened?" asked the latter.
No one responded; the Sicilian took note of the discombobulated group – Lucia, Giuseppe, Daisy, Mario, and Miles. "Where's Luigi?" Again, no one spoke. Desperate for answers, Sal's eyes scanned the room, ultimately noticing the crumpled paper on the floor. Jogging to the middle of the room, he picked it up and read the message. "Che cazzo …?" he breathed. "Why … Why did you let him leave?!" he bellowed. Fixing his irate regard upon the antagonistic blond, he yelled, "You were supposed to keep him here!"
"He snuck out after breakfast!" Miles fired back. "He said he was going to brush his teeth! And besides, you Mafia piece of shit, you fucking left! I hope Catholic hell is as cold as fucking Rura Penthe!"
"Miles …" warned Giuseppe, who nevertheless gave him a sympathetic look. Still holding his wife, he turned to his childhood friend and said, "Sal … You know what this means."
He gulped, nodding. "I do. That's why …"
"That's why we came back, Joe," finished Pete. "I … I know we've had our differences." The Masciarelli patriarch glared at him in response. "No matter what, I will not allow Luigi to die. You have my word."
Joe made a sound of ire and incredulity. "You stupid Mafia fuck! Do you really believe Polina Bowser's gonna stop at just you or him? Huh?" In a much louder voice, he continued, "It's about families! Vendette! Back in '86, you motherfuckers made Luigi – our son – the next in line! You and that goddamned Carlo Morano! All because you couldn't lose Il Mietitore!" He tilted his head toward a horrified Salvatore. "You greedy fucks! Youse broke Gabby's heart! Youse ruined Sal's life! And now …" Suppressing a sob, the frail older man buried his head atop Lucia's, unable to speak the last thought.
"Now, Luigi feels he has to prove something to Daisy's father!" interjected Mario, who had moved from the wall and into Pete Morello's space, his body vibrating with rage. "He feels, by sacrificing himself, that we – she – will be safe! What do ya think a' that, Mr. Captain Piranha Fuck?!"
Pete's brown eyes dulled, and he scrubbed his rough, unshaven face. "Jesus Christ!" he swore quietly.
The plumber in the red shirt then shifted his icy gaze to his maternal uncle. "And what about you, padre, padrino, whatever the fuck you are? Huh? Did Pops, did Mama, did my fucking fratellino suffer enough for you?!" Salvatore did not reply; instead, he sank onto the living room rug and remained motionless on his knees. "Mark my words," he vowed, his voice dropping to a low hiss, "if Luigi dies, I do not care if I go to prison or end up six feet under; I will kill you both, the Bitch, and the entire Morano clan! Not one of youse will survive!"
Yoshi, Daisy, and Miles looked upon the seething man with cold fear; Giuseppe and Lucia, who normally would have reproached their nephew, stood too broken in that moment to do anything else but cling to each other; Sam angrily ambled into the living room to stand by Mario, mutely supporting his second cousin. Whereas Salvatore stayed in that self-censorious posture, Pete crossed his arms, sizing up the steadfast plumber. "Mario," he finally began, "do you think that killing us all will bring him back?"
"No," he acknowledged. "Like youse, I've killed before. I didn't enjoy it. But killing the people responsible for my brother's predicament?" He then gave Pete a sickly smile, causing the placid capo to step back. "Oh, fuck, yeah!"
"Zio," interjected Sam in a calm voice. "I have always been loyal to you, to the Rigassi family name. But I can't stand by while an innocent gets killed. You, sir, made him an associate – against his will. That has not been our way. It's always been about choice. Matt and I chose this life, freely and without reservation. It's hard on our mothers – your wife and sister. However, they accepted our choice. And we're lucky, sir – we don't need to carry out executions or do things beyond what might be expected in the military." Gently, he gestured to the upset family members. "This is New York. And Luigi's … willing to be the sacrifice to that inhospitable system. Because he feels that he doesn't have a choice. Now look: we have a vengeful family who was absolutely wronged, by our standards as well as theirs. I would rather … be a low-level crew ignored by the Five Families if it means no one innocent has to die! We don't have to subscribe to some asshole's sense of a dynasty." Abruptly, he twisted to face Mario, saying, "Even if it was our great-grandfather. Even if it is Carlo Morano." Exhaling, Sam stared down the broken Salvatore and his superior, "Sir, I can't do this anymore if that's what this is. Enough is enough. I'll show my face in Bensonhurst. Let 'em take their best shot."
"As will I," whispered Sal. "I'd rather eat a bullet than allow Joe's son – my niputellinu – be killed."
"The problem is that … it may be too late," replied a defeated Giuseppe. "Polina Bowser wants Rigassi blood. And Carlo Morano won't give up Luigi."
Rubbing his eyes, Pete chuckled mirthlessly. "A boss's only a boss if he has the crew to do it. Whenever there's a hit like this, loyalties tend to be fluid. If I can prove to the lower capos that Carlo Morano covered for Jackie beyond what he should've, they may have him retired. And as for the Bowser woman …"
His explanation was interrupted by the unexpected sound of a key sliding into the lock. The door slowly opened for a tired-looking Peach and her aide-de-camp, Rospo. Upon seeing the two unfamiliar figures surrounded by a distressed group of Masciarellis, sans Luigi, the physician asked, "What's going on? Where's your brother, Mario?"
As Rospo shut the door for the expectant, now worried Peach, the still sobbing Lucia responded, "He's … gone, Cristina. He … thought that it would solve the problem if he … gives himself up to the Mafia."
Peach covered her mouth with both hands to muffle a scream. Despite his boiling inner rage, Mario rushed over to take her in his arms and soothe her.
"Ma'sha Allah!" exclaimed Rospo. "This … cannot be! We need to confront Carlo Morano. Now!"
"We don't know where he is," muttered Yoshi. "But I'll bet that mustard-wearing, fat fuck Tony does. Sal, Pete, and, uh, Sam got information out of Bowser last night. Fat Tony seemed to know that his father had been whacked."
"Is that why that little fuck had me fight that Russian guy back in February?" demanded Mario. "Did he set us up?! Is he the mole?"
From his position on the floor, Salvatore shook his head. "Niputi, we don't think so, mainly because he stands to make more money with Carlo as padrino, even if he's entirely capable and willing to whack his father and uncle."
"Yet the fact that the fighter was Russian doesn't seem coincidental," Miles agreed, steepling his hands together. "What was the guy's name, Mario?"
"Uh," the plumber squinted, racking his brain for the name. Then he snapped his fingers, "Yeah, Ruslan Rakhimov."
The hacker typed a few commands to do an OSINT as well as a basic underworld search of the fighter. "Shit, I really could use Lou's Russian-language skills. But from what I can glean from my automated translation, he's on the illegal fighting ring because … he did time for violent crimes as a member of the Chechen Mafia. Collecting on debts, probably. Anyway, he's Chechen and not ethnically Russian. I'd need more time to investigate further, though."
A bemused Pete and an amazed Sam watched the young man work. "So you must be the talented individual who hacked my phone and sent me the heads-up about Aspen," mused the former with a raised eyebrow. Turning to Giuseppe, he added, "Your secret weapon has become our secret weapon."
Without lifting his eyes from his terminal, Miles hissed, "I don't work for criminals. I'm a white hat. People like me loathe people like you."
"Except," Pete retorted with a chuckle, "breaking into a phone carrier is illegal. You're a gray hat, not a pure white hat, kid. Besides, your skills would be put to a good use in not only tracking down Luigi, but also taking down a bunch of Italian and Russian assholes."
As he continued to work, he grumbled, "I'm listening."
The capo glanced at Daisy. "I'm sure you're aware of a certain incident that occurred a few months back involving Ms. Abravanel here. The United Nations." She raised an eyebrow, Mario let go of the distraught Peach to cross his arms, and the hacker turned his attention to the man, albeit still typing. "Sam, Matt, and I know that the breach was Russian-Chechen in origin. Although I'm no expert on the geopolitics of the former Soviet Union, we do know that, at least here in New York, the Russians sometimes contract out to the Chechens, much as the LCN does with the Latin Kings, Irish gangs, Greeks, and numerous others."
"Jesus, so this is a conspiracy between Chechen terrorists, possibly Hezbollah, Russians, Greeks, and the Mafia?" asked Daisy incredulously. "Why me? Why Luigi?"
"Pipelines of money, Sfacciata," interrupted Mario in a more subdued voice. "Green Berets – we blow shit up, that's true. However, in order to figure out who to fuck over, we often follow the money. Miles will need to help, maybe you too, if the UN will let you. Or your father. But my guess is …" he ran a hand over his sweaty mustache and face, "the Bowser Bitch wanted to take over the Morano territory. Revenge, perhaps. In order to do it, she needed an extensive network of weapons and money. Enter George Kariolis and the Russians, who are fuckin' crazy and armed enough to do it. But they tend to be lazy about 'small tasks.' At least they were when I was in Afghanistan and some other classified shitholes. Enter the Chechens, when they ain't fightin' with them. As for Kariolis, he's getting his money from weapons, so maybe that's how he ran into Russians. How he came into contact with Carlo Morano, I have no fuckin' clue. Ask Captain Cowboy here. As for you and Weegie, I think she was using you to get to him."
Pete crossed his arms, though evenly and inoffensively. "Kariolis approached Carlo back in the early '90s. Not even I know why. And he'd never tell me. Hence why Sal here doesn't know him. Sam, my son, Matt, and I tried to find out his story. But all we could ascertain is that he's an arms dealer with some legitimate investments here and there. Shipping, mostly." Gesturing toward Miles, he said, "Maybe Miles here can find out more. If we find out who he is, then we can figure out who's the mole inside the crew. Someone from the Morano crew's working with them."
Miles, who had steepled his hands during the interchange between Mario and Morello, suddenly interjected, "So what the hell is the story with Vinny DiScala? Back in April, you, your brother-in-law, and he had some kind of a discussion over the Marco Bowser video."
The older man stared at the blond hacker, who eyed him suspiciously. At the former's precipitous silence, Giuseppe snarled, "Oh, enough with the omertà bullshit! You wouldn't send a notorious killer after a dead man! So what the fuck was that?!"
"No, I wouldn't send a hitman after a dead man." Sighing, he began to pace agitatedly, which he did for a full minute, ignoring the expectant looks and irritation of several observers. "I was, uh, putting out feelers. To see if the Commission would okay a hit on Jackie and …"
"And who?" inquired Salvatore, whose trepidation could be easily perceived by his listeners.
Inhaling deeply once more to steel himself for the confession, he replied, "I was trying to stop a war. Carlo always claimed that Marco Bowser was a lone wolf when he tried to kill Luigi and Yoshi, but I never bought that shit story. The video was proof, especially given what I already knew about George Kariolis. I don't think Lucas fully understood what he had actually given us; my guess is that he went poking around his father's hard drive. Since the Kariolises were protected by the Moranos …"
Whereas Rospo, Peach, Mario, Lucia, and Yoshi gaped at him uncomprehendingly, Sam's, Giuseppe's, Miles's, and Daisy's eyes widened in shock. "You … You put a hit on Jackie and Carlo?!" exclaimed the priest. Wordlessly, Pete gave a single nod. "That's … bold. You could've been whacked for even suggesting a hit on the boss!"
"As I said, I was putting out feelers to see if the Commission might green light it, but yeah, I figured that it may ultimately come to that. I couldn't kill Jackie and leave Carlo alive. And … Vinny hated Jackie as much as I did. Junior felt the same way. If the Moranos were taken out, Junior would become boss, which would've been fine by everyone in the family, including me."
Giuseppe stared at his childhood friends in a mixture of mirth and disgust. "Interesting. Pietro Morello isn't such a goose-stepping bootlicker after all." Pete twisted to direct a single, 'screw you' glare to him. "So what do we do about Luigi?"
Salvatore cleared his throat and finally rose from his knees. "We have a choice to make since we don't know where exactly he went. It would be more likely that he'd have gone to Fat Tony or Carlo – Bensonhurst. The problem is that they put a hit on Pete and Sam for a million dollars. If they show themselves …"
"…They die," finished Daisy.
"Yeah, sobrinha. By now, Carlo's probably figured out that Pete tried to kill him and thinks he ordered the hit on Jackie and Tommy. I don't know if he knows about Polina. But he and Junior are our best bet to defeat her and the Kariolises and to save Luigi. They, uh, also know that I was hiding Pete and Sam. So my neck's on the line, too."
"Fucking Rigassis!" gasped Lucia into Giuseppe's shoulder.
"Aight," concluded Mario. "Since Carlo seems to have a rapport with me, I'll go to Bensonhurst. Youse stay here."
Pete, Sam, and Salvatore simultaneously shook their heads. "Niputi, we all go. We need bait to reach Carlo and Junior. Assuming they survived, they'll be thinking it's Pete's doing. Reach Carlo, and we reach Luigi."
"I'm going, too," the auburn-haired lioness insisted.
As Mario opened his mouth to object, the former mafioso calmly approached his nephew's lover. Taking her ringed hand into his, he spoke kindly, yet firmly, "Sobrinha, you need to stay in Manhattan. Go home to your father and stay in his care until we tell you differently. This is a very, very dangerous situation, so dangerous in fact that this may involve … violence in the extreme. Sam will remain here with Joe, Lucia, Yoshi, Cristina, and Miles. He knows how to shoot to kill. Mario, Pete, and I will go to Brooklyn. You can work with Miles on the research aspect. We will return Luigi safely to you." Glancing toward the others, particularly Giuseppe and Lucia, he vowed, "To all of you."
"Mario, you still got your piece?" questioned the Denver capo.
Ignoring Peach's whimpered pleas not to go, a resolute Mario twisted on his heel and marched toward the study. He returned momentarily with his Smith and Wesson and an extra clip, having abandoned the city's interdiction on transporting firearms.
Pete nodded. "Alright. We'll take Sal's car down to Bensonhurst. Sam?"
"Yes, sir?"
"You stay with Joe, Lucia, Yoshi, Cristina, and Miles. Get in contact with Gene and Matt. If … things get too hot, if you get the sense that trouble's coming, do not wait. Take them all – including Joe's daughters – to our safehouse in Connecticut. Yoshi knows the address."
"Understood, sir."
He then turned to the visibly upset Daisy. "Daisy, Sal's right. This is very dangerous. We will put you in a cab and follow it to your father's loft in Manhattan. Do not go outside. Do not go home to your apartment in Park Slope. Do not follow us to Bensonhurst. Thanks to those fucking Kariolises, both the Italians and Russians know who you are, and they will absolutely use you against Luigi. In fact, they already did in the Middle East. Focus on your studies, your law school interviews."
She tearfully scowled at the caporegime. "The hell with Harvard! It doesn't mean a damn thing if Luigi's not here!" Much to her surprise as well as to the horror of the onlookers, the lioness started to sob uncontrollably. An equally tearful Peach and Lucia and a pensive Yoshi moved to encircle her, rubbing her back and murmuring reassurances that Luigi would come back to them.
Rospo abruptly stepped forward. "Please, Mario, allow me to drive her. I will also remain with Peach and the others."
Mario nodded. "Yeah, g'head, Rospo." At Pete's questioning look, he explained, "Rospo here is Peach's adopted brother of sorts. He's trustworthy."
"Bene. Let's go now."
From a first glance, the 1980s-style mom-and-pop restaurant in Brighton Beach was not much to look at: brown wooden chairs surrounding equally brown, rectangular, wooden tables covering a cream-colored linoleum floor; at the front of the restaurant was a large flat screen television featuring a late-night Russian variety show. Due to the mid-afternoon hour, which was past the noon lunch rush, the establishment was sparsely populated, save a few middle-aged regulars finishing their meat and potatoes and a mysterious non-Russian, whose face was partly obscured by his green hoodie. Like the Russian, Kazakh, and Ukrainian diners, the American ordered hot soup, meat pelmeni, and tea with chocolate-covered apricots and prunes. He kept conversation to the bare minimum, undoubtedly due to his imperfect grasp of the Russian language, even though the server was stunned that a non-Russian could order lunch without resorting to English or pointing at the menu. Inside the kitchen and back rooms, there were whispers of a foreign diner, which the hostess, chefs, and staff found both curious and unnerving; although the occasional American foodie or guest of a Russian family member or friend was not uncommon at the Vasilisa, they usually frequented the restaurant at dinnertime on weekends.
Never at this particular time.
At the third and final course – tea and chocolate – the meditative man thoughtfully nursed his tea, as if to provide an excuse to linger. Had he arrived with the lunch crowds, the main server – Alexei – would not have minded. However, as everyone in the area knew, there were normal business hours and those that accommodated special guests. He continued to deliberate on whether to press the man to pay and leave when three heavily tattooed men, all of whom were taller than six feet and muscular, entered the restaurant. Spotting the hoodied American near, though not at their table, they casually approached him; the leader, Alek, spoke in heavily-accented English, "You are new guest. Perhaps we join you for tea."
"You're welcome," responded the American in Russian.
Grabbing the remaining three chairs, the tall, tattooed men sat down at the man's table and, calling out to Alexei, ordered tea with preserves, chocolate butter, and spice cookies.
