Author's notes: Getting to the end! There MIGHT be an extra chapter, but it'll depend on the next chapter to follow. But it will be no more than three total.
That being said, I have yet another question to ask fellow readers! I have announced a sequel, which will appear probably in late-Spring 2024, just to give me time to storyboard and rest from nearly two years of consistent writing. The deadline will be the week of the epilogue, so next month sometime.
Question: Should the sequel take place in 2019 or 2021? Express your interest or opinion if you have one.
That being said, thanks again. Please read and review, if desired.
Chapter 63: A Man's Confession
October 24, 2001
Holy Redeemer Catholic Church
San Francisco, California
11:15 p.m.
Salvatore sat slumped in the front pew facing the faint glow of the candles and altar. Having formed his last nervy smile about an hour prior, he retreated into the darkness and to his lone comfort – the white crucifix of Jesus Christ hanging in full view of his faithful flock. Over the past six weeks, he had shed all of the silent tears that he was able, called all of the New York-based numbers he knew, only to receive a busy signal or prerecorded voices on their answering machines. The Sicilian celebrated Mass every damn day afterward with an affixed placidity; after all, the flock came to the shepherd for guidance. By the seventh day following the attacks in Manhattan, Washington, and Pennsylvania, when the repressed sorrow threatened to crush him, he called the Brooklyn Diocese and, sinking to his knees, begged to return to New York. They calmly, though firmly refused. "Tend your flock in California, Salvatore. This is a national tragedy. They need the Church more than ever. Our Lord Jesus Christ selflessly offered Himself as a sacrifice for our sins. So too must we sacrifice ourselves for the good of our people," proffered the bishop as an explanation.
Yet he knew the real reason for their disinclination: Armando Rosetti. Although the sonofabitch's not-so-subtle run for the episcopacy had been quashed, he still enjoyed a certain amount of power in the Brooklyn Diocese due to his thirty-year tenure as a priest. He scoffed to himself and the Sacrificial Jesus. Hypocrites! Publicly, they denied funerary masses to deceased mafiosi and treated him as a nuisance; privately, behind the metaphorical iron gates, they all knew of his past as well as Rosetti's present. During his tenure at St. Rosalia's Catholic School, he had not known the extent of the Monsignor's involvement with the Moranos; he had assumed that the man's objections to him stemmed from his eighties-era confessional knowledge of Il Mietitore's crimes. Shortly following Luigi's eighth-grade class's trip to Italy, however, it became apparent that, somehow, Rosetti had learned of his hidden dolce metà, and that he was willing to use it to force him out of New York. Once a beloved, respected school counselor, rumors began to spread throughout the parish that he had been inappropriate with some of the boys, including his own youngest nephew. To add fuel to the fire, on one unexceptional Sunday, Father Rosetti gave a homily on the subject of Genesis 19, the story of Lot, and the infection of sodomy in books, on television, and in the movies. "Let Sodom and Gomorrah be a warning from Our Lord: homosexuality leads to predatory behavior, and our children can never be safe around such individuals," he pronounced to the Bensonhurst parish. In one fell swoop, the Monsignor made pedofilo equivalent to fenucca in the minds of the conservative Italian, Irish, and Hispanic worshippers. Unable to trust anyone in the Brooklyn Diocese, he was left with little alternative than to be transferred. Father Sal had assumed that he would be sent to the Midwest or back to Mexico like most priests accused of pedophilia. With barely contained glee, Rosetti 'congratulated' him on his reassignment to San Francisco.
Until that moment, even as a hitman, he had never thought of striking a man of the cloth.
Letting out a shriek in the hollow, opaque church, Salvatore launched from his pew and, turning his back on the crucifix, stormed out of the sanctuary to the autumnal night. Fingering his ever-present pack of cigarettes and lighter, a habit that he had renewed with alacrity in California, he decided that he needed something stronger. He allowed his feet to guide him to the bar on the corner of 18th and Castro. Decorated with a large rainbow flag in its dusty window, he opened the gray metal door and entered the red- and blue-lit interior with a long metal platform and twelve stools. As it was a late Wednesday night, it was deserted, save for a few regulars. Raising an eyebrow at the black and white garb of his newest client, the bartender – an effeminate, skinny man in his thirties – asked him for his order. "Vodka, straight," he replied.
One vodka soon became four.
"Honey, unless you want to float to the Heavens above, you've had enough," spoke the man to the priest, who had tried cajoling a fifth from him.
It would never be enough when your entire family had disappeared into smoke, he thought or said – his recollection of specific details had grown fuzzy after the third drink.
The next morning, he woke up on a brown leather couch, having been stripped of his black clerical shirt, tab, and charcoal gray sweater. Eyeing his white tee-shirt and gold cross, the priest abruptly felt a powerful wave of nausea and a vice grip around his temples. Unable to ignore the lurching of his stomach, he pushed the knit blue blanket off his legs and ran into the unfamiliar, ivory-painted hallway behind him. Quickly glancing to his right, then to his left, he mentally flipped a coin and chose the left-hand side. Thankfully for him as well as his mystery hosts, Salvatore located the large bathroom immediately on his right. Sprinting to the toilet, he lifted the lid and vomited. A minute and a half afterward and having purged the contents of his stomach from yesterday and the day before, the rueful man flushed the toilet and placed his burning face against the cool black and white floor tiling.
Was this the Lord's justice upon him for his past? Having killed several men, all of whom were either head of house or members of a family, so too would his family perish? Why?! What did Mario, Joe, little Mario, and Luigi do? Why them?!
Biting his tremoring lip to keep from screaming and sobbing, Salvatore fixed his watery brown eyes on the ivory wall. Lost in his morose thoughts, he neither heard nor saw a man of medium height and muscular build enter. The brown-haired man gently hauled him to his feet, calmly murmuring in a mixture of Chicagoan-accented English and Italian, "C'mon, Don Salvatore. Andiamo a fare colazione, huh?" In no condition to object, the priest allowed him to walk his form to the kitchen where a slim, shorter man of at least partial Chinese descent busied himself with preparing coffee and a simple breakfast tray. He blinked, then turned to face his host, whom he recognized as a regular attendee of his Sunday mass. Sal's face flushed in embarrassment at his parishioner having seen him in such a state.
"I ... I'm sorry," he stammered. "I ... I shouldn't be here. God, I'm so embarrassed. I don't even know what ..."
"È assurdo! Better us than someone else, especially in these parts," explained the Italian American host. "Castro's safe, as much as San Francisco can be, but every once in a while, someone's got to prove a useless point. I'm Vito – Vittorio – Fiorucci. This is my ... partner, Andrew. I'm, uh, I attend mass at Holy Redeemer."
Father Sal managed a faint, polite smile. "Nice to meet you both. I'm sorry – I'm not feeling well, otherwise ..."
"I wouldn't guess you would be after four vodkas," mused Andrew while at the stove.
Vito threw an irritated glance at his significant other. "The bartender's a friend of ours. He knows that I attend mass, and he recognized your name from your driver's license. So he gave us a call late last night, as your, uh, rectory is a bit far away."
The visibly mortified man tilted his head in a deep, grateful nod. "Thank you. I, uh, I'm not usually like this."
Andy turned off the heat on the stovetop and, giving him a brief, almost sympathetic look, brushed a pan-full of scrambled eggs into a medium-sized casserole dish. Realizing that the morning rays of sunlight were rather bright, his eyes widened. "Cavolo, what time is it? I have mass at eight o'clock ..."
The cook snickered, though without malice, "It's fifteen minutes too late. Vito called the address on your license, and one of your, uh, colleagues is coming at around ten. Some French guy. They've got one of the junior priests – I don't know what they're called – to cover for you."
Salvatore closed his eyes in pure shame, as he had never missed a mass in a little over a decade as a fully ordained priest. "Levesque," he mumbled, wincing at his pounding head.
"Yeah, Levesque," affirmed Vito. "Anyway, I'm sure the Almighty will forgive you this once."
Before he could reply, Andy set plates, silverware, scrambled eggs, and sliced sourdough bread in the middle of the table. He left once more to retrieve a French press filled with coffee and an aspirin bottle. As Salvatore crossed himself to offer thanks for both his safety and meal, the man lisped, sitting down in the chair to his lover's right to eat, "You'll need these. God invented them for a reason." Nodding, the priest unscrewed the bottle, took three aspirin, and swallowed them while Vito scooped a moderately-sized portion of eggs and placed two pieces of bread onto his plate.
"This'll soak up the alcohol, huh?"
For the next fifteen minutes, Vito and Andy chatted and flirted; every so often, they eyed the taciturn Sicilian who poked at his eggs and chewed his bread, forcing himself to consume the necessary sustenance. When he felt their eyes intruding, he flashed a weak smile at them. He was accustomed to feigned impassivity, having played the authoritative soldier, be it for God or the Mafia, to perfection. Inwardly, he cursed himself for showing such weakness in front of strangers, let alone those of his flock.
At breakfast's end, Vito rose from his chair, put on his dark gray suit jacket, kissed his partner, and addressed the pale priest, "Don Salvatore, I gotta go into the office for a meeting. Please stay as long as you need. I'll be back in the afternoon if you need anything." Mutely, Sal gave a single nod, after which the Italian departed, leaving him and the host's partner in the kitchen.
Cup of coffee in hand, Andy leaned against the kitchen drawers and watched the pensive man chew his eggs and bread. Unlike his more conservative, semi-closeted partner, who retained several aspects of his parents' Italian culture, including regular attendance of mass, he had been, for several years, a champion drag queen prior to becoming an emergency room nurse. As an openly gay man, he had never understood Vito's fascination and need for comfort from a religion which had, like the politicians, turned its back on gay, lesbian, and bisexual faithful. Even a decade later, Andy still shuddered at a vivid memory of a Catholic priest who steadfastly refused to take the hand of a dying man requesting his last rites, as if touch alone would transmit the gay cancer.
One Sunday, roughly a year ago, an excited Vito had come home to tell his boyfriend that the new parish priest was a fellow Italian American, albeit from Brooklyn and Palermo and not Elmwood Park and Perugia. Andy had shaken his head uncomprehendingly; he was comfortable with Chinese culture, even as a second-generation Chinese himself, speaking both Cantonese and Mandarin with confidence and using this knowledge to act as a medical translator. The most he knew of Sicily was that the parents of that evil bastard, Antonin Scalia, and New York's Mafia originated from the island. Yet this particular Sicilian did not seem malevolent. Then again, he had never met an inebriated priest prior to the previous night. Whereas on the very short drive home, the man said little, jealously guarding whatever had brought him to the bar, while he and Vito arranged him on their couch, he let five discrete words slip past the mental fortress: Signore, ricongiungimi alla mia famiglia. His Italian-speaking partner turned ashen; after they were certain that he had passed out, Vito led him into their bedroom and relayed the potentially horrifying secret. Andy had been staring at a point on the wall when he felt the eyes of his guest shift to him. His dark brown orbs connected with the Sicilian's.
He saw nothing but darkness.
November 9, 2014
St. Luke's Hospital
Manhattan, New York
7:17 p.m.
The Abravanels had returned from dinner and, with Luigi's lethargic coaxing, persuaded Daisy to return with Yael to shower, change, and eat something. At the same time, Peach ordered an equally reluctant Mario back to his room for a contraband meal of birria tacos that Yoshi had snuck past the nurses. Luigi sank into the pillows, expecting his dim hospital chamber to be empty. His blue eyes widened when Harry remained, carrying a brown paper bag in his hands. "I, uh, keep kosher, Mister Cannoli, so I hope you won't mind takeout from an Israeli café."
Shaking his head, the plumber wordlessly accepted the bag and, with his functioning left hand, tiredly pulled out a boxed container of falafel, hummus, and salad, flatbread wrapped in aluminum foil, a piece of baklava, and utensils. Harry helped him to arrange his supper and a cup of pomegranate iced tea on the small, portable surface near the bed. The former rasped a thank you and sluggishly unwrapped the bread which had been cut into pieces to help him eat.
They passed several minutes in silence, the lawyer allowing the bedridden man to enjoy his only meal of the day. "While you were in surgery, I, uh, spoke with the NYPD," he began awkwardly. "You won't face criminal charges, although both the detectives and the FBI will likely question you about your knowledge of the Moranos and Russians." Chewing a piece of flatbread and hummus, Luigi nodded once. "Normally, I would advise you to answer freely and honestly. But given who your relatives are, I'm not sure how you'd want to proceed. We don't need to decide anything now. They'll give you time to recover, of course."
"We?" asked the Brooklynite quietly.
Harry crossed his arms. "It's up to you, kid. If there's another attorney whom you'd prefer ..."
"No, I ..." The plumber swallowed and blotted his mouth. "I'm just ... surprised. You haven't been my biggest fan. I mean," he let out a fatigued exhale, "I don't blame you. Daisy would be waiting by her email and phone for law school acceptance letters instead of losing sleep over some poor, dumb Italian schmuck in a hospital."
He gave the young man a faint shrug as well as an amused lift of his brown eyebrow. "Well, I wouldn't classify you as either poor or dumb." Luigi faintly scoffed at the subtle dig. Then his lighthearted expression became more serious. "You're right; I haven't been a fan. In the future, should you have daughters of your own, I suspect you'll come to understand that sentiment." Coughing into his sleeve to signal discomfort, he nonetheless went on, "In the past few days, both Yael and I have had an in-depth opportunity to review my original disapproval. Understand, Mister Cannoli, that Yael was even less inclined than I; we were both concerned about your maternal family and their potential influence upon your decision-making. Understand also that her respect is not freely given, especially to a non-Jew. However, you've proven that your sense of ethics measures up to those of my daughter, and I think you've proven it to yourself as a statement of who you are. Those words are not spoken lightly." The plumber stared at Daisy's father, dumbfounded at his words, though he waited for him either to continue or to finish. "And in the past year, Daisy's become her own woman – emotionally and judgmentally. It's a testament to her own will and development."
"And your role as a parent, sir," answered Luigi. "She is ... one of a kind."
Giving him a grateful nod, Harry pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose and responded, "Thank you. And yes, she is unique. As is your brother, Mario." The younger man looked away for a moment. "The final point that I wanted to make is that ... you are your brother's equal, kid. I would even wager that you are your father's equal, perhaps even more." His blue eyes snapped to meet a familiar set of amber-colored orbs. "No, you're not an elite firefighter or a Green Beret. But your raw intelligence, your inherent ability to analyze subtlety, and your imagination will serve you well." A moment later, he rose from the visitor's chair. "Finish your supper, kid. I'll be back tomorrow."
"Thank you, Mr. Abravanel."
The lawyer perfunctorily bobbed his head and spun to the door where a neutral-looking Pete Morello was waiting at the doorframe. Of the two men, the Abravanel patriarch was the taller, and used his additional two inches to loom over the caporegime. His brown eyes connected with Pete's, flashing caution that he would not tolerate any further interference with Daisy or Luigi; once certain that the mafioso had received his message, he departed. Pete waited an extra few seconds before entering the room to sit in the vacant chair. Luigi continued to eat his dinner, occasionally wincing from the pain in his wounded shoulder. The older man glanced at the falafel plate and pomegranate tea that Daisy's father had brought. "Buon appetito, cuscinu," said the Denverite with a shadowy smile.
"Grazie."
"Sam's recovering," Pete spoke in a suddenly fatigued tone. "I ... I haven't seen Salvatore yet." He briefly watched the young man nosh on one of the falafel balls. "I'm ... I'm relieved that you're alright. I talked to Peach about your gunshot wound. You were wounded in the 'best place' for the shoulder: through and through, deltoid, so there were no bones hit. As for what had occurred prior, I know Matt helped you and Detective Hernández. He's capable, but ... I'd have preferred him to stay out of this."
Luigi chuckled mirthlessly. "You know, he's very capable. As much as Sam. Matt just wants ... your approval. I don't know much about him, y'know? I know he has an illness. And you want to protect him. But no offense; as the, uh, padrino in Colorado, you initiated him, so he's already ... involved."
Pete's chuckles mimicked those of his younger cousin. "No offense taken, and you've got a point. And, perhaps, you can get to know them – us – as family." As the plumber opened his mouth to interject, the caporegime held up a gentle hand. "Luigi, you're already one hell of a wiseguy. Matt told me what you had said to Polina before going up on the roof. Only a man with proper Sicilian coglioni could say half that shit and live. Let alone do what you did. You're a man who makes his own decisions. Regardless, you're still our family."
He gave a small bob of his head. "Sure." Taking another small bite of falafel, he inquired, "What about Carlo and Fat Tony?"
"Assuming they're still alive, there'll eventually be a sit-down with them and Joey Bernacchi."
"And if they're dead?"
Once more, the Denverite flashed him a weak smile. "Let's take one step at a time, son. We'll," he sighed and dragged his hands over his tired face, "straighten this mess out." He surveyed the plumber as the latter chewed the last of the falafel and took a sip of the pomegranate iced tea. "I see the Royal Abravanels left you with a peace offering."
This time, Luigi's grin was bright and genuine. "Of sorts, yeah."
"I'll bet," he snickered. "It's not every day that your daughter's Italian boyfriend saves several blocks of Manhattan, to say the least." The Brooklynite raised an eyebrow, to which Pete patted him on his left forearm, adding, "Oh, I'm just being a jerk. If I had a daughter instead of a son, I'd probably be the same way." Placidly, the former took another sip of the pink liquid. "Anyway. I'll let you finish your falafel and get some rest. I bet it," he nodded at his right shoulder, "hurts like a bitch."
"Yeah, it hurts like hell," the young man acknowledged. "But my stomach doesn't give a shit."
Laughing, the caporegime stood to leave. "A Sicilian through and through. Rest; we'll definitely chat more soon."
Shortly after dinner, Luigi increased a little of the pain medication and fell asleep, not waking until well into mid-morning the next day. Much to his surprise, Daisy sat at his bedside, working on her laptop. Earlier that morning, she had written to her boss to let him know of the unusual situation that had transpired over the weekend. Fifteen minutes following her original email, he called her to fire off a succession of ten questions within twenty seconds. He caught the story on the morning news; was she involved? Who was shot? Did she know of the guys at Columbia and on the roof? Did she shoot anyone? How did she know how to fire a gun? Once she answered each question with a permissible amount of detail, he excused her for another few days, though the team would expect a full report on the exact number of Russian asses that she and her boyfriend had kicked. Afterward, he emailed her a report and requested that she do some analysis to make the bean counters happy.She relayed the story to her lover who rolled his eyes yet giggled at the United Nations' geek squad awaiting the full story upon her return. As if he had heard their voices from his room, Mario then appeared in his wheelchair, smartphone in his sweatpants-covered lap. Peach had gone to check on Rospo, who had been released to his wife's custody. Since José's cover was exposed, and they were in the hospital, Ginsburg was temporarily in charge of assignments. Bowser had returned to Brooklyn to open the bar and was still waiting for information on Wendy and Louie.
Even as Yoshi, Matt, Birdo, and the Family jubilantly wandered in and out of Luigi's room, both plumbers wordlessly shared the same sense of shame and helplessness. While they were receiving a long line of kudos, Salvatore was fighting for his life and two children remained missing. Whereas Luigi's hands tremored for a cigarette, his older brother's knuckles itched for the nearest fight. Noticing their discomfort, Daisy and Cousin Maria did their best to redirect the conversation from the overbearing collection of Zia Maria, cousins, and friends, though to little effect. Miles joined the group halfway into their visit; like his best friend, he was pensive and jittery, preferring to stand alone in the corner of the room. He empathized with the Masciarelli brothers' reticence; the Triple-F was somewhere out there, and he had no clue where to begin searching for his mystery archnemesis. Did they really win against the Bowser cell? And what of the Russian USB and George Kariolis? Polina was right; it was a Pyrrhic victory. Sometime during the loud celebration, his and Lou's eyes connected, sharing the same thoughts. He watched his best friend's energy shift from happy to lethargic, silently communicating to his family that he wanted quiet. Reluctantly, they acquiesced, knowing that Daisy, Cousin Maria, or Mario could and would act as enforcer if pressed. Sensing what Luigi and Mario wanted, Daisy mildly seized Miles's wrist to keep him in the room as the others departed down the hallway toward Giuseppe's room.
"Miles, who the fuck fired that missile?" asked Mario.
He shrugged, sinking into the free chair next to Luigi's bed. "My guess is Triple-F. As for whose, uh, hardware it was? I haven't a clue."
"This isn't over, is it?" rasped Luigi. The three others looked at the tired, depressed man. "I mean, yeah, Polina's dead. But we're left with the same problems. Wendy and Louie are missing. Kariolis and Triple-F are still out there. Then ... there's this shit with Rosetti, and ..."
As he looked away, the older plumber studied his hesitant body language. "There's somethin' else, isn't there, fratellino?" Upon hearing Mario's observation, Daisy's amber eyes darted to Luigi's downcast gaze, both curious and fearful of what had been meant.
Nodding faintly, he whispered, "The Mafia. My job."
She took his left hand into hers. "What do you mean, kerido?"
Without glancing at any of them, the younger plumber murmured, "These past few days, I've proven that ... I'm not a finocchio. Pete visited me and said as much. If ... Carlo Morano is alive, then either Joey Bernacchi or Pete will become underboss. Fat Tony doesn't have the clout yet. Too young, I guess. If he's dead, then ... the war may still happen. And I don't think Pete will let go of me that easily."
Miles shook his head. "Lou, I don't follow. How does that have anything to do with you? If anything, you're now a public figure."
"Precisely, Dipshit," Mario interjected. The confused Daisy and Miles regarded him expectantly. "He'd be hiding in plain sight. The hero whom not even the NYPD would question. The genius who saved the plumbers' union." He sighed, wheeling himself closer to the opposite side of his brother's bed. "That's what Uncle Joe feared. What they all feared – Joe, Pops, and Uncle Sal. They knew that this is what Pete and Carlo had always intended. Rosetti, those fuckhead Bowsers, and the Kariolises may have tried to stop it, but ... they didn't count on Weegie himself." Unwilling to jostle his injured right side, the plumber's blue eyes sought out the identical pair buried underneath the weight of expectation and ignominy. "Fratellino, look at me, per favore." Luigi apprehensively raised his eyes to his brother's. "I think I know now. What Pops had been thinking. What he and Sal had been thinking." Facing him, Daisy, and Miles, he said, "DK told me that Pops was lookin' into Lucas Kariolis right before he died. He knew somethin' was up. I think, Weegie, you or youse," he gestured to Daisy and Miles, "told me that Pops was planning on leaving New York. And he called Pete?"
"Yeah, bro," affirmed Luigi. "A week before. I know we were going somewhere."
"And what did the will say exactly?"
Daisy enjoined, "That Luigi be placed in the care of the nearest Rigassi relative if you were unavailable."
The mustachioed soldier flashed a cryptic smile. "Nearest Rigassi relative. If he was plannin' on movin', then I couldn't have been there to take custody. He'd have gone to someone who could and would have the means to protect him."
Daisy's, Miles's, and Luigi's eyes widened. "Salvatore," they all uttered at the same time.
He nodded. "Yeah. Pops and I had our arguments, but there was no fuckin' way he'd have ever risked Luigi by turning him over to Pete Morello. I know that much. And if he was leaving New York, then Giuseppe would've most likely followed. There'd be no way in hell that he'd have been separated from Luigi. Lucia wouldn't have, either, for that matter."
Miles frowned suddenly. "Wait a minute, Mario. Wouldn't have Rosetti known? And could Salvatore have taken custody as a priest? I mean, it sounds like your father thought that they'd ... kill him if he and Luigi went on the run."
Slouching in his wheelchair, he rubbed his mustache and chin, stupefied. "I don't know, Dipshit. And I know priests have been ... released if they were found to have relationships or were otherwise, y'know, unable. Not defrocked in the sense of excommunication but were able to leave the Church. I thought the priesthood kept him alive; Carlo knew he wouldn't break omertà or go to the FBI."
"Uncle Joe said that Rosetti sent Sal to San Francisco. Intentionally. From what he told Daisy, there were some rumors that he was kiddie-diddling," added Luigi, whose eyes were starting to sag from legitimate fatigue.
Mario nodded once more. "Yeah, I remember going to visit Pops at the firehouse in Manhattan and him bein' pissed off about Sal leaving for California. He didn't say why, but I recall him cursin' the Catholic Church more than normal. I hadn't put two and two together ... until now. He never mentioned it afterward, and our relationship ... Well, I never pressed him on much." Flashing a rueful smirk, he mumbled, "Now I wish I had."
"Maybe the priesthood wasn't their idea," concluded Daisy. "Meaning, not Carlo's, Pete's, or even your father's. Maybe ... it was Salvatore's. It was one good way of protecting him from his ... Mafia family. They'd be reluctant to kill a priest."
Luigi stared at his lioness. "Are you saying that it was a ruse?"
She paused, then tilted her head in a halfway-yes, halfway-no gesture. "I can't speak for your uncle's faith, kerido. But if he planned to return and ... get revenge or ..." The three men waited eagerly following her second pause. "Or he planned to come back for ... you, Mario, and ... Giuseppe."
"I could see that for Weegie and I, but Joe was married to Lucia, Sfacciata. By the time he really came back, Joe and Lucia had all three daughters. He was never gonna leave her for him. And Sal'd have been in deep shit if he had even thought about it."
It was time for Miles to interrupt the conversation. "Uh, Mario, Lou ... Although my interaction with Salvatore has been, uh, limited, I have gathered that he doesn't give up. I never got the impression that he wanted Joe to leave your aunt. Even when he was at the house right before the Anniversary, even when he cared for Joe, he kept a distance from him. He could have manipulated him then if he had wanted that." At the three blank looks, he coughed nervously and went on, "Anyway, there are inconsistencies. But not with Salvatore. With Giuseppe."
"What do you mean?" inquired Mario with a hint of irritation. The hacker bit his lip, wavering as to how much to say. "Out with it, Dipshit!" the older man barked.
"Alright," he complied. "The USB with all of that shit on it about the plumbers' union. How did he not know about that picture? And while I'm fucking at it, he's said that he didn't know about your Rigassi cousins. Yet we know that was a lie because of that picture. To say nothing of his relationship with Salvatore, a made man!"
"Miles, wait, what?" rasped Luigi, who had regained some of his strength from sheer fright. "You think he was working with the Bowsers or something? I mean, no offense, but that's ridiculous!"
"No, Lou," the blond denied, shaking his head. "I'm ... I'm not sure what I'm saying. I just know that Joe's been lying about the extent of his involvement."
"Family isn't just blood; it's who you commune with." His own words echoing in his mind, the older plumber's eyes widened in realization. "Yeah, Giuseppe has been lying to us. But not ... in the way you might be thinking." He raised a hand. "The USB ... Not the Russian thing, but the USB that you were given, the one with the picture ... the one he gave you. What if that was Salvatore's?"
Luigi scooted up the pillows slightly, only to wince from aggravating the shoulder wound. Both Daisy and Miles stood up to help him, yet he waved for them to remain seated. "That ... that would make sense. Sal gave it to him as an insurance policy. Or Joe helped him save those files? That'd explain why he didn't know about the photo when he gave it to Miles. He ... told me that Salvatore ... chose the Mafia over him."
Daisy shook her head. "But Salvatore told me that the Mafia cost him everything. He warned me not 'cross the line from bystander to player.' In fact, he's always insisted that I remain ... a bystander, in his words, 'to be safe.'"
"Maybe not everything," murmured the bedridden man. "He's always insisted that 17th Ave was his house. We've been interpreting his words too literally. I think he meant us. You," he nodded at Mario, "Joe, and me." He exhaled again. "Joe's ... always been mercurial. Maybe it's because he's always lived in Pops's shadow. For him, Sal represented the one person who saw him. But since he wasn't Mafia, he couldn't have known all of what ... Sal knew. And Sal ... loved him. Loves us. So he left to protect us. The question is, though, could he really have left the Mafia and kept us safe?"
"Which brings us to Rosetti, Kariolis, and Vinny DiScala," finished Miles, steepling his hands in thought.
Mario leaned back in the wheelchair. "Goddamn, this whole fuckin' thing is one big circle jerk. All's I know is that ... DiScala wanted to be boss. Who knows what the real story is."
"Wait," Daisy suddenly spoke, "is Tony DiScala related to Vinny?"
Miles frowned while Luigi shrugged, responding, "I've never heard of him, but I wouldn't be surprised. Bro?"
He shook his head. "I don't know who the fuck that is. Sfacciata, how do you know that name?"
"While you were out looking for the kids, I had a conversation with Giuseppe. He said that ... Carlo, Tony DiScala, and Paolo Morello forced Salvatore to become Mafia, that they used Joe and your parents against him. That ... your uncle and father helped send him away."
Luigi's and Mario's identical blue eyes connected, having mentally exchanged the same thought. "Some beef with Tony? And Paolo Morello's ... Pete's father." The latter scoffed. "At that sit-down in Denver, with Vinny, the motherfucker was repeating history with Weegie. The question is why. Carlo, or at least, Jackie," he spat, "trusted Kariolis enough not to kill him outright."
"Up on the roof, Polina told me that Kariolis was in it purely for the money. Strangely, I think she was telling the truth," Luigi proffered. "But Rosetti ... if he's old Mafia, or his family was, then ... the kids." Daisy, his brother, and Miles stared uncomprehendingly at the younger plumber, whose skin had blanched. "Polina thought she had a claim on the throne, so to speak. And she wouldn't waste time with the Bowsers – low-level associates at best – unless they had some tactical advantage for her. W-W-What if ... Rosetti ... f-f-fathered Marco?"
"Shit," mouthed his brother. The four people fell silent, each mulling over the newest theory on the Bowser Saga. A couple moments later, Mario, swallowing, went on, "And since Marco's fully New York Italian, and Polina's half-Italian, half-Russian, they probably thought they could somehow muscle their way to the proverbial Commission table. That would also explain why Carlo didn't whack him and Jimmy-B back in '95. But what about John? Is he also ...?"
"I don't think so," replied Miles. "It'd explain why he insisted that John take the bar. Jimmy-B knew he was John's father. Guys ... the kids ... They're now a threat to Pete and even Carlo. They're not fully Italian, true, but neither was Gotti Junior. And if they can't recruit in the future, then they'll take half-Italians. They'll have to."
"That's why Pete went along with the rules, even at the expense of his son and nephew," the younger plumber concluded. "Admitting them ... would've meant the possibility of admitting Marco's children. Goddamnit, when did he know?! Jesus, and when did Sal know?"
"We've been played," Daisy growled, interlacing her fingers with her equally incensed lion's.
Nodding his agreement, Miles stared out into space, hands still steepled. "So, what now? Giuseppe probably doesn't have a clue, although I suspect he'll try to protect Salvatore. And Pete will continue to lie to us. Furthermore, Carlo, Tony, and Joey Bernacchi will have to appear soon, if they are alive. If DK and Hernández find the kids, then ..."
"John may be in danger with them!" exclaimed Mario. "Minchia! And we're in the fuckin' hospital! We can't do shit! And with exception of Yoshi and Maria, we can't trust any of them."
"Mario, I think we can trust José and DK," said Luigi. "C-Call, text 'em. Tell 'em that we've been blindsided. John, too, strange as it is comin' from me."
"Yeah." Fishing for the phone that had slid between his legs, and after a moment of grumbling and grunting, he set it atop his leg, searched for DK's and John's numbers, and texted them each a separate message.
November 22, 2012
St. Rosalia's Catholic Church
Brooklyn, New York
8:34 a.m.
Father Rigassi sat in front of a 2000s-era Dell laptop at his chipped wooden desk, a small cup of espresso in the left corner nearest him. Despite it being Thanksgiving Day in the United States, it was still a workday for him, as St. Rosalia's hosted an annual communal meal late in the afternoon for those who either had no place to go or could not afford it. Several nuns as well as Frankie Gallo, a faithful parishioner who owned a small diner in Flatbush, had woken up earlier that morning to clean and stuff the turkeys for the ovens. The priest's aversion to early mornings was legendary across several parishes; as an act of charity, the snickering sisters ordered him to arrive for vegetable duty at around half-past nine.
Reading through his email, he organized them into the usual categories of weddings, baptisms, confirmations, funerals, Church business, interreligious understanding, ecclesiastical gossip, and the Eighth Circle (spam). Once they had been filed or answered properly, with those requiring a more detailed response to be completed the following morning, Salvatore stared at an empty inbox. Nothing from Joe, Mario, or Luigi. The latter two usually attended mass on the Sunday after holidays, so he was not surprised at a lack of communication from them. However, he chewed his lip in both disappointment and anger at his friend, who could not spare even five minutes to wish him a Happy Thanksgiving. Sal had taken the initiative for the past couple of years, ever since he had willingly gone to Paraguay. Every month or two since November 2001, they called each other to chat, vent, or talk about nothing. During the first couple months, Father Rigassi answered his calls with a voice full of compassion and agape, provoking the spectacled, curly-haired man into a quarrelsome disposition characteristic of the Masciarelli men. Painfully, Salvatore relented, which had only made his heart ache more. He had decided that seven years of pain was enough; wanting to retreat into his old mission days, he accepted the assignment to Asunción. In response, Giuseppe screamed and wailed like a small child, to which the Sicilian yelled in their language, "You made your fucking choice in '83! Stop playing with our emotions!"
So he did, reminded the priest to the mafioso.
Rubbing his face to keep the tears at bay, he began to recite the Peace Prayer of Saint Francis to remind him that he was not alone, but part of a community under Christ's forgiveness. He felt the tranquility of Father Sal pass into him and soothe the decades-old soreness. The priest checked his dime-store watch for the time to make sure that he had sufficient time for meditation and to arrive promptly for kitchen duty. As he reached for his espresso cup, his small throwaway phone began to ring in his pocket. Momentarily confused at who would be calling him on Thanksgiving Day, Sal uttered a few beseeching words to the Almighty not to bring him a sudden death and responded, "Hello, this is Father Rigassi."
"Yes, hello," greeted a semi-familiar voice of a middle-aged woman. "Father Rigassi, this is Rose Franklin at Saint James Nursing Home. We've met a few times in the past."
He nodded in recognition. "Ah, yes, hello, Rose! How are you?"
She chuckled, albeit nervously, which, in his experience, was never a sign of pleasant tidings. "I'm fine, thank you. Actually, I was supposed to be home with my son and the grandbabies, but ... there's a patient here who's insisting upon seeing a priest. You in particular."
"Oh?" he asked curiously. "I'm always glad to see someone – you know that. Is he, uh, or she a parishioner of mine?"
Rose sighed. "He's a priest, Father Rigassi. Actually, he claims to be your priest. But since the stroke last year ..."
A chilly sensation passed through Salvatore's veins. "Armando Rosetti?"
"It is. Father ... He may not have long. It's not an imminent situation, but the doctors have given him months possibly."
He closed his eyes and, putting his hand to the receiver instead of pressing the mute button, took several deep breaths of cool air to repress the screech of rage that was creeping up his esophagus. "I am willing to take anyone's confession," he spoke in a neutral tone. After thanking him profusely, they hung up, with the woman expecting him within the hour. He managed to convey his profuse apologies to the sisters and Frankie and left the church to take the subway to the hospice care facility in Sunset Park. Having been delayed ten minutes to the holiday schedule, Salvatore boarded the N line to 53rd Street and ambled westward to his destination. On the way, he desperately padded the pockets of his black jacket, biting his lip to suppress a litany of curse words at the lack of a cigarette pack and lighter, which had been discarded months previous. Step by step, inhale by inhale, he entered through the sliding doors to the hospital and hospice, where a five-foot-three woman with gray hair and a stern Scots Irish demeanor was already waiting.
"Rose," he hailed her in a soft, almost meek voice.
"Father, thank you again for coming. He's been in and out all morning."
Unable to say anything in that moment, Father Sal merely trailed the petite woman down three hallways – straight, right, then left – until coming to a small hospice room that almost looked like a simple priest's abode: hospital bed, 1940s-era ivory night table, basic brass lamp, green armchair, and a gray and brown wood visitor's chair. In the bed lay a thin and pale man in his seventies with equally mince gray and white hair; while his eyes were closed, he slowly twisted and turned, as if he were dreaming. The younger man bit his lip a second time as he heard Rose's voice echo, "I'll leave you to him." Not knowing what precisely to say or do, he sank into the visitor's chair next to the man's bed and, reaching into his pocket, fingered his ever-present rosary.
The door closed behind them.
Salvatore slid it between his fingertips, delighting in its soft balm, as he stared into the space of air and mock-wood vinyl flooring. What had begun as a lonely day without his biological family descended into the pit of darkness. You, Lord, are forgiving and good, abounding in love to all who call to you. Turning his head, his dark brown eyes met the open, almost-black wells of his compare. "S-Salvatore," gasped the man so faintly that the younger priest had to lean in to hear him.
"I ... Father Rosetti," he saluted, attempting to maintain his professional detachment.
"You ... tend your flock?" asked the old man in Sicilian dialect.
He nodded, unenthusiastic to speak the language which he had always reserved for family. "Sì. The parish is well."
Rosetti swallowed, rotating his head to face the ceiling. "B-beni. P-P-Pi fauri."
In response, Father Sal frowned, shaking his head. "Nun lu capisciu. I don't understand ..."
Sluggishly, the man lifted his right hand and arm a few inches off the mattress. His wrist trembled and tilted to the right. His index finger traced a line north to south, followed by west to east. "B-Bless me, Father, for I have ... s-sinned. 'S ... been ... f-five months ... s-s-since my ... last confession," he whispered in the language. Father Sal remained immobile, waiting. "Th-These are ... my ... sins. A-avarice, p-pride, n-neglect of S-Sunday ... obligation."
The priest stayed carefully impassive. "Tell me about the avarice and pride."
For the next five minutes, the feeble man seized the opportunity to rest, as talking had depleted his energy. The other Sicilian continued to wait patiently, his body motionless, having become one with the chair. "Family ... pride. Money."
Silence fell upon them once more. When Rosetti did not speak further, hoping to get additional details, Father Sal replied in what he hoped was a light manner, "Well, if you wanted money, you chose the wrong profession."
The bedridden man rolled his eyes at the junior's characteristically sarcastic riposte. "Not ... smart as you ... think you are, Salvatore."
He frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"
Snickering faintly, Rosetti responded, "You ... walked away from ... kingdom. Men ... kill to be ... where you were."
Although his eyes shifted from an uneasy brown to pits of black, the former mafioso forced a blithe smile. "Wasn't that the point? We can say to ourselves that the power and the strength of our hands have produced this wealth for us; yet we remember the Lord our God, for it is he who gives us the ability to produce wealth, and so confirms his covenant, which he swore to our forefathers."
Blinking tired, yet calculating brown eyes at Salvatore, the old man let out an indecipherable noise. "Christ's ... all of us. Devil ... also. Sometimes ... devil wins. Christ's kingdom ... perfect. We are not." He exhaled, the fatigue setting into his worn body. "I ... thought that I could fill the vacuum ... you left. There is another."
"Another what?" he hissed, growing impatient by the second.
"Another ... eredi."
Salvatore scoffed and, glaring at the elderly man, pinched his fingers together. "No, it'll be the famiglia di Morano. I will never let them have Luigi or Mario. Jackie and Antonio can have that dark honor if they want it. And I know Pete or Vinny DiScala will probably be candidates, too. They all have free will."
"No!" Armando abruptly shouted in frustration, forcing his interlocutor to flinch. "You've ... been gone a long time. Pietro ... wants Luigi. As does ... Carlo. But Moranos ... have no power once Carlo dies. He's grown ... old. Like me. Even ... Michele's weak. And Vinny's a follower. I ... tried to ensure survival. The Rigassis ... should have died in Palermo ... with your father. You ... should've died." The younger man's eyes narrowed dangerously. "They ... got lucky with Little Galileo. But Giuseppe ruined him. Mario would've done ... the same had he lived. We worried ... for nothing."
"What are you talking about?" Sal demanded lowly, desperate to keep the shield in place.
The elderly priest swallowed as if he were in pain. "The end is near. Brooklyn ... tear itself apart. In ruins."
Biting his lip until he could taste metal and feel the dribbles of lukewarm liquid, he fidgeted in his chair. "What are you saying?!"
Rosetti's eyes bore into his. "My son ... was stronger than your nephew. But I paid ... penance. I had to ... preside over his funeral. Before you left for ... Paraguay."
A mixture of cold realization and hot rage slammed into Salvatore. Seething, he slowly rose from the chair and cast a dark shadow obscuring the priest's face. "YOU!" he spat. "M-Marco?! Why? WHY?!"
"For ... the family."
Avarice and pride.
His hands balling into fists, he sank into the visitor's chair once more. Since Rosetti's last confession had taken place five months prior, the former mafioso comprehended that he had, in all likelihood, confessed to a moment of weakness with Connie Bowser, for which he had performed penance and received absolution. "This was a sin committed many years in the past," he heard himself utter. "And ... Marco died four years ago."
Armando blinked drowsily at him. Sensing that the conversation was almost at an end, Salvatore mulled the man's words. On one hand, the older man was seeking forgiveness, for which, as a priest, he was commanded to grant. Two definitive mortal sins and, quite possibly, a third – the attempted murder of his youngest nephew and his friend, Yoshi. Who was he to judge? He had, after all, killed his share of men. On the other hand, he doubted the man's sincerity. Why wait four years and numerous confessions thereafter to be absolved? And could he be the penitent for the sins?
For as you judge, so will you be judged, and the measure with which you measure will be measured out to you.
Was this his penance?
November 10, 2014
St. Luke's Hospital
Manhattan, New York
2:30 p.m.
Following a full day of intravenous fluids, the physicians insisted that Giuseppe remain under supervision for both the concussion and undetermined effects of his captivity on his immunocompromised body. They telephoned Doctor Gautier at New York-Presbyterian, who then ordered tests of his own, including an MRI and X-ray of his chest and lungs. Aside from the trips to the machines, he spent breakfast and lunch with the Family, eventually including Mario, all assuring him that Luigi would make a full recovery. While Giuseppe was genuinely relieved at his son's prognosis, his general contentedness was contrived. The thirty-six-hour mark had passed without a single word from the ICU. By half past one, he feigned fatigue so that he could be alone with his morose thoughts. Lucia permitted this for an hour, after which she forced him into the wheelchair in the corner and maneuvered him to the elevators.
"You need to get this out of your system, Joe," the plumber's wife stated matter-of-factly as they exited the lift and proceeded down the hallway two floors below his hospital room. "Salvatore ... is important to you and to our nephews. I love you far, far more than I hate him."
"Lu, I ... I don't know what to say," he murmured, not bothering to protest or fight with his spouse.
Crossing the threshold to the lonely room where the Sicilian lay connected to the ventilator, she brought her husband gently to his bedside, put on the break, and leaned in to place a kiss upon his right cheek. "I know," she spoke softly. "You will find the words. And I'll be here when you're ready. Ti amo. Per sempre."
To her surprise, she found masculine lips upon hers, Giuseppe having turned his head intentionally. "You were my choice, Lu," his gravelly voice rumbled. "Never doubt that."
Lucia broke the kiss with a watery smile. "I know, Giuseppe Ludovico Masciarelli. I wouldn't have put up with your unique brand of Masciarelli plumber bullshit for over thirty years if I hadn't been." Giving him a final embrace, she left the room, leaving her spouse with Salvatore and a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.
Joe fidgeted in the wheelchair, looking around the eerily quiet space and then to the vital monitors which he could not interpret. Unable to face his unconscious friend, he let his head drop so that he was gazing at his light green cotton-covered lap. "Luigi ... did it, Sal," he started timidly. "He saved us all. Mario finished the crazy bitch off, yeah, but Luigi – our nephew – saved everyone in this fuckin' place. And not like my brother, he ... he stayed with us, you know?" The plumber fell silent, allowing a few sniffles to echo in the void. "So you can, too. I ..." He huffed to collect himself and his thoughts. "I know that ... you've suffered, Sal, because of me. I couldn't save you, like my brother. And I'm sorry!"
Three tears that he had attempted in vain to repress cascaded down his wrinkled cheeks, and he became nonverbal in a vain attempt to restrain them. They remained alone for minutes afterward, the only sound amalgamating with his tears was the moderate beeping of the machines monitoring Salvatore's vital signs. The former eyed them every minute, as if to intimidate them from falling into the dreaded, singular screech. "Jesus ..." he breathed, once more regaining control. Taking two more deep breaths, though still incapable of lifting his eyes to a point higher than the edge of Salvatore's bed, he resumed, "You weren't supposed to be in the Mafia. We never knew how your father felt, but Soggìra Audenzia, she'd always hoped that ... you'd be a priest. And Gabby, I think, hoped for the same. You tried to bring hope to the family, only for it to crush you. And ..." he sighed heavily before continuing, "I don't think I helped you as much as I could've. I was a stupid kid, whose head was pushed so far up my own ass that I didn't stand up, like a man ..." Joe bit his lip in a mixture of shame and self-reproach. "I was too fuckin' scared to see that ... Mario was right in a way; I could have gone to Princeton or, shit, anywhere but New York, and taken you with me – away from them. Before you got made. You'd have been one of many associates, and that would've been the end of it. Like so many kids from Bensonhurst who survived. You stayed because I stayed. And because I was such a cowardly, selfish prick, I sentenced you and Luigi to ... repeat history." Now crying outright, the plumber sobbed, "You were right, Turiddu; you get old enough, and you're inevitably gonna seek a priest or a shrink."
Despite his tears stinging his sight, he focused on his hands, turning over the left and exposing the diagonal scar across his palm. It had been a little over thirteen years since he had really studied it, since Salvatore had made the dark pilgrimage by foot from the Port Authority to the Pile in search of both sets of Masciarelli brothers, only to find him. After yet another execrable day of shifting through pieces, they returned to the empty house to weep and find comfort in each other. "She gets you for life; I get you for twenty seconds," he recalled the distraught Salvatore murmuring against his lips and pressing their matching scars together. "One second for every year since 1981, Tesoro." Left hands intertwined, they reminisced well into the night, remembering their childhood and memories of the missing Lieutenant Mario Masciarelli and his two sons. As Joe was drifting off to sleep on the abandoned couch, Sal, who was sitting on the floor at his side, vowed, "I will get Luigi back from Jackie. If it's the last thing I am able to do for Mario, for you."
Like so many promises, that one was shattered a week later when prior to boarding the bus to San Francisco, Father Rigassi counseled the heartbroken man to be patient, trust in God, that Jackie and his wife would eventually get bored, and all the other, habitual platitudes and intermediary Man-God bullshit. He already had a priest in Staten Island; he needed him.
Nevertheless weakened from his recent ordeal, Joe guided his left hand to the bed and, feeling blankets, sheets, and finally a warm limb, entangled them as best as he could from the edge. Somewhere after forty-five seconds, having lost himself in memories, vague thoughts, and unidentifiable emotions, his vigil was interrupted with the squeak of an old tire against the linoleum and the voice of a grumbling Brooklynite who rolled into the space next to him. "These fuckin' doctors," he heard the younger man gripe, "always with the thirty-six hours. Even Peaches thought it was bullshit. I don't know if the Army docs pulled that shit when I was first admitted, but it wouldn't surprise me." Too tired and emotional to respond properly, Giuseppe managed a single nod to his eldest nephew. "The Sfacciata's with Weegie. He's resting, so you don't need to worry about him, Zio. As for Sal ..." He exhaled raggedly. "I guess it's now in God's hands. And you know how much I trust that."
His lips trembled slightly into a near smirk. "Masciarelli tradition."
Mario shrugged, observing the immobile Sicilian. "It ain't over, you know?" The older man hummed, the noise conveying ignorance as to what he was referring. "This shit with the Mafia. Wendy and Louie are still missing. But it's not simply because of the Crazy Bitch. Weegie ... has a theory."
Without looking at either man, Giuseppe rasped, "What do you mean?"
The shorter man gave a single, humorless snicker. "Pops was right about him – Weegie. Kid's got an imagination that ... rivals Mama's. Yours, too, had you chosen to use it. DK and José already know, so don't try to play us. Marco Bowser wasn't Jimmy-B's kid."
His blue eyes, now serpentine, bore into Mario. "What the fuck is this?! I would never associate myself with the piece of shit that tried to murder Luigi! Niente! How fucking dare you even suggest it?!" Once he had voiced his outrage, he heard Mario's words again, and his mouth fell open. "Wait ... What the fuck do you mean? Marco had the same sociopathy as his old man! Same red hair, same ..."
"Zio, he may have raised the piece of garbage, taught him the basics of the Mafia and whatever other shit ... But think about it: why would Polina waste time with some no-name bully from Bensonhurst? Unfortunately, you spent time with that bitch – do you think she's down for ... slummin' it?"
He hesitated in his anger, considering the other man's words. "No," he answered. "She seemed ... a bit above it all."
"Exactly. The only reason why she'd be with him if he offered her some advantage." Inhaling as his paternal uncle waited, Mario spoke, "The only way this makes any fuckin' sense is if ... Rosetti was Marco's father. And if that's true, then George Kariolis may be keeping Wendy and Louie ..."
"... As an insurance policy!" interrupted Giuseppe angrily, spinning toward the comatose man. "That's what you kept from me!" he hissed. "All those years ago when you told me to be patient! Did ya know then?! 'Cause you fuckin' knew it at the church!" Suddenly, he felt a strong pair of hands fall upon his shoulders to calm him.
"'Ey, take it easy, Joe!" instructed Mario to his uncle, who was vibrating from ire and anguish. "Stai tranquillo. You know that Sal's a priest. If he didn't tell us something that important, it's because he couldn't." Breathing raggedly, the elder plumber let out a sound halfway between a scream and a growl in response. "I know," he said more gently to Joe. "It's why I've never envied priests. The fuckin' shit they must hear, day in and day out; the fuckin' secrets they gotta take to the grave."
"Luigi ... is more important than some goddamned priest's dirty secret!"
"It must've killed him."
Giuseppe abruptly let out a howl of pain and gripped Salvatore's wrist tightly. Unsure of what to do in that moment, Mario froze, watching the middle-aged man sob like a small child. Upon hearing her husband's yelp, Lucia rushed into the room. As she attempted to calm him, she yelled, "What did you do, nipote?!"
The expressionless soldier replied, "I told him the truth, Zia. I didn't want him findin' out ... from Pete Morello ... about Rosetti."
She cradled her spouse's head into her chest, rocking him vaguely in the wheelchair. After he calmed down, she asked in a softer tone, "Father Rosetti?"
He nodded. "Yeah, Zia. He fathered that piece of shit, Marco Bowser."
Lucia's horrified brown eyes met Mario's muted blue ones. "Jesus Christ! And I'm guessing Salvatore knew."
"Yeah." Breaking eye contact with his aunt, he glanced to the bedridden man. "Uncle Sal put the fear of God in John ... Bowser ... the night that Zio collapsed and I brought him to Manhattan. Zia, he was ready to take the man apart – I saw it myself. Down in the tunnels, he took out Vinny to protect us. He'd brought his old Beretta, so he'd planned it. I don't think he wanted to keep this a secret."
The blonde closed her eyes. "The confessional. I sensed ... there was something amiss about that man. Rosetti. Your father did, too, but I always thought it was because ... he hated religion. I never quite understood why Mario kept you and Luigi in that fucking school."
"He promised Gabby, amore," mumbled Joe.
"Gabby would never have wanted this! Pigheaded Masciarelli men!" Her husband grunted while Mario shrugged a little. "Honestly, nipote, I could care less about the Mafia. If Pete Morello wants to earn his dirty money, let him get arrested or killed. Because it will happen. But I do care about Luigi. Joe ... is not wrong; we – he and I – did raise your brother ... with the blessing of both your mother and father. In the past week, he's been abducted, tortured, and shot – all thanks to the fucking Mafia. I fully intend on taking both Joe and Luigi home to Eltingville. Then I want him – them – out of the plumbers' union, away from Morello and the rest of those assholes. Maria has to deal with them, but only when it comes to Staten Island contracts. She can work in New Jersey where that union has no real interest in our lives. Let Luigi go to California with the Abravanels. He's got these people in Europe instead, and engineering is just as good a profession as any."
Both Masciarellis lifted or shifted their heads to stare at her. "What the hell did you just say, Lu?!" her husband demanded. "No. No! Absolutely not!" Although he did not say a word, the other plumber crossed his arms in soundless agreement with his paternal uncle.
Lucia rolled her eyes irritably. "Basta! The union has brought nothing but misery to him! To our daughter, Joe! If Maria could be persuaded, I'd have her leave, too. The difference is that she will be protected by her gender and geography. Luigi, on the other hand, is in the lion's den, by the nature of his family, location, and intellect. At what fucking point does the Masciarelli pride yield to common sense?!"
"Zia, Morello's in Denver, which is a helluva lot closer to San Francisco than New York, andI can't protect him across the country! The Army still owns my ass for another nine months, assuming that we don't get into another war. The only way I can get transferred to the West Coast – Seattle or Colorado Springs – is if I go active and sign up for another three years. At that point, I'd need to stay in through twenty years to make it financially worthwhile. And Peaches has her job here in New York. As for Joe?" Mario sighed, giving a pitying look toward her angry husband, "He can't go to California in his condition. No offense to Harry Abravanel – he's probably a shark lawyer, but so's Pete, in more than one sense."
Biting her lip, she put her head into her hand and nodded. "Well, what about Massachusetts? Didn't Daisy apply to Harvard?"
"Yeah," replied her nephew. "Yale, too, I think. If she gets in, we could go to Boston. She and Weegie could go to school; Peaches could get a transfer up there. A couple of the guys on base could help me get a plumbing job and grease their union to expedite my journeyman's license in Massachusetts; they've offered in the past."
Joe disentangled himself from his wife's arms. "He's no safer in Massachusetts or California than he is here. At least, here, he's got his family. My health?" He glared pointedly at Mario. "Well, it ain't worth very fuckin' much if our figlio's still runnin' from those bastards." Then he shook his head, swallowing against a large lump in his throat, and gazed at Lucia meaningfully. "I've ... lost too many people in my life. And I'm not leavin' this world with more regret, whenever that may be."
Luigi blinked awake, his eyes straightaway focusing on the lioness sprawled across his unwounded side like an old, cherished blanket. "She'll lead you down the path," he began to sing mellifluously, "there'll be tenderness in the air; she'll let you come just far enough so you know she's really there." Somnolent amber orbs appeared into his sight. Grinning, he continued in a whisper, "And she'll look at you and smile. And her eyes will say she's got a secret garden ..." Instead of finishing the verse, he leaned in for her kiss.
Her smooth facial skin and the tip of her nose vibrated at the feeling of Luigi's rough, brown bristles. "You need a shave, kerido."
"What? You don't like my new mane, cat-face?" he teased.
"I've grown to love your mustache, plumber. But only when it's properly maintained."
Letting out a low chuckle, he pecked her on the lips. "I also need a toothbrush. I'm sure Mario or Lucia will bring me a kit so that I can ... be properly groomed. Once I'm released, I will rectify the issue, preferably in a bathtub with my favorite cat-face." Her position unchanged atop the side of his chest, she hummed her approval. He squinted at her meditative, almost anxious form. "You've got a secret garden, principessa; that, I know. But I'd pay a king's fortune to hear your fair voice."
He saw part of a smile spread across her face. "A king's fortune, eh?" A few taciturn seconds passed before Daisy spoke again, "I was just thinking, sometimes, things happen for a reason. I never believed in determinism. It's in fact a little debate that my father and I have had since ... well, since I was a kid. I still don't, but I can't deny that past events help define the present. And the present has an outcome on the future. Where the, uh, randomness comes into play is through which events have the most influence." Luigi simply nodded, waiting for her to finish her reflection. She twisted her head so that their eyes met a second time. "And we so rarely take note of those events when they happen. Hence the adage about history repeating itself. But let it never said that I am a stupid woman."
"What do you mean?" he queried, now apprehensive at the potential meaning of her words.
"In this whole thing ... with Polina Bowser and the Mafia, events – choices, really – in the past created the mess that we're left with now. But I think ... I know what the deciding factor is. It's you, kerido. And us all, too. It's ironic because ... of all of us, I think, you're the most opposed to fighting. Yet you were the first to stand up to her, Lucas, and even the band of Russian assclowns."
In spite of himself, Luigi burst out laughing. "Assclowns?" Reaching up with his left hand to awkwardly stroke strands of her hair, he added, "Heh, it's not an inaccurate description. You were with me, every step of the way, you know? I ... I just ..." Upon hearing the hesitation in his voice, Daisy's eyes and heart tremored. "I just hope that ... you continue to be. Even after." He bit his lip and let out a ragged breath. "Pete and Carlo are going to press the issue. And I hate fighting. And I certainly don't want it for you."
"Luigi," she asserted, "what if I choose it?"
His blue eyes bore into her, and she felt the force of his fear, anxiety, and disbelief. "I'm not ..."
"Worth it?" She raised an auburn eyebrow at him. "Don't test my patience, plumber." His mouth opened and shut within two seconds. "You are worth it. Firstly, I am not about to spend another six, ten, even twenty years wondering why I let ... the most indecisively brave man I've ever met slip through my fingers. Secondly, if you haven't noticed by now, I am not afraid of a little danger."
Her last sentence triggered an eyebrow raise from her lover, who sarcastically mouthed just a little danger, only a little, and pinched his fingers together.
Daisy playfully swatted the snickering man. "Hey, quit being an asshole!"
"Ow! I think that's abuse of the attorney-client privilege, cat-face."
"I'm not an attorney yet. So ... there's always small claims."
Luigi's eyes narrowed. "Be glad, Daisy Abravanel, that I'm currently a man with use of only one arm." In return, she laid her head on him as he crooked his left arm around her. "And she'll look at you and smile, and her eyes will say, she's got a secret garden." As he whisper-sang the Bruce Springsteen tune, the plumber felt her trace hearts on his torso. "Where everything you want," he went on, "where everything you need, will always stay a million miles away."
"Beautiful," she rasped. "Did you sing when you were younger?"
He shook his head. "Nah. Uncle Sal always tried to get me to join the school choir, but I ... I was always too shy. I played the violin until I got brave in seventh, eighth grade, and was the lead ballerino in Le Corsaire." Peering down at her, he murmured, "But I'll always sing for you."
"Makes one of us. I would, but ... I was never musically inclined."
Humming noncommittally, he responded, "Nah, you can just whip out that kung fu shit and become Wonder Woman." They grew quiet again, each lost in their own thoughts. "Cat-face?" he called out to her. A cross between a hum and a purr emanated from somewhere under auburn strands of hair; smaller fingers continued to trace hearts on his body. "While I still don't know that I deserve you, I ... I have faith in your judgment. My protector."
Feeling her grin, Luigi encouraged her to relax against him, sinking into the pillows to drift into a second round of sleep. His eyes were on the third set of flutters when he heard a young man's uncomfortable cough near the entrance. The plumber gazed sleepily in that direction, where a sheepish Matt Morello stood, waiting to be acknowledged. Despite his physical entreaty to remain in her spot, Daisy shifted to a semi-seated position to face her peer.
"Hey," he began, not quite looking them in the eye.
"Hey," replied Luigi while Daisy squinted in confusion and, observing his body language, suspicion.
Matt took two steps forward. "Dad ... sent me. We're staying a few days more than anticipated. Partly due to Sam's recovery, which is going well, by the way, and partly due to ... a recent development. Um, Daisy, I can't ... I'm sorry, but I can't say this in front of you."
"She stays, Matt," Luigi cut in evenly. "Whether she hears it now or I tell her later, it won't make any difference."
He sighed, then nodded. "Fair enough. There's going to be a meeting, a sit-down. We realize you're still in the hospital and don't know when you'll be released. The sit-down actually concerns you, so ... we'll wait until you're out. But it needs to happen. Wendy and Louie have been located, and they'll be returned to John Bowser at the earliest opportunity."
"Are they alright?" queried the Brooklynite in a worried tone.
"They are," he said with a nod. "I haven't seen them personally, but it comes from a very credible source. Anyway, their return is ... predicated upon your attendance. And just you – no Mario, Giuseppe, Miles, Yoshi, or," he flashed an apologetic smile to his cousin's girlfriend, "you, Daisy."
Her eyes narrowed angrily. "Matt, this isn't right! Someone's going to – what – hold on to frightened children while we wait until the hospital releases Luigi?!"
"Daisy," interjected the Coloradan, raising a hand to waist level, "it won't be like that. I give you my word, and I did ask. Dad and John already have been allowed to see them. It's ... political."
Luigi scoffed. "You mean someone knows that Wendy and Louie's grandfather is Father Armando Rosetti and is using that to their full advantage?"
Matt's brown eyes widened. "Wait ... You know?"
"We figured it out, yeah," he retorted. "So I don't know why the hell there needs to be a sit-down with me as the guest of honor. If you've recovered the kids, then why ..." He and Daisy exchanged a glance of realization. "Because you don't actually have custody, do you? Someone else ... George Kariolis ... does."