Author's notes: Onward post-DDoS! A special thanks to everyone who reviewed and liked it. I haven't responded to everyone yet, but I will. Anyway, buckle up; it's going to be a bumpy ride.
Chapter 54: Lightning War
Still in Lucia's arms, Giuseppe stared disbelievingly at Mario. "You … You can't be serious! Fuckin' Vinny Meat-Market?! Nipote, don't do it! Not without Sal."
His wife rolled her eyes. "Joe, that fucking priest is the reason why Luigi's …" Covering her mouth to keep from sobbing openly, she merely shook her head.
As the elder plumber parted his lips to respond, Mario approached them and said lowly, "Zia, I don't got a choice here. If I don't go, they may not keep up the pretense until Saturday, and Weegie ends up dead before Pete, Sal, and I can get to him. Give me a chance. I get why youse don't trust Pete or even Uncle Sal." He twisted on his foot toward the rest of the group. "But I swear to God, I'll get him back alive."
Lucia quietly cried into her hand for another minute, then nodded. The plumber regarded his paternal uncle who continued to focus at a point on the opposite wall.
"What do you need from us, man?" inquired Yoshi. "And what about the shop?"
"The shop's aight for now. After Scott the Shitbucket got his, I figure the union's too busy trying to find the thumb up their ass to worry about Weegie. As for what I need?" He sighed, returning to Peach's side. "I need to know youse are safe. This … is gonna get fuckin' ugly. Zio, you well enough to get to Eltingville? Maybe go stay with Tony and Maria in Jersey? Isn't Tony's brother a highway patrolman or some shit?"
"Yeah, nipote," replied Lucia.
"Nah, I ain't leaving!" shouted Giuseppe. Mario and Lucia put up their hands in mollification and exasperation, each begging the man to see reason. However, he crossed his arms. "He's my fucking son! And I got half a mind to come with youse. Cancer or not, I won't lose my second-born to some Russian motherfuckers – not without a fight."
"Goddamnit, Joe!" screamed the elder woman. "You're in no condition! And how the hell am I supposed to explain to your mother that not only is her grandson in danger, but her remaining son, who's fighting cancer, decided to confront the same dangerous criminals who'd abducted him?!"
He refused to budge, causing her to screech in frustration and fear. Harry stepped forward to defuse the situation. "Mr. Masciarelli, your wife's right. If you'd like, Yael and I can …"
Without moving his eyes from his nephew's form, Giuseppe pointed at the lawyer. "You stay the fuck outta this!"
Leaning over to the stunned, now silent Brazilian, Yoshi whispered in a flat snicker, "Welcome to the famiglia, man."
Mario mirrored Joe's posture. "Zio, you ain't goin' with me, and that's final! D'you think Luigi would want that? Huh?"
"You try having a child in danger and say that shit to me, kid!"
The front door suddenly opened; the previously arguing group hushed at Sam's entrance with another taller and scrawnier brunet wearing glasses, a pair of navy jeans, an algae-colored Patagonia jacket, REI hiking shoes, and a Broncos beanie atop his head. In his hand was a cream-colored roller suitcase; slung over his shoulder was a computer bag. "Sorry, I'm late," began the blond cowboy. "I did get lunch for everyone. The doorman, Anthony, is going to bring the platter inside. But, uh, I had to make an impromptu stop at LaGuardia, per my father's direction. Everyone, this is Matt Morello, Uncle Pete's son."
The shy mafioso put up his hand and mouthed a hello.
At the unenthusiastic greeting, Sam asked uncertainly, "Okay, what did we miss?"
"Sam, Luigi's … not with Carlo Morano," began Daisy. "He was taken by Polina Bowser and the Russian Mafia. Mario attended their ransom call this morning; they've asked for fifty million." Both the Colorado mafiosi's eyes widened. "And … Vinny DiScala wants to see him in a little less than an hour."
Whereas Sam muttered a Goddamnit, a frightened Matt opened his mouth, stuttering, "Is … Is … my father …?"
"He's aight, kid," answered Mario. "Alive and well. He's with Salvatore – our maternal uncle – right now."
A firm knock sounded at the door. "Yo, Mario, Peach?! It's Anthony. I got the, uh, food platter for youse."
Peach left to let the doorman inside; thanking him profusely, she, Rospo, and her boyfriend, who had crossed the room to assist them, each took the boxes of sandwiches and drinks to the kitchen island. Once Anthony had left the apartment, Matt inquired in a subdued voice, "When do the Russians want the ransom paid?"
"Saturday at eight in the morning. Via crypto. And they want Pete to pick Luigi up – alone."
Sam bit his lip angrily and crossed his arms. "This is bullshit. For one thing, even if the Padrino agrees to pay that much for an associate, his asshole capos may not. And it's obvious the Russians are planning to kill Uncle Pete."
"I got a question for you, Squid." Ignoring the slight against his military branch, he pivoted toward his second cousin and waited. "Of all those 'asshole capos,' which one or ones are the strongest?"
"You mean who makes the most money?" Sam glanced at Matt, mentally comparing notes, then responded, "Before they were gunned down, I'd have said Jackie and Tommy. Now? Probably Junior, Vinny DiScala, and Joey Bernacchi. In addition to Uncle Pete."
"Aka Joey-B," concluded the plumber. "All of those slimy fucks were at the sit-down with the Russians. This is way too convenient."
"And now Vinny DiScala wants to meet with you," interjected Daisy. "Do you think you should go?"
Mario, who was eyeing the now nervous Peach, Lucia, and Giuseppe, shrugged. "Sfacciata, like I said, I don't have a fuckin' choice. Both Sal and Pete think there's someone on the inside. And they'd know. Before the Saturday deadline, we need to figure out which one of those fucks are working with the Bowser Bitch. The three of us are gonna get Weegie back."
Joe, whose arms were still crossed, clenched his teeth. "Where do you have to meet him?"
"Dunno. He said he'd give instructions in," he checked his phone while grabbing a roast beef sandwich, "ten minutes. So it can't be too far away." Unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite, he watched Lucia and Peach distribute the food items and drinks, with the former growling at her hard-headed husband to drink before he got dehydrated and collapsed. As a distraction from her brother-in-law's abduction and her partner's impending get-together with the capo, the latter heatedly searched for the vegetarian items and set them aside for Daisy and her parents.
Pinching his nose, Harry shook his head in irritation. "As an attorney, I have to warn you, Mario, that if you take the law in your own hands – if you, your uncle, and Pete Morello act as vigilantes – the city D.A. won't go easy on you. No matter the circumstances."
Between bites, the plumber raised his shoulders carelessly. "If the NYPD hadn't been fuckin' cowards and actually did somethin' about the Mafia in Bensonhurst, then my brother wouldn't have been in this situation. Prison doesn't scare me, Abravanel, not if it gets my fratellino back."
"Mario, do you think Luigi wants that?" Peach asked. "I … I want him back safely. I'm sure Daisy and everyone in this room do, too. But perhaps we should phone your friend, DK?"
"And do what, Peaches?" he argued. "If the Russians even smell cops, then Weegie ends up in a goddamn landfill. Not to mention they'll be more interested in arresting Pete and possibly Uncle Sal than finding a lowly plumber. Even if he is the son of FDNY."
While Lucia handed him an ice tea, Yoshi snapped his fingers. "Yo, what if you don't ask him here?" The entire group faced him expectantly. "He could go to Mr. Abravanel's law office. Under, I don't know, the guise of having information about Daisy's case in the Middle East." Looking up to Miles, "Could you get a coded message to him? Something that he'd recognize as an SOS?"
"I'd need to know what to send him. But I could, yeah."
The Japanese gestured placatingly to Mario and Giuseppe, who exchanged a look. "Aight, Yosh," acquiesced the red-hoodied man. "Joe, you know him better than I do. Maybe you could …?" While taking small sips of the iced tea, the feeble man gave a single nod. He turned toward the lawyer. "That work for you?" Despite disagreeing visibly with the entire situation, Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Let's do that, then. In the meantime, we need to everyone to safety …"
"Mario, look," interrupted the blond engineer, who deliberately rose from his makeshift terminal in the corner. "I'm, uh, not the best at interpreting people's motivations or beliefs, so if I'm way off base here, then someone say so. And obviously, I can't speak for Daisy's parents. But I don't think anyone's going anywhere. Just like you, no one's keen on losing Luigi. Along with Yoshi, he's been my best friend for fifteen years. More than that, he's like my brother. We all know how dangerous this is. None of us – his family and friends – can just sit by while he's facing … and you, Salvatore, and Pete Morello risk everything to get him back." Gulping, he whispered, "He means the world to us, too."
At the end of his friend's remarks, Yoshi grinned brightly, Giuseppe cracked a smile, Peach and Lucia gazed upon her nephew's best friend with watery eyes, and Daisy nodded with a renewed determination.
"Matt and I are in, Grunt," spoke Sam. "And I think I speak for my father, too."
The teary-eyed plumber stared at the young hacker, whom he and his father had always considered to be the most timid and socially inept of the Brobot Boys, in pure awe and disbelief. "Aight, Dipshit. Aight. I, uh, can't argue with that. But I don't want everyone in the same place. And that's for tactical reasons. I won't ask youse to leave Manhattan, but you can't all stay here. Sfacciata, you'll go with your parents. I want Sam with youse until we get DK. Since she saw the USB, she may be a special target for them. Miles and Yoshi, you'll go with Matt. I want youse, Sam, and the Sfacciata to work on finding out who Aleksandr Baranov is and who his associates are. Rospo, you'll stay with Peaches, Lucia, and Joe. Zia, tell Maria to take Lucy and go to Jersey."
"A protector isn't necessary," enjoined Yael. "I'm trained …"
"Yeah, I know; a sergeant in the IDF," the plumber cut her off, holding up a hand. "No offense, but you wouldn't know what these assclowns look like. Sam does. And two trained people – one IDF and another Navy – will make sure no one comes near your daughter – her kung fu shit and mouth aside. It's nothing against you, Mrs. Abravanel. This'll be until DK's squad gets involved, aight? I'd do it myself, but I can't be in two places at once." His iPhone rang once more and, switching hands to answer the incoming call and hold his lunch, he pressed the green key with his right thumb. "Yeah," he said, bringing the speaker to his ear. "I'll be there." Putting away the device, he muttered, "I gotta go. They want to see me in thirty minutes. Just … humor me, aight?"
As he marched to the door, a fretful Peach hastily pursued him. "Mario!" He turned to her anxiously. "I … Just come back in one piece. Per favore."
Mario's wordless answer was to slam his lips upon hers.
After the sit-down with the Morano crew, Alek and his men led the sore and morose Luigi to another safehouse, this time in a more rural area of New Jersey. Based on the driving time, the hooded man guesstimated that they were somewhere in the northwest region – perhaps Washington Township. Instead of the busy freeways and honking – complete with the prerequisite middle finger – they came to a relatively quiet multistory house with brown trim. This time, however, they gently and immediately pulled off the hood and uncuffed him; guiding the plumber upstairs to his more spacious, if still spartan room, they closed the door to let him clean up and rest. Unlike the previous prison, the single window was unobstructed; he could even open it a crack for fresh air. Through his intact right eye, he examined his surroundings: aside from duplexes or brick houses, the only audible hustle-and-bustle was the squirrels and birds; while there were neighbors nearby, he could not be sure whether they were fellow members of the Russian Mafia.
Moving away from the window, he went into the larger, plain bathroom – shower, sink, and toilet – to use the facilities and saturate a washcloth with cold water to soothe his pulsing left eye and cheek. Due to his impaired vision, it took him an extra minute to locate the stack of old washcloths in a darkened corner next to a giant house spider and its web, which his trembling fingers made sure to avoid. Once the thin cotton was wet, he left the bathroom, peeled off his dirty green hoodie, and laid down on the queen-sized bed, wincing as he arranged the cloth on the bruise. Comfortable, though not relaxed, Luigi considered his next move. There would be little to no chance that the Moranos would pay a ransom of fifty million dollars, especially for a no-name plumber. Furthermore, if Uncle Sal was right that someone on the inside was working with Polina Bowser and the Russians, they would benefit more from his death, as assuming control over the Moranos' operation would net at least fifty million bi-weekly to monthly. Yet the Russians kept him in their territory; since they had not killed or disabled him, he must be, at least through Saturday, valuable to them. But why? Was it because of Pete? Whatever the reason, he needed to stay alive until Salvatore and Mario could find him. Figure out how to remain valuable to the Bowser woman.
As he pressed the cold rag to his eye, hissing at the sting, he heard the locks rattle from the outside, signaling that someone would soon enter. Straightaway, Luigi sat up and observed through his right eye the entrance of Polina Bowser, who was dressed in a gray, black, and yellow plaid suit with black velvet accents and gold Italian heels. A burly, brown-haired man in a black leather coat and sunglasses followed her and, shutting the door behind them, stood in the opposite corner. She stood in front of him and the bed, a white garment box under her arm. "Well, it turns out that you can take a beating," she sneered. Luigi did not reply; instead, he continued to hold the rag to his eye. "I have a surprise for you. Actually, two." She dropped the box next to him. "First, I figure you could use a change of clothes. I can't stand B.O." Cautiously, he lowered the rag and opened the box with his fingers to reveal a change of underwear, worn black jeans, socks, gray tee-shirt, and black coat. "Second, we're having a special guest for lunch today. Alek will come for you in precisely fifteen minutes. If you're not dressed," she snickered, letting her eyes wander over his lanky body, which made his already sour stomach lurch, "well, it won't be me who'll be embarrassed." She leisurely spun on her golden heel and exited the room, her bodyguard right behind her.
Reluctantly, he stripped off his day-old clothes, showered while keeping an eye on the immobile spider in the far corner of the bathroom, and changed into the fresh set of clothes. Since the Bowser Bitch had not provided a razor, his day-old scruff remained, and his skin itched from the basic soap. At precisely fifteen minutes, Alek unlocked his prison and tilted his head to indicate that he should accompany him. They descended the staircase to a surprisingly large kitchen and dining room, where Sergei, Polina, and several of Alek's men were already seated. Between Evgeniy and Misha was a tall man in a gray suit and purple dress shirt, his face concealed with a black hood and his hands secured behind the back of his chair. Alek pointed to the chair directly across from the unknown guest, in which the suspicious Luigi sat. "Ah, yes, the second surprise." Polina's subordinate moved to the man and yanked the hood off.
"Motherfucker … Was that really necessary?" exclaimed the man.
Luigi's blue eyes widened, then flared with rage. "Lucas!"
The Manhattanite's regard brightened upon sighting his former friend. "Ah, Luigi! Thank the non-existent Christ …"
His delight was short-lived as he felt his lapels jerk toward the plumber and a flesh-colored missile strike him in the face, causing both his body and chair to crash on the floor. Alek and Dima darted out of their chairs to restrain the angry Italian from beating Lucas further. "Motherfucker!" Luigi yelled. "Eat shit, you fucking asshat!"
"Weeg, dude, it's not what it looks like!" gasped Lucas from the floor. An amused Evgeniy and Alek pushed him upright. The tall man sniffed to keep the nosebleed from covering his lips and chin.
"Get the useless piece of shit a rag. I don't want him bleeding all over the place," snarled Polina in Russian. She regarded the tall captive with furious blue eyes. "Frankly, Lucas, I can't blame Luigi here. After all, you did try to have his girlfriend thrown into a Middle Eastern jail. They escaped; you got caught," she hissed in English. Evgeniy returned with a rag which he dragged carelessly across Lucas's face, leaving a smear of orange-red above his lip. "Lucky for you, we bailed out your sorry ass. Now, what should I do with you? Hmm?"
The cook and servants entered the room with bowls of hot pelmeni soup, which they distributed to everyone except Lucas, and black bread. "Oh, now, that's just rude!" interjected the Manhattanite. "Why have I been brought to the table if I'm going to watch everyone else eat?" Despite his wrath, Luigi stared at his ex-friend in incredulity and put his hand over his unharmed eye. Polina raised an eyebrow, after which one of the gangsters poured boiling soup in the man's lap, causing him to yelp.
"That better? I wouldn't want to be rude," she enjoined mildly, ignoring the man's swearing in both Greek and English. Biting his lip, Lucas glared hostilely at the blonde woman. Placing her napkin in her lap, which the others, including the plumber, copied, she resumed her original thought. "So, what should I do with you? You have fucked up my plans. You have fucked up Sergei's plans. And you've fucked up your father's plans. Despite your supposed intelligence and world-class education, you're nothing but an immature fuck up. See, Luigi here," she gestured to him with her butter knife, "has more balls than you. He came right to us. Sergei … tuned him up a little. But he took it like a man. You led Sergei, my friends here, and I to believe that he was a pussy. And because you … miscalculated or lied to us, we had to clean up your fucking mess with our … associates." Taking a bite of her soup, she paused to admire the sweet and spicy broth in her mouth.
Still feeling the scalding pain on his legs, Lucas gasped, "I'm not the one who let Pete Morello live!"
Blotting her mouth, she answered, "True. And I'm making up for that as we speak. While you were busy holding your dick in Dubai, I've been busy working. It turns out that I've been able to handle the situation without your input. So I'm terminating our business relationship."
Lucas snickered defiantly, glancing at Luigi who was watching him emotionlessly. "What are you going to do, lady? Shoot me during your little tea party?"
Chewing a bit of the black bread, she shot him an unimpressed look. After she swallowed, Polina turned toward Luigi and inquired in Russian, "Do you like the soup? It's made by the best Russian cook in New Jersey. His borscht is even better."
He shrugged a little, uncertain of her motives. "It's fine, thank you."
"You can learn from this one," she spoke, switching to English for the Manhattanite's benefit. "He has a quiet strength. I'm not attracted to that in my men, but I certainly respect introversion if he has the balls to back it up." Following another spoonful of soup, she went on, "Inasmuch as I'd love to put a bullet in the back of your empty head, I still need you to access the crypto. We want our money, asshole."
Lucas chuckled, regaining some of his strength upon realizing his and his opponent's symbiosis. "Yo, Weeg?" At Luigi's attentive glare, he inquired, "How do you say 'go fuck yourself' in Russian?" Alek immediately bolted from his chair and was about to strike the man when the latter flashed him a toothy grin and taunted in a mock Russian accent, "Oh, please, Mister! I kh-ave crypto. Very nice. You can make Stalin bullet in me like Trotsky, but you no kh-ave crypto. You can kh-ave toilet paper from black market! Very nice!" He was still laughing as the offended man slapped him across the face. Shaking off the sting, he chortled, "Oh, you commie fuckers have no sense of humor."
An annoyed Sergei and Polina waved the gangster off, though he remained standing a few footsteps from Lucas. "I somehow doubt Alek's methods will persuade you. And unfortunately, we need you alive. So what do you want in exchange for the money?"
The tall man pretended to think for a few seconds, then responded, "Well, first, I want some lunch. Russian cuisine isn't my favorite, but I'll try the soup." He sniffed the air dramatically. "Smells delicious, actually. Second, I want Luigi. Third, I want safe passage for us both. You'll have plenty of money and the Moranos' territory. Win-win."
Sergei leaned over to whisper something to Polina, who nodded slightly. "We can give you the first and third. But we've promised Luigi to the Moranos in exchange for fifty million."
"Really?" asked the New Yorker with an incredulous snicker. "We both know those cheap paisano fucks won't pay it. And you'll own the Moranos' empire anyway. So your net earnings will be zero. I got the last seventy-five just waiting for you. I'd say it has your name on it, but I can't spell for shit in Cyrillic."
Polina ate a few more spoons of soup, studying Lucas for any sign of weakness. Obfuscation came with the territory; the question was why he suddenly wanted Luigi. "Why do you want him? Weren't you trying to get rid of him a few days ago?"
"I was trying to find a final solution to the Jewish problem. I figure you Russians would appreciate that, hmm?" Sergei and Alek's eyes bore into him like hot coals. "What?" he queried innocently. "Oh, come now, no need to be shy – antisemitism is a spectator sport in Russia." He coughed to clear his throat. "I digress. Since he's here, without the Amazon Bitch, it's all good now. All's forgiven."
Sergei crossed his arms impatiently at the skinny man while Polina hummed. "Alright. I need him until Saturday at eight o'clock – he's bait to get that little Colorado turd. Transfer … fifty to me as a sign of good faith. Today. On Saturday at 8:15, you'll transfer the remaining twenty-five, after which you get your puppy dog and a one-way ticket to wherever you want."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "You really think Pete will show his face? He's too busy covering his own ass."
She grinned evilly. "I think he will."
He shrugged. "It's your show, lady. Fine by me."
Lady Bowser nodded at Evgeniy, who uncuffed the man, and a bowl of soup was brought to him. The rest of lunch was enjoyed in a comfortable silence, during which one of the servers brought out, much to the men's laughter, a glass of pickle juice for Luigi. As Lucas raised a quizzical eyebrow, he quietly sipped the briny drink. At its conclusion, subsequent to a meat and vegetable plate, the chef presented tea and chocolate biscotti to his guests. Although Lucas attempted to engage Luigi in conversation, the Brooklynite steadfastly ignored him, preferring to keep to himself. Once everyone was finished eating, Alek escorted the young man upstairs to his room and, locking him inside, re-appeared a minute later. Before he could properly react, Lucas found himself cuffed and hooded once more.
"I won't allow you to know our location, just in case you decide to renege on our deal," the blonde hissed into his ear. "Our friends will return you to your father – alive. But mark my words, you Greek pussy: fuck with us this time, and there will be no going back! You got that?"
"Yeah, I got the picture."
"Good. Now, go transfer my goddamned money!" The irritated woman watched as Alek manhandled the skinny man out of the kitchen and to the waiting SUV. Sitting down at the kitchen table, she nursed her tea as the car's engine turned on and roared away to New York.
"Polya, is it wise to give him the Masciarelli kid?" asked Sergei calmly in their native language.
"Of course not. Lucas has one major weakness – arrogance. He thinks he's smarter than he actually is. But I need that money back, otherwise the Vor will be upset. You and I both know that." He nodded in agreement. "Not to mention I can't let Pete Morello get his grubby hands on it." She took a sip of the cooling tea.
"I think we need to go on the offensive. From what Alek told me, the kid's older brother is quite upset. He's formidable – American Special Forces, possibly Delta Force. He may be working with Morello."
Polina scoffed. "I don't need our insider to tell me that one, though he confirmed it after the sit-down. Pete Morello is his mother's first cousin, after all. And then there's the priest."
"And how much can we trust our … 'insider'? They've been useful in the past, but I think no longer."
"Agreed," she said, nodding. "And I think our skinny 'friend' and his father will betray us, either to Morello or the police." Sniggering, she added, "That's why I put Alek and Dima with him. He's going back to New York … supervised. Once we have the entire amount, we'll get rid of the little shit. As for our 'friends,' they'll be useless if we get Morello first. They're useless, anyway, but by that point, they'll be …" she laughed, "castrated. We'll have the money and the kid. We just need to neutralize that fucking plumber and his priest uncle, get them to come to us." Fetching her Hermès fire-orange tote bag, she pulled out a burner phone, dialed a number, and, upon a man's voice answering in their language, communicated, "Hello. Yeah, I'd like a delivery, please. I'll send over the shopping list in five minutes. Five million up front. Right – express service. Perfect, thank you." As she hung up, Sergei raised an eyebrow. "You know how much I adore shopping. Especially for shit-for-brains capos, plumbers, and priests. Although," she conceded, "the latter may be useful. He reminds me so much of Christopher Lambert in The Highlander."
Sergei gave her a sly grin and stirred his tea with the remaining fifth of his biscotti.
Mario shut the car door and checked his concealed weapon before entering the red-brick Self Storage building off the Third Avenue Bridge in Mott Haven – The South Bronx. He cautiously entered the edifice, seeking number 1137 on the first floor; through the maze of concrete and red painted doors, he backtracked several times over the course of ten minutes, eventually arriving at the right storage unit by accident. Abruptly, the door opened, revealing Vinny DiScala in a gray suit and two soldiers in shirts and pants. "I didn't know youse upgraded in ratholes," quipped the plumber.
"Just shut your fuckin' mouth, Masciarelli, and get in here!" bellowed one of DiScala's men.
Visibly unimpressed, he gingerly strolled inside the room-sized, albeit empty, storage unit and waited as they closed the door behind him.
While zigzagging his brown eyes around him, the caporegime stated, "I figured a little privacy was in order. No one's gonna look in the fuckin' Bronx. Plus, I thought it appropriate, seein' that this was Jumpman's old stomping grounds." The plumber narrowed his eyes at Vinny's reference to his father. "This is about your little brother, Luigi. It's a fuckin' shame; the kid's got integrity. Ultimately, this is Carlo's shitstorm; he's the one who insisted that he join up, even though … prospective candidates normally got to prove their worth. I think you and I both know that Junior ain't gonna pay that fuckin' money, which means he's gonna be Soviet plant fertilizer."
Rapidly losing his patience, the red-hoodied man barked, "If it's so fuckin' hopeless, DiScala, then why do you want to talk to me?!"
He shrugged casually. "Who says it's hopeless, Masciarelli?"
Mario folded his arms across his chest. "Go on."
"Petey and I go way back. Actually, he approached me about the Bowser situation – the photo of Marco's treachery." He turned up his nose in disgust. "That piece of dogshit. In fact, that whole family's nothing but trouble. But … the decision was made to use 'em as enforcers. He had nothin' to do with that, and neither did I. The Moranos … are weak. At one time, we ran New York – we made money with Carlo as the boss. The minute his fuckin' son got made a captain, it all went to hell. Your kid brother got caught in the crossfire. There's a way that we can stop this. Pete Morello. I know you know where he is."
The plumber, twisting on his organic foot in mistrust, sneered, "The so-called Mafia can't find a rogue capo? Why not just go after Pete Morello directly? Why involve my brother, who wants zilch to do with youse and your internal bullshit?"
Vinny stared at him. "Jesus, Carlo was right about you. Stupid Abruzzese fuck who charges after the first asshole in his path! I'll give ya credit for your brawn and street smarts, but brains, fuck no!"
"Cut the shit and get to the fuckin' point!"
"Aight, aight," the mafioso acquiesced, holding up his fat hands. "Your kid brother's Mafia royalty. You are, too, but Carlo won the fuckin' lottery with him. Like his maternal uncle, he's part-Rigassi, part-Campisi; two major houses of the original Sicilian LCN. That carries a great deal of weight with the old guard on the Commission as well as our cousins in Italy. More importantly, he's got Gabriella's and Giuseppe's intelligence." Mario gaped at Vinny in stunned silence, to which the fatter man chuckled, "You think Carlo just 'allowed' your father to marry your mother for the helluva it? If he didn't want it to happen, he'd have found a way to make sure it never would've. However, your father decided to play white-fuckin'-knight and take from the Moranos – Salvatore. That left Petey as the new head of the Rigassi family; very similar to what happened with the Masciarellis."
"Wipe out the Rigassis, wipe out the Moranos; a new line forms, one that could even take out the Commission."
Vinny nodded. "Now you're getting it. Customarily, I wouldn't tell you shit as a bystander, but desperate times, y'know? I took an oath to protect the famiglia, and this bullshit puts everyone in the line of fire. Everyone. We need to take out the Russians before the streets turn into the bloodbath of the Chicago '20s or Brooklyn '80s. Now, havin' said all of that shit, I don't know just what the fuck was going on earlier."
"How do you mean?" inquired the plumber in a calmer tone.
"As I said, Junior's never gonna pay that fuckin' money. And I haven't a fuckin' clue as to what Joey-B's up to. There was some fuckin' conversation between 'em."
"That's too bad," deadpanned Mario. "Truly. So, again, what do you want from me? And how does this get Luigi back?"
"Get a message to Petey. My guys and I are willing to back him against the Russians and even Carlo if needed. Just tell him … not to show up on Saturday. Stay on the D.L."
He crossed his arms tighter in a gesture reminiscent of Giuseppe upon hearing an obvious lie. "Assuming I know where Pete Morello is, why should I trust you? It's been suggested that the Russians have a guy on the inside."
The caporegime became unreadable, to which the plumber's blue eyes mirrored the same reaction. "Interesting," he finally said. "I'm not surprised. Loyalty's a part of the oath; once you're in the life, though, even that becomes relative."
"Sounds like you know who the insider is."
"You gotta ask yourself, Masciarelli: who stands to benefit the most from a change in management? Joey-B's a top moneymaker. As am I. As is Petey. But, uh, Junior? He's been waitin' a long fuckin' time."
Mario's eyes widened. "You think it's the underboss?!"
"It's happened before." Vinny made a gesture with his fingers. "Look at that ratfuck Gravano – the minute his ass got pinched by the feds, he rolled on Gotti like a Persian rug. Or the Bonnanos – they ate each other like fuckin' cannibals." He shook his head. "You've watched this shit for a while, kid. You know the drill: kill or be killed." Lowering his hand, he continued, "Look, I don't want to see your kid brother get whacked for something that was never his business. It ain't our policy to whack bystanders. He hasn't ratted, and as far as I've heard, he didn't fuck Jackie or Tony over. Pete's his rabbi, but, uh, he hasn't willfully joined."
Nodding slowly to consider the mafioso's words, the red-hoodied man brought his fingers to his chin and mustache. "If I can find Pete, I'll deliver the message. Aight?"
"Fair enough. One more thing." At the other man's expectant glance, Vinny inquired, "Where's, uh, Father Sal? A guy I know who goes to St. Rosalia's mentioned that the other one – Father Something-ez – has been celebrating mass and hearing confessions. Apparently, he took some leave of absence?" Snickering, he added, "A priest takin' leave? Who the fuck's heard of that?! He's not sick, is he?"
"Um, no, not that I know of," responded Mario. "I didn't even know he had taken leave."
"Huh, interesting. Aight. Ask Petey to get in touch. He knows how, so you don't need to worry about that."
The wiseguys raised the storage door to let the plumber leave. As the latter disappeared into the concrete labyrinth, Vinny tilted his head toward the exit; the rightmost man gave a brief nod and subsequently trailed the man's path, observing the latter walk to and enter his car, before jumping into a blue four-door to follow him.
Driving south toward Manhattan, Mario checked his rearview mirror, spotting the blue car. "Fuckers never cease to amaze me!" he growled aloud. "One would think that these fuckin' asshats would know that a Special Forces guy knows all about evading the enemy." As he pondered how best to mess with the Mafia asshole, his iPhone began to ring. Pushing both the green and speaker buttons while minding the traffic on the Madison Avenue Bridge, the plumber answered, "Yeah, what's up, Zio? By the way, you and Pete Morello are on everyone's mind. Got some kind of fucking fan club."
"Oh, I bet," laughed Salvatore over the speaker.
"Let's see … Since Tony's little chit-chat over tea and crumpets, I got called in by Vinny Meat-Market. He says he's backing Pete. Also, I got a Mafia tick on my ass headin' back from the Bronx."
"Yep, there seems to be a tick infestation of New York," spoke the Sicilian cryptically. "They're especially after Pete here. Must be that high altitude."
"Yeah," he replied, eyeing the blue car in the mirrors. "Vinny was pretty quick to pin this shit on Junior."
"It could be any of them," interjected Pete in the background. "And even if the mole were Junior, any one of them could see this as a potential to move up in the ranks. Produce me in a body bag; become a capo or higher. But my money's on Junior, too."
Setting his elbow on the driver's side door, Mario tiredly exhaled. "Yeah, maybe. So what now?"
"Keep the tick on your ass for now. They already know where you and Peach live, so go home and keep her and Joe from wondering whether you got whacked. Then, at nightfall, sneak out; take a taxi to Hoboken. Let us know once you're on your way, and we'll send you the meeting point."
"Aight." The call then disconnected. Glancing in the mirrors every once in a while to keep tabs on the blue car, the plumber relaxed for the forthcoming fifteen to twenty-minute stop and go on 5th Avenue, passing by Marcus Garvey Park. Coming to a red light, he heard his phone ring a second time. Moving his eyes between the light and caller ID, he frowned in confusion at the number, which he knew to be Johnny Scapelli's mobile. He pressed the green key as he accelerated past the green light. "Johnny, what's the matter?"
"Mario, we have a big problem and need you at the shop ASAP."
"I'm on the road. If you got a question, ask Felipe …"
"No, man. Mike LaPaglia and Marc Lopez are here. You know, from the Plumbers' Union? They're shutting us down, man!"
"What?!" he demanded loudly.
"Yeah, José and Felipe are arguin' with them, but because Lou's been AWOL for several weeks, there's no master plumber in residence, so there's no one to oversee the shop's operations. They're firing him and closing us down."
"Fuck!" the senior journeyman exclaimed. "Aight, I'll be there in thirty, aight? Don't let 'em leave!"
"You got it man."
After the second call ended, Mario quickly telephoned Peach to tell her that he was alive, Vinny DiScala was a lying piece of shit, and, due to a new union-induced shitshow at the shop, he would be back in a few hours. Exhaling raggedly in relief, she requested that he be careful and call her once he was on his way back to Manhattan.
A half-hour later, the plumber marched into the shop where the journeymen and welders had gathered around the office, listening to Felipe's and José's angry shouts at the visibly irritated, yet indifferent Mike LaPaglia and Marc Lopez. Upon seeing the portly plumber enter, the crowd parted into two groups to let him pass. Not bothering to knock on the door, he barged inside and commanded, "What the fuck is this? I hear youse are firing Luigi?"
Using his hand, Marc signaled his colleague to intervene. "Mario," he began, "it's nothing personal. Lou's been AWOL for weeks now. You know as much as we do that union shops are required to have a master plumber on-site! And that's not just our rules, but those of the City. It's our asses if you're allowed to operate. No one can immediately take over by passing the master plumber exam. José's closer with a couple months until reaching tenure; you're at roughly six months. You'll be paid through the week and then laid off. You're free to join another shop – we'll even give youse a good reference."
"He hasn't been AWOL, and you fucking know it!" he bellowed. "He was in Germany to close that deal, which he got! Then he got dragged to Dubai by the late and shitty Scott Pichler's little buddy! He returned the day before last."
"So where's he at?" inquired Marc skeptically. "Lou hasn't been in the shop for three weeks! The deal was a week in Germany, Mario!"
"Oh, like you don't know!"
Stepping into his space, even as Mike tried to move between the men, Marc growled menacingly, "And what the fuck's that supposed to mean?"
Mario flashed a threatening grin, then stuck his head outside to announce, "Yo, boys, get a load of these motherfuckers! See, your union's been fucking you in the ass without lube. They allowed the Morano crew and Scott the Shitbucket to take a percentage of your hard-earned profits, which your boss – one Luigi Masciarelli – tried to stop with that fuckin' deal in Germany. What pissed these fucks off is that he did better than that! He got a deal with the Saudis and Emiratis. We're talkin' seven figures, ragazzi. And in case anyone's wondering, he did it legally.That means more help, more work! Now he's pissed them off. Do the goddamned math!"
Mike and Marc exchanged a worried, albeit confused look as whispers in English, Amharic, French, and Spanish started to spread like wind to flame. Whereas the two union men remained quiet, several journeymen exploded in anger, demanding for an appeal with the committee as well as insulting them for being Mafia kiss-ass trash and bandidos; Ginsburg shouted that his cousin-the-lawyer would only be too happy to sue their asses. Finally, Mike tried to calm the commotion inside and outside the office to no avail; the uproar turned to chants of Fuck the Union, Fuck the Mafia, and Our Work, Our Money! The two men glared at Mario who smirked at them. After several minutes of being ignored, Marc and Mike pivoted to the senior journeyman, begging him to quell the revolt. He slowly ambled outside to the crowd and gave a basta with his hands. The men quietened, awaiting the acting manager's words. "See, I might be the acting manager. Luigi's been the manager for three months. And in that time, he's done what Sal Maldonado couldn't in thirty years! Now, I'm not takin' away from him – he taught my fratellino – all of us – well. He and our uncle Joe. Luigi's comin' back, once it's safe. He wanted to come back, but I said no!You wanna relieve him, shut down the best shop in Brooklyn, all for the fucking Mafia? G'ahead!" Addressing the crowd, "What do youse think? Should they fire Luigi?"
They cried in unison, "NO!"
The red-hoodied plumber approached LaPaglia and Lopez ominously. "You're gonna have to bring in the City to shut us down! Let the D.A. and the NYPD comb through your cooked books with a fuckin' microscope! Now take your so-called rules and shove 'em up your ass!"
Resuming their chants of Fuck the Mafia and Our Work, Our Money, the plumbers and welders, including Mario, jeered at and followed the union men who, vowing that they would return with the cops and city authorities to shut them down, exited the shop, hopped into Mike's gray BMW, and drove toward the BQE and Astoria. Once they were gone, Mario called out, "Back to work, boys. You'll get paid – Luigi and I will make sure of it." As they filed inside or to their trucks, the acting manager noticed the blue car from the Bronx, which was parked almost a full block away from the shop; squinting, he could see the wiseguy on the phone. Yeah, I hope you heard that, assholes, he thought with a sneer. To accomplish his second goal, he re-entered the shop and its main office, where José was chatting with Felipe. At the threshold, he said, "Felipe, let me have a word with José, aight?" Mumbling a sure, no problem and leaving the men to talk, Felipe strolled outside and closed the door behind him. Leisurely, Mario lowered the blinds.
"Mario, what's up?" asked a confused José.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the desk. "You know, I had to hear about the union's shit from Johnny Scapelli – the kid. The fuckin' apprentice. Why didn't you call me?"
José's olive skin blanched a little. "There wasn't time, man. They just came in."
The lead plumber nodded dramatically while staring at a point on the bare wall across from him. "I see." As the Latino relaxed his posture, Mario suddenly grabbed his lapels and shoved him against the imaginary point. "Yeah, you've been shitstirring for the past couple weeks, José! See, I think you called the union! Trying to screw over Luigi, who'd never been anything but kind to you! What did he ever do to you, you backstabbing fuck?!"
"Mario, you got it all wrong, man!"
"Nah, I don't think so. What'd they promise you? Aside from thirty pieces of silver, huh? Luigi's job?"
The ashamed man bit his lip and attempted to avoid the hot blue orbs burning into him. "Scott Pichler and Kariolis promised me twenty grand," he rasped a few seconds later. "I got a family, mi abuelita. I needed the money. I don't want Lou's job. Honest!"
Scoffing, he shoved José away from him in disgust. "If something happens to Luigi, then you'll go on my permanent shitlist. And I do mean permanent. Me entiendes, mano?" Without raising his head to face the enraged Italian, he nodded. "Now get the fuck outta my sight!" The Latino journeyman obeyed, almost running out of the office and away from the hostile shop enforcer. Once alone, Mario sank into the chair, letting his anger evaporate into the trace by-product of sorrow. He pictured his little brother sitting in the office chair, drinking a cup of bougee coffee from his equally bougee French press. "I'm not a manager; I can't do the shit that you can do," he whispered to his phantom brother. "Weegie, you can survive without me and did; I can't survive without you." Feeling anxiety-driven fatigue permeate his strained, middle-aged body, which he unsuccessfully tried to fight, he closed his eyes and gave in to a brief slumber.
Hundreds of junior-high-school students, like a school of fish from a dense coral, streamed out of Public School 192. Louie and Wendy Bowser ambled into the cool, partly-sunny air of Mapleton, scooting through the narrow gaps between yellow buses to orient themselves south along 18th Avenue. As they chattered at each other in oral English as well as ASL, to their rear, a black SUV shadily accelerated at a snail's pace until it flanked them. Several cars honked at the slow-moving vehicle, attracting Wendy's attention. Unexpectedly, it stopped; two large men barreled out, grabbed the shrieking children, and dragged them inside. Hearing the children's cries, two crosswalk aides promptly ran toward the unmarked SUV, which sped away seconds afterward. Cars turning at the intersection of 18th Avenue and 48th Street swerved and honked to avoid the errant automobile. The harshly-breathing lead, LaTanya, reached into her yellow vest for her cellphone to dial 911.
While Giuseppe and Lucia napped in the guest bedroom, Rospo and Peach, sitting at the living room's antique corner table, studied their sides of the white gold and crystal chessboard. The Libya threw his lady and friend a teasing grin. "È la tua mossa."
Briefly glaring at him, she growled, "Yes, I'm aware." She picked up her white-gold knight to take his crystal bishop, then reconsidered the move. Rospo always loved to bait her with sacrifice pieces. Like a cat hunting her prey, she eyed his favorite piece – the rook – and slid her bishop to take it. Smirking, she set the rook next to her. "Ora cosa fai?"
Rospo shook his head and muttered a "Al-hamdu l'Allah" underneath his breath. Peach was improving with every game; due to her hectic schedule at the hospital, they had little opportunity to play – perhaps thankfully, he added in his mind. He folded his hands underneath his chin and examined the board for the seventh time since she had taken his rook hostage. A knock at the door interrupted her gleeful snickers and his scowls. The blonde began to rise from her chair, yet he darted up faster and signaled for her to remain seated. He guardedly approached the front door, looking through the peephole. No one was there. Glancing at the locks to ensure that they were in place, Rospo shrugged and pivoted toward Peach and the living room when a loud bang and a crash echoed behind him. Whirling around, three large men in black masks rushed inside, one savagely hitting him with the ram, causing his battered frame to slam against the marble floor. The commotion woke Lucia and Giuseppe and brought Peach to the hallway. Lucia screamed as Giuseppe, despite his weakened body, moved in front of the two women. "Who the fuck are youse?!" he bellowed.
The extremely tall and burly leader yelled to his men in an unknown language; as they moved toward the three Italians, Rospo swung his legs to trip two of the men, gasping as loudly as he could, "Run, now!"
Giuseppe pushed Lucia out of the apartment, and they ran down the hall to find the stairwell. In spite of her friend's pleas, Peach found herself frozen in place, still screeching at the unfolding nightmare. A hand landed upon her right cheek, knocking her to the floor next to Rospo. She heard the man growl in heavily-accented English, "Shut up, bitch!" The leader then snarled an order to the other man, who left, presumably to recover Lucia and Giuseppe. Approaching Rospo, he kicked him in the face, snapping his neck back to leave him unconscious. Any potential exit to the hallway now blocked, the woman slid on her stomach away from her attackers, leapt to her feet, and ran into the bedroom area. One of the men pursued her; he checked inside every bedroom which was strangely empty. Next, he began ripping open the walk-in closet doors – all empty of any blondes. Scouting the bathrooms with no luck, the man lost patience and clicked open a switchblade. "Come out. We just want valuables. Money," he cajoled. Re-entering the bedrooms, he angrily looked under and even turned over the beds.
By the time the man had flipped over the second bed, Giuseppe and Lucia managed to locate the emergency stairwell. Before they could start running, they noticed that neither Peach nor Rospo were behind them. "We can't just leave them!" cried the woman.
"Motherfucker!" he spat. Nodding his agreement, as he turned back to the apartment, the third man came barreling through the stairwell door. Joe immediately stepped in front of his wife, shouting, "Run, Lu! Go get help now!" Praying that he could stall him while she made her escape, he threw a punch at the assailant's face, which released a sickening crack that reverberated in the tight space. Lucia helplessly watched the man slam into the feeble Giuseppe, knocking him onto the stairs. Left moaning on the floor, the man in black advanced on the woman who fell to her husband's side. Grabbing her by the hair, he threw her into the wall like a ragdoll. The assault on his wife rejuvenated the plumber, albeit briefly; the cancer having sapped his strength, he remained on the stairs and pulled the man's pant leg toward him, sweeping his foot and balance from under his weight and forcing him to crash upon his chin and throat. His wife still immobile, he toddled to his feet and broke the fire alarm to evacuate the apartment building and bring help. Step by step, he came to her slumped figure; using his last bit of energy to pick her up, he was defenseless from a rear attack that took all of his body's air and vision.
"Come out, bitch!" the two men rumbled, thus unable to locate Peach, who had been hiding behind crates in the supply closet. They had passed by her twice, allowing her time to grab a can of oven cleaner from one of the shelves. On the third try, the leader entered the closet and began throwing the crates to clear their view. Even though she was trembling, she bit her lip, aimed the can at the man's eyes, and pressed down on the button as quickly and as hard as she could. Screaming in pain, the large man spun away, and she dashed past him to the threshold. A few feet shy of the exit, she felt a strong arm corral her backward and knock the can out of her hand. While his partner continued to scream obscenities in his language as well as the English "Bitch," the second man in black wrapped his arm around her neck, knife in hand, calling out that he had caught the bitch. As the leader staggered into the entrance way, a bullet sliced through his chest, killing him on the spot. The second man tightened his grip on his switchblade and the woman, momentarily unsure of who had fired the shot.
A moment later, Mario, whose Sig Sauer was carefully pointed at the lone attacker's head, stepped into the apartment. "Let her go, motherfucker!" he growled over the alarm.
"I kill the bitch!" the man howled back, bringing the switchblade to the nape of her neck. "Stay where you are! Drop gun!"
Mario's silent response was to tighten his grip on the trigger and sharpen his senses, readying himself to take the kill shot. Hearing approaching footsteps, he took the shot and instead grazed the man's ear, pain and shock releasing the knife instantaneously; a fifth masked man grabbed the plumber from behind, knocking the Sig Sauer down the marble entryway. In the commotion, Peach broke free of the second man's grip and, having been slashed on her arm and deprived of air, fell down in an attempt to reach freedom. Beseeching his girlfriend to get out of here, the soldier bit down on the man's forearm, elbowed him in the ribs, and, breaking his arm against his shoulder, threw him to the ground. Leaping to his feet, the bleeding second man seized his switchblade with the other hand, hopping from one foot to another. Inwardly, Mario groaned; defending one's self from a knife meant almost certain injury. Sensing his hesitation, his opponent advanced on him, making short jabbing and rapid slashing movements. Peach rolled out of their way and crawled on her knees toward the gun. Although the knife cut through his red hoodie and nicked his abdomen, Mario was able to grab his wrist and slam his elbow on the joint. The man's grip loosened slightly; however, he used his long, muscular right leg to kick the plumber in the groin. Immobilized by the strike, he sank to his knees, fighting the desire to curl up protectively. Smirking in victory, the second man in black adjusted his grip in order to slash him across the neck; vulnerable, he could only follow the impending kill with his eyes. Having steadied his breath for the end, he gulped in confusion at the sound of two gunshots and a spray of blood coloring the upper part of his chest and his lower cheek. The assailant made a gargling sound, his neck covered in a dark red fountain, and crumpled to the floor.
Momentarily ignoring the agony between his legs, the red-hoodied man rotated his head to the right, where a sobbing and shaking Peach was holding his Sig Sauer. He grimaced at the cut on his abdomen and, pushing himself upright, ambled to her seated form. "Easy, Peaches, easy," he cooed, dropping to her level. Placing his hands gently atop the gun, which wobbled violently in her hands, he spoke once more, "Give me the gun, baby." In her traumatized state, she kept staring ahead, yet her gripped relaxed, and he was able to disarm her. The action took her from the trance; she blinked, scanned his bloodied form, and screamed. "Hey, hey, hey!" he cried over the still blaring sound. "It's not mine. I'm aight, Peaches!"
"Giuseppe! Lucia! Rospo!" she wailed.
He ran over to Rospo and checked his vitals. "He's alive, Peaches." Gently calling his name, he roused the man, who in turn moaned from his injuries. "Don't move, amico. You could have a neck injury." Keeping the man's neck straight and steady, he spoke to his spouse, "Call 911. There should be an ambulance and truck on the way! They'll know what happened to Joe and Lucia."
In spite of her ordeal, the tearful Peach stood up, replying, "I'm a doctor, Mario. I'll – I'll call 911. Go … Go find Giuseppe and Lucia, amore." Her first-responder preparation overriding her fear, she went to the living room to retrieve her phone. Afterward, she kneeled down beside Mario, dialed 911, and stabilized their friend. Ensuring that she was focused and calm, he placed a loving hand on her shoulder and rushed downstairs.
Yoshi and Matt looked over Miles's shoulder at his console in one of the smaller, more obscure conference rooms at her father's practice. Unwilling to know anything about the hacker's activities, he nonetheless allowed them to send the encrypted message to DK. Having sent their SOS a few hours previous, they sat and waited for a response or any indication that the police lieutenant was on his way. Daisy was in another room, guarded by Sam inside and Yael outside, where she half-heartedly did her phone interview for Harvard Law School. In the meantime, Miles searched for Aleksandr Baranov; muttering irritably about the need for universal translators, he tried in vain to read Russian, only to become frustrated at the imprecise and unnatural rendering via Google Translate. Matt volunteered and attempted several times to assist, yet after the fifth time, the blond ordered him to sit his Mafia ass down like a good script kiddie.
Matt crossed his arms furiously, hissing, "I'm not a script kiddie!"
Over the top of his laptop, the hacker glowered at him. "No, you're just a criminal who uses ransomware to get what he wants. I'm only momentarily tolerating your boss to save my best friend. Luigi may be your second cousin, but I've known him since we were little kids. Familiarity trumps blood. And my kung fu will always destroy yours, public key."
The Coloradan mouthed 'public key,' simultaneously impressed and offended by the insult.
Yoshi pinched his nose. "Jesus F. Christ, can we please knock off the hacker pissing contest?"
Calmly, the skinny brunet wiped out his laptop, logged into a secure VPN with accompanying virtual machines, and began his own search on Aleksandr Baranov. Rolling his eyes, Miles typed another slew of commands, interrupting the other man's Internet access.
"What the hell, dude?" Matt cried.
The blond smirked devilishly.
"Asshole," he mumbled, working to restore his access. Fifteen seconds after an initial success, he lost it for a second time. "Dude, cut it out!"
"You know what they say – wiseguys finish last," Miles deadpanned.
Stepping between their terminals, Yoshi held out his hands. "Aight, aight! Enough! Let's focus on helping Luigi, okay?"
They fell into a passive-aggressive silence as Daisy and Sam slowly entered the room. Upon the other three men's keen looks, she responded, "It went well as could be expected. Truth is, even if they had offered me Harvard right then and there, I wouldn't have been excited. Not without … Luigi."
Crossing the small conference room to her position, Yoshi enfolded her in his arms. "Hey, we'll get him back. If anyone can, it's Mario. And I know Salvatore will do his best, too." Accepting the friendly embrace, she nodded wordlessly.
"We're still researching this asshole Baranov," interrupted Miles, continuing to glare at Matt. "So far nothing. I can't read Russian, and there's nothing easily accessible in English."
"Fuck," she mouthed. "And we don't even know where they've done their business, so we're stuck between Russia – or the former Soviet Republics – and the United States." The hacker raised his eyebrows in agreement. "What about that police officer – DK?"
"We sent the message," replied Yoshi. "Nothing yet."
"Maybe we're going about this the wrong way." At their curious gazes, Daisy continued, "If there is a mole, then get the dirt via the Cosa Nostra. Follow the money to Bensonhurst or New Jersey. If it's one of the capos or the underboss, you might find dirty Russian money. I bet you there's something in the union's or Scott Pichler's accounting."
The four males exchanged a conciliatory glance. "Yeah, that works, too."
As Miles resumed his work, both to search for Baranov as well as to keep Matt offline, the Japanese shook his head. "A SOS is supposed to be like 911. Why the hell hasn't this guy got back to us?"
Daisy shrugged and started to pace along the windows. Peering down at the street two hundred feet below, several police cars whizzed by the building, making a sharp right turn in the direction of Central Park. "Something's going on. There've been four, now five NYPD heading north." She faced Yoshi and Sam. "You think it's related to the Morano murders?"
"Maybe," conceded Sam, watching Miles work at his terminals and trying not to laugh at his cousin's frustration.
"Yoshi, your, uh, girlfriend – Birdo – is safe, right?" asked Matt, who was, at the same time, mentally visualizing the blond's destruction by Kobalos or the Michelangelo virus.
"Yeah. She's staying with a friend in Queens."
The woman gave an uncertain nod while continuing to observe the increased traffic along West 55th Street. A firm knock came at the door. "Yes?" she called out.
After a brief moment, the door handle turned to reveal a middle-aged, grayish-blond-haired man with a cleaning cart and blue uniform. "Cleaning," he announced with a noticeable Slavic accent.
"Um, we're okay. You can skip our conference room, thanks," replied the woman, smiling politely.
Instead, the man shut the door and secured the cart against it to prevent their escape. Lifting his eyes to the now alarmed youths, he then took a step forward. "You are Daisy Abravanel?"
Protectively, Sam moved in front of his friends; the unknown man did not react. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.
Ignoring him, he repeated his question, "You are Daisy Abravanel?" When they refused to answer, he said, "You saw Lucas Kariolis use a certain item in Dubai. A USB. Now, regrettably, you're in danger. Much has happened today."
She, the Brobot Boys, and the Colorado mafiosi looked at each other in confusion. "What do you mean? And who are you?" she inquired.
"Check police radio on your computer," he ordered Miles. The hacker slowly obeyed, playing the NYPD chatter on the laptop speakers: "…Multiple fatalities reported at 21 East 70th Street. Homicide and first responders are on scene …."
"Holy shit, that's Peach's building!" exclaimed the physicist. Spinning toward the cleaner, he bellowed, "What the fuck? What the … Who are you? Are you Russian mob?! Did you do something to our friends?!"
"Not Russian Mafia. Call me Piotr. I am an … interested party." He moved nonthreateningly to the edge of the table. "I was tracking Lucas Kariolis who broke out of Dubai police prison and returned to New York. I do not where he is now. I was investigating when I heard on police radio about attack on building."
She crossed her arms. "And how did you know I'd be here?"
He did not reply, which worried and angered her, until Miles chimed in, "I'm wagering a guess that you're Russian FSB or something like that. Hence why you'd be interested in the USB. If you wanted to kill us, or Peach for that matter, you would've already. But why follow Daisy? She doesn't have it any longer; it's with the UAE and Saudi authorities. And why even reveal yourself instead of remaining incognito?" Yoshi and Daisy stared at the two men, speechless.
"She's only witness to Lucas using the USB. His father and Russian Mafia are very dangerous and are wanted in my country. Given Luigi Masciarelli's predicament, the Kariolises in New York, and what happened at apartment, I strongly advise you to stay here."
"And do what, man?" barked Yoshi. "If Mario and Peach are in trouble, then they need our help!"
Nodding, Daisy was about to follow Yoshi's lead to exit the room when Piotr intercepted them. "As I already said, this is not a good idea. Contact by phone. Use computer. Do not leave office for a few hours." Concluding his warning, he calmly returned to his cleaning cart, removed it from the door, and departed as mysteriously as he had entered.
Yoshi reached for his phone and dialed Mario's number while Daisy, Matt, Sam, and Miles continued to listen to the NYPD radio.
DK flashed his lieutenant's badge to the police officers and ducked under the yellow tape. Locating the commanding officer on-site, who was on the ground floor inspecting one of the slumped bodies, he inquired, "I'm Lieutenant Duante Kendricks, Major Case Division."
"Sergeant Don Reynolds, Homicide," greeted the man. "What's Major Case's interest on a robbery gone wrong?"
"With all due respect, Sergeant, I don't think that was the motivation. Rumor has it those masked men upstairs were Slavic. Russian Mafia, quite possibly."
He nodded. "Yeah. The assholes first took out the doorman and a resident. Here. Anthony DeCesare, 43, and Sarah Bergman, 56. Next, they went upstairs and attacked the apartment of …"
"… Mario Masciarelli and Cristina Venier," finished DK whose skin had become distinctly paler.
"Yeah. However, they apparently didn't know that the guy's Special Forces. He and his girlfriend injured or killed three of them. They're being questioned upstairs. We also found a woman in the stairwell. Another man in the apartment was seriously injured. They're both being taken to Presbyterian."
"Okay, thanks. Mind if I go upstairs and question them? My division's been monitoring Mafia activity – Italian and Russian."
He shrugged, eyes still focused on the crime scene. "Be my guest."
Muttering a thanks, the fifties-something DK opted to take the elevator up to the sixth floor. Five minutes later, the shocked man entered the doorless entrance, where several police officers had gathered, either to document the crime scene or to tend the wounded. On the couch, a visibly distraught Mario sat next to a numb Peach, tenderly holding her hand, while they listened to and answered questions posed by the detective. Jotting down her notes, the detective acknowledged the man, who flashed his badge. "Lieutenant Duante Kendricks, Major Case Division."
"DK," breathed Mario.
"Detective Andrea Fuentes. You know them?"
He gave a single nod. "His father and I go way back. He's okay – kid's one of ours." Addressing the couple sitting on the couch, he rasped, "What the hell happened?"
"Four men, I think, broke down the door and attacked us. Rospo, Joe, Lucia, and I. Mario, who had been out, confronted the men … He shot one, injured the other, and I … killed the third. There had been a fourth man who went after Joe and Lucia …" Peach broke down, unable to continue. Mario took her in his arms and whispered soothingly to her in Italian.
"We found Lucia Masciarelli in the stairwell and, uh," she checked her notes for the second name, "Jamal Maghur here in the apartment. Both are alive; they've been taken to Presbyie for treatment. The surviving attacker was taken to Bellevue."
"What about Joe – Giuseppe Masciarelli – her husband?"
Detective Fuentes bit her lip and Mario angrily glared at the floor. "We didn't find him anywhere in the building. If there had been a fourth guy, he may have taken him somewhere else. We're canvassing the area and seeing if someone saw something. We're still in the process of IDing the intruders. But I think I got what I need thus far."
"Alright, thank you, Detective," replied DK with another grateful nod. Gently approaching Mario and Peach, he asked, "Where's your brother? Luigi?" Though remaining silent, Mario cast his forlorn eyes at the older man. "Okay, I think I understand." Walking over to the dead men, he lifted the cloth covering the leader. "Detective?" She turned attentively to the lieutenant. "This dirtbag's name is Ayub Maskhadov. He's a lowlife contract killer. I'm guessing they're all contract killers. Keep that asshole under guard; someone may try to keep him from talking."
Mario gnashed his teeth in pure rage, gripping his spouse's hand as Fuentes wrote down the name. "You got it, Lou. I assume this is your case?"
"I'll be in touch with your captain, but I think we can work this jointly if he's okay with it. Our case involves the Mafia," he glanced at the pair, "Russian and Cosa Nostra. I'll also contact Missing Persons and take over searching for Joe Masciarelli. Mario's brother, Luigi, is also missing. They may try for a ransom."
"Understood, Lou. Though my recommendation is to talk to the captain sooner rather than later."
"Will do." Returning to Mario, he put his hand on his shoulder. "I know it's harder said than done, but … sit tight. I'll get you and Cristina to a nice hotel; we'll wait until they call, and they will. These men usually execute and leave; they don't take hostages unless there's money involved. I'll also put a few guys on alert at Presbyterian."
Mario cleared his throat. "DK, uh, listen, Luigi's got a girl – Daisy Abravanel. I need to make sure she's safe. Can I give her a call?"
"Where is she right now?"
"Her father's a lawyer – got a practice on West 55th Street. Abravanel, Aronson, and … I can't remember the last name."
DK gave a slight bob of his head. "I'll get in touch with them, as well. A quick call, alright? Then we're getting out of here."
"Thanks." Kissing Peach's cheek and promising to be right back, Mario picked up his phone and went into the hallway for a little privacy. Unlocking the screen and minding the cracks of the completely shattered screen, he sent a text to Yoshi that he and Peach were OK, he would call later, and to stay where they are. Next, he dialed a number, inhaling deeply at what would inevitably follow. A few rings passed prior to Pete's voice answering, "Mario?"
"Yeah, uh … Shit's hit the fan. Peaches, Joe, Lucia, and Rospo had … visitors."
He heard a brief gasp, then the capo spoke, "Is everyone alright?"
"No. Joe's missing. The, uh, cops are here, so I gotta go. I'll be in touch again this evening."
At the old, largely abandoned safehouse near Rockaway Beach, Pete stared at the burner phone. He spun in the direction of the small parlor and Salvatore, who was napping upright on its worn couch. Having evaded the car that had been chasing them on the Belt, they decided to wait until nightfall to drive to Newark and demand answers regarding their abducted kinsman. For the past hour, Salvatore had been sleeping peacefully, for which Pete was glad, since the man's surprisingly uptight nature had led to nightmares and insomnia during his time as a made man. He swallowed, steeling himself for the unavoidable and incendiary conversation. Noiselessly, he entered the parlor and shook his cousin awake. Sitting next to the blinking man, Pete softly voiced, "Hey. Sorry – I know you were sleeping."
Salvatore stretched his arms and legs, shaking his head. "Nah, it's alright. What time is it?"
"It's a little after 4:30." He swallowed again. "Sal, uh, something happened." Though he did not reply, the priest waited intently. "I don't have all the details – I'm going to contact Sam and Matt – but the Russians or our friends … attacked Cristina's apartment this afternoon."
Now fully awake, he launched himself off the couch. "What?! What do you mean?"
Pete held up a hand. "Again, I don't have the details. Mario just called me. Last I heard, Sam and Matt were in the city. Given the little he was able to say, I don't think they were with that group. Nor were Daisy and Luigi's friends."
Noticing that his cousin had carefully avoided saying just who had been present, the priest demanded, "So who was there, Pete?"
The capo rubbed a hand over his face, eschewing direct eye contact with Salvatore. "Peach, her, uh, bodyguard from Italy, Lucia, and … Joe."
His eyes instantly changed from a normal soft brown to a stormy black. "What happened, Pete?" he probed in a deceptively tranquil voice.
"I … I don't know exactly, but … Mario told me that Joe's missing."
Lightning bolts flashed in the vacuous spaces where Salvatore's pupils had been.
