Announcement: this will be the penultimate chapter of this story. The epilogue will come on 23 December 2023. So the numbering is still correct. Stay tuned for the conclusion! That also means your vote for whether the sequel should take place in 2019 or 2021 is due.
Chapter 64: Deus ex machina
"Vital signs stable ..."
"He's coming to ..."
To the semi-conscious man, whereas the nurses' voices seemed to echo disconnectedly, a familiar echo reverberated near his ear: And not like my brother, he ... he stayed with us, you know? So you can, too. His eyelids struggling against the heavy sedatives, Salvatore let out a faint gasp of confusion and annoyance.
"Father Rigassi, can you hear me?" asked an unknown woman.
"Yeah," he mumbled. "Where ... Am I late again?"
"Late?" He tried to nod, but he felt a woman's hands keep him in place. "Stay still, Father."
"Yeah ... I need to celebrate morning mass. Can't ... let Levesque down again."
There was a brief pause, after which another nurse responded, "Uh, Father Rigassi, it's evening. Do you know where you are?"
"S-San Francisco. C-Castro and 18th."
"Father, you're in Manhattan. St. Luke's Hospital. You were shot a few days ago – underneath the Columbia University tunnels. It's okay; you were put under heavy sedation and drugs to allow your body to rest a bit. As a result, you may be a little confused for the next few hours, possibly days. You were shot in the torso. Do you feel any significant pain?"
He gave a slight nod. "Side ... ribs ... hurt. Throat ... dry."
The bed buzzed as his body was brought to a sixty-degree reclined position. "Okay, we'll give you some meds and ice chips in a little while. We want to make sure that you're breathing on your own first."
Although his eyes remained closed, Salvatore's brow frowned in consternation, as if the events of the previous seventy-two hours had precipitously rushed to his conscious memory. "D-D-Did ... Wh-where are ... my nephews? G-Giuseppe Masciarelli? Where are they? Are they ...?"
"Take it easy, Father," firmly crooned the sympathetic woman. "They are all here in the hospital. Once you're a bit more stable, they'll be able to see you. Alright?"
Another few seconds passed before he managed a small nod and pivoted his head onto the right side of the pillow. The next thing he remembered hearing was Joe's voice chant, "Turiddu ... Turiddu ... svegliati."
Grumbling, the Sicilian slowly revolved in the direction of his former lover's tenor. "Tesoro ..." Then he flashed a cheeky grin. "S-Still angry with me?"
He heard the man scoff. "Fuckin' Sicilian coglione ... Certo! That bullet could've done more damage than it did, and the doctors aren't sure how much recovery time you'll have. Big fuckin' hero."
Salvatore shrugged, wincing at the consequential pain. "No other option available. Vinny ... would've shot you all. La famiglia non è una cosa importante. È tutto." His brown eyes opened, staring at Giuseppe's fuming blue ones. "Tu ... Mario ... Luigi ..." he rasped, swallowing against the soreness in his throat, "siete tutto per me. If ... I ... I lost you ... any of you ..." A taciturn Joe furiously wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, a gesture which the bedridden man had recognized from their childhood, when he tried not to let anyone see how much his father's emotional and, on occasion, physical abuse had affected him. "I ... sorry, Tesoro. I never ... wanted to hurt you."
"Yeah, well, your death would've hurt me plenty, you prick."
"That's my Tesoro abruzzese – the more insults ... that come out of your mouth, the more ... I know ..."
"Stai zitto, stronzo!"
Chuckling, Salvatore beamed brightly. "Haven't heard that one in a long time."
The squeak of tires against polished hospital linoleum interrupted their conversation. The Sicilian blinked tiredly at the appearance of his wheelchair-bound eldest nephew. Grimacing in alarm and confusion, he opened his mouth to ask the expected question when Mario replied, "It's aight, Zio. Just a few cuts; they're makin' me use this fuckin' thing to give my leg a break. After you got shot in the tunnels, we got you out. Polina and George Kariolis tried to kill you again. I, uh, took out the trash."
"She's ... dead?"
Mario nodded. "Yeah, Zio."
"Where's ... your brother? Where's Luigi?!"
As the priest became visibly upset and panicked, Joe took his hand while the younger man wheeled closer to him. "Take it easy. He's okay." Casting an apologetic look to his paternal uncle, who wordlessly, yet reluctantly gave his permission to tell him, he said, "Before I ... killed the bitch, she shot Weegie." Salvatore's worried brown eyes became a horrified black, and he began to tremor with unshed tears and moans. "Take it easy, Zio!" enjoined Mario more forcefully, placing his hands on his shoulders. "Aight, he's okay. The bullet went through his shoulder – deltoid. It's not great, though it's the best place possible, meaning he didn't get his rotator cuff severed. He's probably got physical therapy in the future, but he's awake, huh? And even with the fuckin' Sfacciata."
His brown eyes shifted to Giuseppe, who nodded solemnly. "He's telling you the truth, Turiddu. Luigi's a tough kid. He'll be here probably tomorrow."
"Quella troia russa!" spat Salvatore, causing Mario to blink at his maternal uncle's rare use of true profanity. "May God forgive me, but ... I'm glad she's burning in hell. She can't hurt ... you or our niputellinu ever again. He ... can live free now." Mario chewed on his lip, carefully avoiding Joe's preemptive warning not to say anything further. Despite his weakened state, the Sicilian sighted his nephew's hesitation. "Niputi ... your uncle's trying to protect me. I appreciate the gesture ... as futile as it is."
"We don't know where Wendy and Louie Bowser are. George Kariolis is also in the wind. DK and José Hernández are lookin' for 'em. We all know this isn't over. Not by a long shot."
Glowering at them for a solid minute, an action which made Mario shiver involuntarily, he finally inquired, "And where's Pete? Carlo?"
"Pete's been in and out, Zio. Sam Carlino ... his nephew ... was shot, too. He's recovering. And Carlo?" The plumber shrugged. "No one knows."
"Gennaro won't be pleased," the Sicilian mused sympathetically. Joe and Mario's eyes fluttered briefly as he explained, "Granted, it's been ... more than thirty years since I last saw Gene. But I can't imagine that the ... relationship between Pete and Gene ... has improved any. Gene's more ... reserved. He's ... content with being a ... big fish in a small pond. New York crews never had a ... problem with him." He sank back atop the pillows, his body fatiguing from the three-day-long chemical immobility. "And you're right that ... it isn't over." He moaned, took a few deep breaths, and, feeling momentarily rejuvenated, faced Joe and their nephew. "But it's a matter for ... others. You've ... rescued Luigi and Joe. F-Focus on healing and ... Cristina. Per favore."
As Mario's lips parted to argue, Giuseppe's eyes narrowed at him to keep quiet. "Nipote, would you go get Lu? I'll need someone to wheel my sorry ass outta here." Again, the younger man's voice hitched with an incomprehensible protest until he read his paternal uncle's firm stare: he won't tell us with you here, nipote.
"Yeah," he answered reluctantly, maneuvering himself out of the room to give them privacy.
The spectacled plumber gazed at the soundlessly inquiring patient. "Turiddu, Mario's right. This ain't over. And Pete's continued presence worries me. And does ... the reemergence of Rosetti's name."
Salvatore intertwined their left hands. "I ... made a vow ... to you, Giuseppe Ludovico Masciarelli. I ... know what ... the Bible ... s-says. But G-God's ... m-mercy ... love. Forever. Mario and Luigi ... will be safe."
"What the hell are you planning to do?!" Joe hissed, frightened at once by his friend's words.
He gave him a wolfish grin. "Tesoro, what could I possibly do ... from a hospital bed in the ... ICU? Huh?" At his flame's skeptical look, he let his head roll tiredly. "You've ... always worried too much about what you can't control. Tired now. Let me ... sleep for a bit."
Staring at the man, the Abruzzese growled an incomprehensible admonition, to which the frail Salvatore smirked, squeezed his hand, and closed his eyes. Lucia walked in quietly to steer her husband out of the room as requested. Mario was waiting in his own wheelchair. Once they were within a few feet, he inquired, "So what happened?"
Still muttering invectives in his native dialect, and upon realizing that his nephew was waiting for a more detailed answer, Giuseppe eventually managed in English, "Your uncle Sal is up to something. Fucking goddamned Sicilian!" Mario and Lucia exchanged an exasperated, albeit amused look. After a few moments, Joe rolled his eyes at the keen silence from his wife, who was pushing him down the hall, and nephew rolling leisurely next to him. "I didn't get much out of him. If he wanted to tell me, he would. And if he doesn't ..."
Lucia bit her lip worriedly as Mario demanded, "You think he's going to challenge Carlo or Pete? What about the Church? He's a priest, for fuck's sake!"
Halting in front of the elevators to wait for their shared floor, the spectacled man harrumphed. "He's made, kid. You've lived long enough in Bensonhurst to understand what that means." He shifted his eyes up to his anxious wife's brown orbs and whispered, "Mario and Luigi are safe, Lu. They'll always be safe."
She nodded uneasily at the same time as the lift doors opened to transport them to their wing.
Despite Daisy's pleas to inform them straightaway, Luigi decided to keep the Morano clan's "invitation" from Mario, Joe, and her father until he had the opportunity to speak with Uncle Sal. Per their agreement, she said nothing about the conversation with Matt Morello who, incidentally, remained nearby thereafter, as if to ensure that Luigi did not try to abscond from the hospital. Daisy also noticed his not-so-subtle reconnaissance; texting Miles – whom her lover did not prohibit – she detailed the situation in an encrypted message. Accompanied by Yael, who had arrived to bring her to their rented flat, on the way to the main entrance, she received an "OMW" followed by an exclamation point. Now that she knew someone whom she trusted was watching, she could eat, freshen up, and return to guard her lion.
Approximately a half-hour later, Miles stepped out of the elevator onto Luigi's floor and scanned for his Colorado counterpart; the latter was walking in front of him toward Luigi's room, cup of plain black coffee in hand. The Chelsea hacker slipped behind a corner to obscure his presence while Matt positioned himself within a short, observable distance of his second cousin's location. He took out his phone to send a protected text to Luigi: "Matt Morello's guarding you." Miles received no reply for two or three minutes; fearing that his friend was asleep or incapacitated, he was on the verge of revealing himself when his phone buzzed silently. Reading Luigi's text that he knew and needed to see Uncle Sal, he breathed a mixed sigh of relief and consternation. Matt was guarding his friend for a reason; the hacker suspected one of two scenarios: either Triple-F and Kariolis were preparing another assassination attempt, which he found less likely, or the Morano administration, most likely Pete Morello, would try to force Luigi's hand for some reason. In both cases, the current mafiosi would preclude contact between Luigi and Salvatore.
That did not mean he could not approach the priest.
Arranging his hood to obscure the back of his very blond hair, he dipped his head down and allowed his uncanny ability to blend into any crowd, strolling to the small group of people gathered around the elevator. He followed them inside the space, read the listings for each department, then verified that someone had already pressed the number where the ICU was found. Once he departed the lift, Miles texted Luigi for Salvatore's hospital number. The subsequent buzz brought bad news: since he had not spoken with Mario, his friend did not know. Mumbling a few Spock-related invectives, the blond skidded behind another corner to hack into the system and retrieve the required information. Once he had re-oriented in the direction of the Sicilian's room, he proceeded down the left side of the hallway. Although he kept his eyes downcast to avoid suspicion, he flinched in shock at the two burly men in mustard yellow and dark blue tracksuits a few feet ahead of him: the pungent smell of body odor and garlic emanated from the rightmost man and the glint of gold chains from the other. Since there was no available corridor or corner, Miles ambled behind them until they arrived at Salvatore's room; face still obscured, he walked by them to avoid detection. Then, counting to fifteen and looking over his shoulders to see no one in the passageway, he tiptoed to a safe distance where he could spy and, if needed, escape.
Five feet and to the right, Miles heard the faint, proper speech of Salvatore and the audible, obscenity-laced baritones of Fat Tony and another man – Markie – who apologized that his partner, Leo, was unable to join them due to his being with their boss. The blond hacker's eyes narrowed in suspicion and revulsion. Where in fucking Vulcan hell had Tony Morano been during the assault on Mario and Luigi? Whereas the two men talked at length in a sort of fused Sicilian-English code, which he could not even transcribe for Mario to translate, the attentive Salvatore listened, sporadically grunting, or replying with a Sí, certu, to indicate comprehension or agreement. Subsequently to the young man's surprise, the older Sicilian issued a command in his native language. Though he could not understand the meaning, Miles could discern intention: unlike the priest's normally docile or light speech, his intonation was clipped and dark. He crept closer and rolled his head to see inside: the two fat wiseguys moved to embrace the bedridden man. Dazed, the hacker retreated in a near run down the hallway. Dashing inside the closing elevator which, thankfully, was going down, he regained his breath. Shit, shit, shit, Spock's ass, spiked Klingon dick, shit, shit! He mentally repeated these profanities until disembarking on Luigi's floor and collapsing into the first available chair in the hall.
How in the hell could he tell Mario, Luigi, or Giuseppe what he just saw? And he wasn't even certain that he was correct. From a purely logical standpoint, he was unable to understand the conversation between the obvious wiseguys and Salvatore.
Oh, cut the shit, interrupted Sonic's voice in his mind. You know damn well what you saw.
Rarely did he hear his brother's admonishments nowadays; when he did hear them, however, it was a sign that his reticent, logical mind needed to cede to his pragmatic, moralistic judgment. Whether you tell Luigi or Mario now or later, they will find out. And how do you think they'll feel if they learn you saw this and said nothing? challenged the imaginary Sonic.
"Secrets have already killed this family several generations over," Miles spoke aloud. "But who do I tell? Giuseppe will ... confront Sal. It could endanger Luigi. Same with Mario. But Luigi's being guarded. If the Morellos find out ..."
Who do they suspect the least or can't do shit about?
"Miles, what are you doing over here?" queried a British-accented soprano. Shaken from his mental debate, he turned to see Peach standing next to his chair, eyebrow raised in both curiosity and concern. "Mario and Luigi's rooms are further down the hall. Are you alright?"
The best alternative right in front of him, the hacker immediately stood up and rasped, "Peach, I need to talk to you. Alone. Away from Mario and Luigi. I don't intend to keep this from them, but once I explain, you'll understand my reasoning."
"Oh," answered the blonde. "Right, um ... There's an empty office that my colleagues here have been letting me use. Shall we?"
Nodding, he shadowed the physician in the opposite direction; they quickly strolled along the lengthy linoleum to a small, empty office. Once the nervous Miles crossed the threshold and positioned himself in the corner, Peach shutthe door and stood in front of him. "What's wrong?"
The hacker ran a hand through his medium-length blond hair which, he observed absent-mindedly, needed a cut. "Have you spoken with Luigi or Daisy?"
"Recently, no. Mario told me that Salvatore has woken up. That's why I'm here, actually. Well, in part."
"Salvatore's definitely awake," he affirmed, unintentionally interrupting her. Unoffended, she remained quiet to allow him to continue. "I, uh, saw him. Well, from a distance. He had ... guests."
Peach's eyebrows raised, and her blue eyes twinkled. "Oh?" Miles stared at her, after which she realized what he was really saying. "Oh. His famiglia."
He nodded. "Yeah. Fat Tony and another guy. They were speaking in Italian – Sicilian dialect, I think – so I didn't understand precisely what they were saying, but ..."
"But what, Miles? Please tell me!" urged the woman worriedly. "He's ... my brother-in-law. Luigi. The Mafia's dangerous."
His brown eyes met her gaze. "They embraced him. Salvatore."
She gasped and, putting her hand to her open mouth, began to pace. "Cazzo! Bloody hell ... I knew there was something about Salvatore. Mario said ... Salvatore told Giuseppe that they and Luigi would be safe. God, now I know what he meant. Mario needs to know, Miles. He needs to know now!"
As she spun to the door, he put up his hands to stop her. "Wait, Peach. I mean, yes, I agree, but there's more. Matt Morello's ... guarding Luigi's room. Right now. That's why I'm here. Daisy asked me to investigate."
"Matt Morello?! Pete Morello's son?" she demanded. Then her eyes froze in comprehension once more. "Pete Morello's order. Shit!" Her hand slid to her head. "I don't know anything about the Mafia. In Italy, they are extremely dangerous and murderous. Knowing about one of their members is enough to get you killed. But I know the Americans operate differently. Mario knows more."
"Agreed, but Luigi needs to know. I don't think Mario can protect him this time."
Her attention snapped to the soft-spoken, yet firm Miles. "That will kill him. Mario ... needs to be able to protect Luigi. He already feels guilty for leaving him in New York after September 11th ..."
"I know, Peach," he gulped nervously, "however, maybe, that's the problem. Mario and Luigi's father tried to run. Joe tried to hide Luigi in the plumbers' union. Mario always stepped in front of Luigi. Meanwhile, Salvatore and Pete have been there the entire time. Waiting. But Luigi's proven to be ... more than anyone thought he'd be. I think ... it's time we let him take control. I think we have to."
Peach's head twitched in a semi-nod. "Okay. What do you suggest?"
"We have to get the message to Luigi. I could do it via encrypted text or email. But ..."
"You think it's better that it comes in person," she concluded, to which he gave a single nod. "And neither Mario nor Giuseppe can know until he does. Because they'll try to get in front of him. Daisy may try, as well." Another nod. "God, it's taking everything in me not to do it myself."
"I know," he rasped.
Crossing her arms, Peach began to pace as she was wont to do when faced with a critical, albeit non-life-threatening decision. A minute later, she came to a halt in a wordless eureka. "Harry Abravanel. He's Luigi's solicitor, yeah? I suspect that the Morellos would be playing with fire should they try to interfere with him."
"He also stood up to Salvatore and Giuseppe," Miles added, mulling over her suggestion. "And he doesn't always tell Luigi what he wants to hear." With a final nod, he looked at Peach's hopeful stare. "Yeah, I agree."
She reached into the pocket of her light pink blazer for her phone. "I do have his number. While we were waiting for Luigi to wake up, he gave it to me, in case Mario or Giuseppe were unavailable." Flipping through her contacts for his cellphone number, she selected it and put the device to her ear. "Yes, hello ... Yes, Mister Abravanel. I realize that this is highly irregular, but it's urgent. Correct. I have Miles Prower, Luigi's friend. Yes, one moment." She handed him her smartphone.
"Y-Yes, hello. I'll try to be brief. Matt Morello is guarding Luigi's room. Daisy asked me to investigate; Luigi's aware but wanted to speak with his uncle Sal. Yes. Yes. I went to visit Salvatore. Yes, I was alone. Well, what choice did I have? No, I didn't break into anything! Okay, I saw two guys, one of whom I didn't recognize and other was Fat Tony. Yeah, Tony Morano. They were, uh, I think taking orders from Salvatore. No, I didn't hear what was said because it was in Sicilian, and I only speak English, Klingon, and some Romulan. Well, the two were embracing Sal. I've seen enough mobster movies to know that's what they do with the don! Yeah. Yeah, I saw it myself. Okay." He handed the now disconnected line to Peach who waited expectantly. "He's on his way. I mean ... I get that he's protective of his daughter, but sometimes, that guy's a real dick."
A pensive Luigi chewed on his chicken satay and shrimp soup from the Thai diner down the street, where Peach had ordered his dinner. Inside the plastic bag had contained a handwritten message in Italian from his brother's girlfriend: il tuo avvocato arriva presto. Had Miles found something? Why had he not come by directly? It had been ten minutes since the delivery guy had left the meal; he saw Matt look inside curiously, sniff to identify what the cuisine was, then went back to his post just outside of the threshold. No wonder why Polina and Triple-F were able to take over for as long as they had. The security here sucks! he thought as he set his fork down and sipped his tea.
"Matt Morello, right?" echoed a Bostonian's tenor near his room. Luigi leaned in slightly, though he could not hear his second cousin's reply. "I'm here on official, legal business. Yeah, that means, 'Screw.' Give my regards to your father." Presumably having ensured that the skinny Coloradan obeyed his pointed directive, the visibly exhausted Harry Abravanel sauntered inside and closed the door behind him. "You're a popular man, Mister Cannoli," he commented while sinking into the visitor's chair. "Word has it that the Mayor of New York will be visiting you and your brother tomorrow or the day after. Then you have your cousin guarding you like gold."
Luigi sighed, glancing away in what Harry judged as either annoyance or anger. "Yeah. Apparently, there's going to be some ... sit-down where I'll unfortunately be the guest of honor. Or dishonor. I just want to go home."
"Kid, I hate to break it to you, but that was never going to happen. You're way too important now." His blue eyes met familiar amber orbs. "Only in the movies does a public figure become untouchable. You'll be a public figure for exactly fifteen minutes. You'll receive the bullshit kudos from the mayor, just so he doesn't look like the stupid dick who couldn't secure a hospital. The truth is that ... you're a Bensonhurst ragazzo, whose plumbing union and job are controlled by the underworld. And even if you run, say, to California, you've got Pete Morello within a two-hour flight from Denver. I warned Daisy about this. Now I'm saying it to you, Mister Cannoli." He watched Luigi push his food away in a wordless declaration of having lost his appetite, which only emboldened him. "Miles and Peach sent me. They care about you. But they want you to understand your predicament. Miles ... saw something that could very well endanger him." Luigi's fearful eyes met his for a second time. "He saw the transition of power. Very few people, let alone non-Italians, have ever seen it. If they know he saw, they'll kill him. So he cannot help you now."
"W-What did he see exactly?" stammered the plumber, whose stomach churned with the opaque truth that he was unwilling to admit.
"Your maternal uncle is awake. You knew that." He waited for Luigi's faint affirmation. "Then there's Pete Morello's sudden desire to protect you like glass."
The younger man swallowed. "Yeah."
"Ever wonder why?"
He bit his lip, replying with a semi-closed mouth, "Yeah, I've got a few guesses."
Harry nodded, exhaling. "Good, then we understand each other. This is your show, kid."
"Matt ... said something to me and Daisy," whispered Luigi. "He said that ... Pete and John Bowser have seen Wendy and Louie. They've been ... located, but I'm supposed to be at this sit-down to recover them. I think George Kariolis has them still."
Leaning back in his chair, the spectacled man crossed his arms. "Look, I'm not going to sugarcoat this. If the police don't know that Wendy and Louie are being held hostage, and you go to this ... sit-down, then you could be in legal trouble. The Manhattan DA was willing to give you and your brother a pass on the Columbia tunnels excursion because your device saved not only countless lives but the physical property of the university. Furthermore, it is demonstrable that you acted in self-defense and fully cooperated with the NYPD. This, however, is an independent operation. If ... Carlo Morano is there, then you haven't just been screwing around with – what's his name – Fat Tony Morano or even Pete Morello, but the Boss of the Morano Famiglia. At that point, Luigi, you're more than an associate. And your fifteen minutes won't protect you from the NYPD, the FBI, or the DA – Kings County or Manhattan. They'll use you in a RICO case to get the Moranos. And let me tell you, kid, Daisy isn't going into Witness Protection just for your Italian ass."
As Harry finished, Luigi was heaving with various emotions. Slamming his left fist against the mattress, he snarled, "Well, what the fuck do you expect me to do, Mister Abravanel? Huh? A-A-Am I supposed to let two kids die because the NYPD couldn't do its job and is thereby forcing me to do it? Am I supposed to jump off a bridge because of who my maternal family is? Because," he spat, glaring at the blasé man, "I had no fucking choice there!"
He raised an eyebrow calmly. "Kid, I'm asking you to weigh your bad options. Your family – the paternal side – did you a disservice. In their ..." he paused, softening his expression even more so, "understandable attempt to protect you, they robbed you of the ability to defend yourself. To prepare for this. I'm no expert; all of my knowledge is third hand. But I do know about powerful forces playing puppeteer with one's life. The Mafia isn't all that dissimilar from bullies on the street or ... in a military government. In all cases, they don't like it when someone whom they perceive to be weaker stands up to them. They use them as examples to others. They'll try to break you."
"Like they did to Salvatore ..." he breathed. "It's been ... suggested that he was forced. Possibly my grandfather, too."
"I wouldn't doubt it," answered Harry. "Greed is the ultimate evil because it always promises they will try to force you for their own gain. My understanding is that although they prefer willing participants, they aren't above extorting or blackmailing people whom they want to control."
Luigi's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "But what do I do?! I don't ... I don't want to be a mafioso! I want ... a quiet life. I want ... to build things and," he glanced uncertainly at his lover's father, "raise a family."
"All of which are worthy pursuits, Luigi. And they're yours."
"If ... If you were in my position, what would you do?"
The lawyer shrugged, slouching a little to consider his answer. "Honestly? As an officer of the court, I'd go to the FBI or the NYPD. But that would inevitably result in years of hiding and testifying at trial after trial just to stay alive. Granted, I'm an attorney, Luigi; however, I don't have any particular charisma or public interest, so I couldn't remain in the limelight just to avoid a potential hit. I also wouldn't have anything to offer them."
Staring at the heavy cotton blanket, the plumber's eyes began to shift as if he were doing mental calculations. "Feed the greedy nature of the Mafia. They want something." He lifted his sight to see Daisy's father watching him intently. "Give them something that I have. That's ... the difference between Salvatore and me. Sal only had himself to offer Paolo Morello and Carlo Morano when they first approached him."
A hint of a smile appeared on the middle-aged Brazilian's face. "That's what a sit-down is, kid. In my line of work, we call it a 'settlement agreement.' You figure out what it is they want and give them something that they'll value to get what you want. You won't get everything, but, in an ideal world, you'll recover the majority of damages or the value. Interestingly, your uncle Salvatore must've given them something valuable to allow him to recede into the walls of the Catholic Church. He was, in '82, able to do so." Luigi hummed his concurrence. "Just promise me two things, Mister Cannoli." He faced his lover's father, awaiting his request. "First, I wasn't exaggerating with respect to the DA; once you're summoned for that sit-down, or you even think you're being summoned, text me ASAP. As long as I let Lieutenant Kendricks know, you've done your best legally, and you become the victim, not the perpetrator or accessory. In New York penal law, it's called unlawful imprisonment in the first degree. Second, I won't pretend as though Daisy will listen to reason when it comes to you. Just ... make sure she truly understands the danger and ... keep her out of it as best as you can."
"You have my word on both. Thank you."
"Alright, kid. I have to return to work. But," he snatched Luigi's charging iPhone, "let me program my cellphone number into your phone. I also want you to memorize it. When the moment comes, they may take away your electronic devices. If need be, have your ... geek friend Miles send me a message. Kid strikes me as a little bit of a nosy twit, but you can't have everything." Saving his number into his phone and setting it back onto the table, Harry stood up from the chair and headed to the door. On the way out of Luigi's room, he noticed Pete Morello, who had changed into faded blue jeans and a University of Denver-themed red zip sweater, was inclined against the white hallway wall.
"Evenin', Counselor," he greeted in a light tone. "I hear you thought my son was an ... impedance to your legal responsibilities."
Adjusting his glasses, the elder Abravanel responded evenly, "Yeah, I did see you were listed as a member of the bar in both Colorado and New York. As such, I'm sure you can appreciate attorney-client privilege."
"Indeed I can," Pete said via an artificial smile. "Although I don't quite understand why my youngest cousin requires legal representation. Especially when neither Mario nor Luigi have been or will be charged with a crime."
Harry shrugged. "I'm not a criminal attorney. I suspect you already know that. If Luigi did require such representation, I know of a few decent guys in Brooklyn and Manhattan."
"As do I, Mister Abravanel. And I am grateful for your assistance to a member of my family." Tilting his head toward the elevators and empty hallway, he enjoined, "I'm sure that Daisy will be ... equally as grateful for your presence."
The Brazilian narrowed his eyes, briefly stuffing his hands into his New England Patriots-logoed puffer coat pockets. "Why don't you get to the point, sir? I mean, I'm here; you've got me for a few minutes to listen. See, that good ol' boy exterior may fool New Yorkers and ski-happy Coloradans who might think you're some yuppified yokel, but I happen to know that you possess quite the reputation as a captain in the Morano Family. Your name is Morello, not Morell as you go by in Denver. Whether your loyalties lie with the Moranos or the Rigassis back in Sicily, you forget that Luigi's surname is Masciarelli. I checked; your cousin, Jackie Morano, didn't adopt him. Thus, no one is stopping you from your Mafia business."
Pete cocked an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Precisely. And this ... family business neither concerns you nor your daughter. In fact, I would think you'd be trying to get her to see reason. She's a great ... friend to Luigi. No doubt about it. I'm honestly impressed; she's eloquent, well-intentioned, strong – a fine young lady. She'll do very well in law school and make a fine wife to her future husband."
Harry matched his opponent's posture. "Meaning?"
"I think you know what I'm saying. We both agree that Luigi's future lies elsewhere. I know a little something about you, as well, Enrique. You pulled yourself out of the Massachusetts slums to become a Harvard and Stanford-educated lawyer. A lawyer's lawyer. As a fellow practitioner and son of an immigrant myself, I am very impressed by your fortitude. You even broke family tradition and married a ... woman of mixed ancestry. Now, we have that in common. I married a half-Italian, half-WASP woman. You went even further: half-Chinese and a quarter Afro-British. One whom you and your parents essentially ruined to – what – preserve the family heritage, purity, even? You above all should understand. My cousin, Luigi, is bound by certain ... customs, one of which states that his heirs, and thus his wife, must be fully Italian. Don't get me wrong; I have no problem with Jews or the Jewish religion. Or ... Black Chinese. It's nothing personal."
Affecting a neutral expression in spite of the oropharyngeal disgust that he felt at the caporegime's words, he retorted, "All this trouble for a kid who, forgive me, doesn't quite fit the mold of being a traditional Bensonhurst Italian? It seems like a waste of time to me. As I understand it, Luigi's been trying to leave New York for some time now."
"And as I stated before, that doesn't concern you. You and Daisy aren't family; this needn't affect you in any way."
"And yet you've come to speak with me personally, Mister Morello. You've presented a rational argument as to why Daisy's and Luigi's relationship won't work in the future. You've asked me to be reasonable. Fine. So why not take the hands-off approach? Indeed, this entire discussion has an ostensible consequence upon Daisy and I."
Using the poker face that he had perfected over roughly twenty-five years of litigation, Abravanel observed with internal glee that Pete had fleetingly succumbed to what he referred to as the oh-shit-now-what. The man was a decent poker player himself; Harry imagined that the sociopathy involved in blackmail and murder had made him a practiced and calculated risk-taker, which only made his overcalculation that much more glaring. He doubted Pete was truly threatening him, as he was taking a risk of being seen by Mario, Giuseppe, Peach, Daisy, or others close to Luigi. Rather, this was a test of some sort, perhaps to see what his motivationswere in protecting Luigi. If his hypothesis was correct, then Morello was worried about how much influence he had upon his daughter's boyfriend. It also occurred to him that the caporegime may be up against some unknown deadline, hence his abrupt haste to pressure him into breaking his daughter's heart.
All of which was, of course, to benefit him.
Suddenly, Pete flashed a casual grin that, to an untrained observer, would indicate a truce. Nonetheless, Harry was more concerned with the frost spreading throughout the Denverite's eyes and the previously slack angle of his body becoming straight and rigid. Now backed into a corner, the capo would, like a black mamba, strike if confronted further.
"'Ey, what's going on here?"
The two posturing men turned to see Mario, using an arm crutch to walk, and a mistrustful Daisy, whose amber eyes, like a hunting lioness's, narrowed from her father to the Denverite. Similarly, the burly plumber flexed his muscles and took a quarter step between his brother's girlfriend and the caporegime. Unwilling to attract further attention, the mafioso nodded slowly. "I was just leaving. I'll come back when Luigi's feeling better. Evening to you all." As he slithered down the hallway, a faint warning growl emanated from the lioness's throat, yet the plumber glared at her not to open her mouth and to let him go. Once he had disappeared from view, Harry pulled out his smartphone from his pocket and handed it to his daughter. "New York's a one-party-consent state. I'll be back in five minutes. Use that time wisely, miha."
With the red-shirted plumber right behind her, Daisy accepted the phone and entered Luigi's room. The latter was disposing of the dirtied paper and utensils from his dinner when she, giving him a peck, sat down while his brother shut the door. Playing the short exchange between Pete and her father, all three reacted in pure revulsion and offense.
"Well," Luigi began in a sarcastic tone, "any thought of Pete Morello being interested in me because I'm just family went out the window. And no," he focused pointedly on Daisy, "I'm not giving you up. Fucking backstabbing piece of trash."
Mario, whose arms were crossed angrily, hissed, "He's dangerous. He ain't a caporegime because he's a nice guy. I hope youse know what you've gotten into here."
"I'm sending this to Miles for safekeeping," replied Daisy who reached for her own phone.
Swiftly recalling what had brought her father by in the first place, the younger brother cried out, "Wait, no, Daisy!"
"Why the hell not?!" exclaimed both his brother and lover.
Steepling his hands in the Italian sign for a request, he murmured, "Miles ... saw something earlier. Your father ... didn't elaborate, but he heavily implied that ... his – Miles's – life is in jeopardy. Your lives are in jeopardy now, and I ... I can't have that on my conscience. Call me weak, but," he shook his head emphatically, "I can't." Sighing, he leaned back and whispered, "I think there's going to be a sit-down. This time ... I have to deal with it. I have no intention of being a mafioso. None! I just ..." He twisted his head toward his incensed older brother, enjoining, "You've kept me safe, fratello. I don't think I really ... appreciated what you have done for me throughout the years. I was so focused on my pain, right after Pops's death, that I didn't see how you were hurting, too. You were always – and are – my hero. You were afraid of nothing – not the Bowsers, not the Mafia, not the terrorists. Now, it's my turn to protect us all. It's my choice ..."
Mario took a step toward his brother when Daisy rose to her feet and intervened. Ignoring her movement, he cried over her shoulder, "Fratellino, this isn't a game! They'll kill you! And that'll be on my conscience! I got ... so many deaths there. Addin' yours? I might as well just end it."
Luigi smiled faintly. "I know, Mario. And I won't let that happen, either. But it's time ... for me," he tilted his head toward Daisy, "for us to live as we choose. Because if I don't do this last thing?" Fixing his blue eyes upon his brother and girlfriend, "We risk repeating history. I risk repeating history. Regardless, you will be safe. Mario, you can go to Massachusetts with Peach. Live a quiet life. Daisy, kerido," his tenor dropped to a lulling timbre, "you heard Pete. He was right that ... it needn't concern you or your father; you can go to Harvard, Stanford, or, shit, wherever, be the brilliant lawyer that we know you'll be."
"Like fucking hell!" hissed his older brother, now balling his fists. "Yeah, I got nine months left! But I ain't going, not without you, my family! And Peaches feels the same fuckin' way! This is my life, too!"
"Kerido," she interjected, "I haven't yet had time to discuss it with you, but I made a decision this morning. I turned down Stanford, and I withdrew my candidacy from Harvard." At the open-mouthed, stupefied looks on both Mario's and Luigi's faces, she snickered gently and took Luigi's hand. "During these last weeks, my interests have shifted. I'm not quitting law. Cybercrime. Criminal investigation – with the exception of Stanford, the schools to which I applied are all on the East Coast. I'm waiting on, uh, NYU and Columbia, specifically. So you're not getting rid of me that easily, plumber."
"Fucking shit ..." breathed Mario. "Now we gonna have a Sfacciata in the government! The fuckin' UN wasn't bad enough!"
"Shut up, fratello," snapped Luigi, who continued to gaze at Daisy with a mixture of awe, fear, and love. Gulping, he asked, "A-Are you sure? I mean, I'd go anywhere, be, do anything ..."
Bending down to kiss him soundly, Daisy murmured, "Now it's time for you to shut up, innamorato. That's why I didn't tell you. I wanted you to know that it was my decision, which I made with full knowledge, reflection, and ... love. I am my own person, Luigi Masciarelli; you taught me that. And as such, I am more than just a Sephardita or my father's daughter. I've found a path. And I hope that ... you'll join me on my travels."
Luigi returned her kiss, nodding. "I'd love to ... join you on your travels."
From behind them, the heavier man in the red shirt pinched his right fingers and uttered, "'Ey, do I get to come along, too? Ma chi sono io – la figlia della serva, huh?"
She rolled her eyes while her lover glared at him. "Cazzone, you got a path already – Peach's. And don't give me that bullshit about her not reciprocating. She already has." Sighing for the second time in that conversation, he then vowed, "We're a package deal, Mario. Daisy knows that; Peach knows that. I'm ... just asking for us to be a package deal."
Slowly, the older plumber lifted his Masciarelli blue eyes to the perfectly identical ones of his younger brother. For the first time, Mario noticed Luigi's fledging dark brown beard, full mustache of the same color, which resembled both his father's and paternal grandfather's, the brightly inked tattoo that was partly visible from his hospital gown, and the firm grip with which he held his girlfriend's hand. He felt himself nod. "Aight, Weegie. You know the danger you're going to face. And we are a package deal, soon to be, well, four: you, me, Peach, and the Sfacciata. Well, provided that she," he gestured at the annoyed-looking Daisy, "can keep her mouth shut for two minutes." Both Luigi and Daisy frowned at Mario's sly grin. "I guess this whole fuckin' thing in the tunnels has shifted Peach's stance a little. She ... doesn't want to have any regrets before my fine, fat ass goes six feet under. Neither of us want a big to-do. City Hall in Brooklyn; small reception afterward – apparently, she's got a few favors to cash in to make this happen on short notice. Mid-December, just to get the party planned and catered. We want youse to be the witnesses – youse and Rospo. We're gonna wait until after Thanksgiving but before the rush at Natale and New Year's." He ambled next to the genuinely joyful Daisy and sat on his brother's bed. "That's why you can't fuck this up."
Luigi flashed a toothy grin and, dropping his girlfriend's hand, reached over to give him a one-armed hug. "Oh, wow! Congratulazioni! Finally! And yeah, we'll be there!" Then he grinned evilly, winking at Daisy. "Now I got blackmail on you, fratello, 'cause if Joe or Sal find out youse are getting married outside of the Church ... Not to mention what Uncle Tony'll say if you plan not using him as the caterer ..."
Mario murmured, "Masciarelli tradition – you know that. No offense to Uncle Sal, but ... I don't want Jesus Christ in my future marriage. It's hard enough bein' married to one person without worrying about what the Almighty thinks of your marital fuckups. And as for Uncle Tony, you know he's booked solid starting just before Thanksgiving. And Peaches doesn't want to wait anymore. Neither do I, for that matter; I've been waitin' for ... seven fuckin' years."
"You could always ask the Mayor himself for a favor," the other man joked. "I have it on good authority that he's supposed to get a photo op with us tomorrow or the day after."
"Oh, Christ – just what I need, my wedding ... sponsored by the press and politics."
The younger plumber closed his eyes. "In any case, fratello, I'll be there," he whispered.
"You better."
Early the next morning, Mario and Luigi received word from the physicians and staff that they were well enough to be discharged by ten or eleven o'clock, with Salvatore being transferred to the normal hospital recovery floor and Giuseppe being kept for additional testing and potential surgery. As Harry had predicted, a swarm of black cars and a heavy police guard accompanied the Mayor inside the Manhattan hospital just before the plumbers' scheduled discharge. Given his profession as a black hat, Miles became scarce, unwilling to have his identity public; having been discharged, Sam, Matt, Pete Morello, and John Bowser had also disappeared, albeit for an entirely different reason. This left Mario, Luigi, Daisy, Peach, and Yoshi to act as the public face of the Wrecking Crew, who forced smiles for the New York City press and political entourage – which Giuseppe later called Mayor Masshole's Shitstorm. Thankfully, the Mayor's pleasant appointment with them was over in an hour and a half; what neither the brothers nor the Abravanels expected was an in-person visit from Columbia University's President, who had not only followed the events in and around the tunnels, but moreover discovered that roughly a third of the Wrecking Crew was associated with the university. Aside from coming to give Yoshi, Miles, and Daisy a personalized, nonetheless facetious 'pardon' for having violated entire pages of the student conduct code, he had unsurprisingly taken an interest in Luigi's potential engineering career. At the conclusion of their meeting, the President handed the young plumber his business card and instructed him to set up an appointment. Once the man had left, Yoshi leaned over to the stunned Luigi, who was still clutching the card in his left hand, to snicker, "The minute that the Professor hears about Columbia, he'll conjure up the demons of hell to drag you back to NYU. He's gone 50-50 with 'em."
Despite the post-operation merriment, the remnants of the Wrecking Crew were troubled by the lack of communication from José or DK, neither of whom were at the hospital during the Mayor's or the Columbia President's meetings. Since Giuseppe and Salvatore were still at Mount Sinai-St. Luke's, and Peach's apartment had not yet been fully renovated from the break-in and subsequent police investigation, the four decided to rent a spacious Airbnb on the Upper East Side. Though Luigi still disliked Manhattan, he did not feel ready to return to Brooklyn prior to their maternal and paternal uncles' discharge. At least, that was the excuse he gave to his brother, future sister-in-law, girlfriend, and psychologist, Rosalina Czernin, whom he had resumed seeing over the course of the next couple days. Internally, he dreaded Bensonhurst and Brooklyn Plumbing and Mechanical Works more than Midtown or the Upper East Side which, preceding the previous week and a half, he did not think possible. After some careful prodding of the union by Mario, they learned that the publicity had saved their jobs; the older brother was scheduled to work the following week and Luigi was put on medical leave, with Peach guaranteeing the latter a decent medical dossier with which to fight the union bosses if need be. Like a good Italian sister with a medical degree, she surveilled Luigi, ensuring that his dressing was changed and cleaned and, much to Mario's mirth and teasing, made certain that he performed the requisite physical therapy. At night, however, his auburn-haired goddess of love took over his care, caressing his thin runner's body, trimmed mustache, and shaved beard until he begged for release.
The following Monday, as Mario was returning from his overdue military service in Massachusetts and Daisy was at work, Luigi heard from Peach that both Salvatore and Giuseppe had been released and transferred. According to the CT scan and MRI, Joe's lung tumors had been reduced to a manageable area, which prompted Doctor Gauthier to admit him at Presbyterian for urgent surgery. Even though his prognosis was still grim and his left lung was partly unsalvageable, the oncologist stated that this was the best time and chance for survival past six to twelve months. Promising to come back a little after lunch, Luigi took the opportunity to sleep a little more and appreciate the quiet time. Having showered, dressed his wound, and completed his physical therapy, he was about to turn on Netflix when he heard his phone ring. Fetching it from the battery charger, his eyes contracted at the 'Unknown' caller ID. Hesitantly, he answered, "Hello?"
"Luigi, it's Matt. Listen, it's time. Do you have a nice suit handy?"
Swallowing darkly, he shook his head at the empty apartment. "No. All of my clothes are in Bensonhurst."
He heard a muffled sound, as if Matt had placed his hand on the receiver, then resumed, "What's your size? It's like a forty in Italian, right?"
"Yeah, that's right. I take a longer leg, though."
"No problem. We brought a few spares just in case you didn't have one. We'll come up to give you time to get dressed, especially with the shoulder wound."
"Okay," agreed Luigi uncertainly. "But, uh, who's 'we,' and do you know ...?"
"It's just Sam, me, and our driver. Sam's shoulder is still screwed up, so he can't drive. And we know you're staying with Mario and Cristina. Alright, see you in two minutes. No, actually, one minute."
"Wait, what –"
At that moment, he heard the buzz indicating that someone was at his front door. Checking through the peephole, he saw a smartly dressed Matt standing outside, a black garment bag draped over his arm. He took a few seconds to collect himself, knowing that the time had come, send the preprogrammed message to Daisy's father, and opened the doors to allow his cousin entrance. "Hey, dude," greeted the Coloradan, who rushed into the apartment. "Sam's waiting in the SUV. Here," he proffered the bag to Luigi, "Dad figured that you didn't have your suit handy, seeing that you just got out of the hospital and, from I hear, your uncle Giuseppe is about to undergo lung surgery. It's a gift, so don't worry about returning it. Anyway, it's got a suit, shirt, tie, socks, and shoes. We had to guess your sizing based what Dad knew of Giuseppe back in the day, so hopefully, it'll work. Traffic in New York sucks worse than in Denver, so we should on the road within, say, ten minutes. Sorry about the short notice, but the, uh, guys we're meeting don't like to be late for lunch."
Nodding, Luigi accepted the bag and made a show of switching his phone off, setting it on the wooden table in the kitchen, and moving into the bedroom area to change. Matt glanced at the smartphone to ensure that it was indeed off and took a chair to wait patiently. His eyes widened from a detail that he had neglected to mention. Sliding out of the chair, he called out, "Luigi, um, are you planning to shave your mustache?"
"No," he replied from behind the bathroom ensuite door. "I trimmed it upon Daisy's request, but ... it's out of respect for my father, Matt. That's why I kept it. That's why my brother has one. Plus, it helps me with the guys at the shop. Some of them don't like the idea of their boss being five or even ten years younger."
The spectacled mafioso nodded uncomfortably, knowing how the Old Guard felt about Mustache Petes. "Nah, I get it."
Luigi went quiet for another six or seven minutes before withdrawing from the bathroom in a charcoal Italian wool suit with an ivory Oxford and matching striped tie. His cousin gaped at his shoes which had been mysteriously shined without added polish. "I know a trick," explained the plumber cryptically while walking through the kitchen to fetch his coat and house key. "I'm ready now."
Waiting as his cousin locked the doors behind them, the Colorado soldier waved at a black SUV who pulled away from the curb and stopped in front of the apartment. The chauffeur, a burly New Yorker of Italian descent in his thirties, exited the vehicle and walked to open the rear passenger door for Matt and Luigi. After they climbed inside to the expensive black leather, the plumber saw the reclined Sam Carlino who was also in a suit – right arm out of its sleeve – and had small bandages on his right cheek. The mafioso driver shut the door, slipped into the front, and started down East 68th Street toward the FDR; from the central controls, he gradually reduced the visibility through the passenger windows. "Aight, this is gonna be about an hour, if the traffic and rain cooperate. For everyone's protection, the Boss instructed me not to give the precise route there. There's mozzece in the mini fridge, huh? I'll talk to youse again once we're a few minutes away." The divider between the compartments closed, leaving the three cousins to chat.
"Sam, how are you doing?" inquired Luigi genuinely.
He smiled a little. "Not bad. My, uh, rotator cuff's gonna need a lot of work, and I'm probably going to have a little scar, but ... can't complain. It's my first gunfight, after all." Matt and Luigi gaped at him incredulously. A few moments passed, and his facial expression morphed to seriousness. "I heard you took care of the Russian bitch."
The plumber shrugged lightly. "Yeah, well, I ran my mouth a little. It was my brother who pushed her off the roof. I, uh, took a bullet to the shoulder, too. I'm sorry, Sam, but I couldn't get ... the guy who shot you. Miles calls him Triple-F."
"Fat Fucking Ferengi," clarified Matt when his cousin displayed his confusion.
Sam laughed aloud and gave the thumbs up with his left hand. "Sounds about right. That motherfucker did seem like a fat fucking Ferengi. Is Miles alright? He, uh, can get ... obsessive."
"Yeah, he's doing okay," affirmed the Brooklynite. He stopped briefly while Matt distributed cold bottles of water, twisting off each cap for his injured cousins. "Thanks. He's alright. Mario got stabbed in his legs from the crazy bitch's shoes."
"Her shoes?!" The cowboy took a gulp. "Jesus, warn me never to make a comment about Mom's or Aunt Michelle's shoe collection."
"Speaking of whom, do they know?"
Matt and Sam exchanged an uneasy look. "Yeah. Uncle Gene does, too, and he is not happy. It's probably best if we don't really talk about that."
Setting the water bottle down in the cup holder, Luigi said in the calmest voice that he could muster, "Look, Matt, Sam, you've ... been fairly honest with me, or as honest as you can in your, uh, line of work. I've played ball with you guys, without complaint, relatively speaking. I just ... I want to know what the hell is going on."
He watched his second cousins mentally compare notes, debating not if, but how much, to divulge. Sam's eyes flickered ever so slightly. In the back of his mind, the plumber recognized it as a tell, a physical manifestation of discomfort or dissent. But dissent over what, exactly?
"We're all being bullshitted," whispered the blond Coloradan. "You, Matt, me ... All of us. Supposedly, the Bowser kids are being held for ransom. Them in exchange for ... our favorite piece of shit."
Luigi's eyes widened. "Lucas?!"
Wordlessly, Matt gave a terse nod, though he did not elaborate. The rest of the hour-long drive was unnervingly quiet for a trajectory through Manhattan and possibly another borough. At its conclusion, Luigi's eyes squinted to adjust to the natural light emanating from the windows controlled by their driver; he could see moderate fog, rain tracks against the glass, and a series of forks and one-way alleyways in an upscale residential area. Surmising that this was either north of the city or possibly near Rockaway, he nervously anticipated their arrival which came within a minute or two. The black SUV slowly pulled into and parked in a brick driveway of a large, beige house with brown trim. The man disembarked and opened the passenger door closest to Sam and Luigi. "Aight, this is it. Go directly inside; they're waiting for youse."
Matt withdrew first to aid his injured cousins, then led them through the front entrance to the commodious gray marble and gold-accented living room. At its center, contemporary cream and modern furniture pieces were arranged in front of a fireplace and active fire. An old taupe Lazy-Boy from the 1980s sat near the gas-powered flames, where the sticklike Carlo Morano lounged, a black blanket on his lap to keep him warm. The octogenarian was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and metallic gray tie. "Buongiorno, Matt, Sammy," he greeted. Each young man kissed the hand of the Padrino, murmuring a Buongiorno, Don Carlo in response. Nodding his approval, he used a bony finger to gesture toward the kitchen. "Andiamo a pranzare pronto. But for now, would youse go get yourselves an espresso? Make sure that they don't substitute that bullshit 'sugar' on youse, huh?" Taking note that he had not sent Luigi with them, they obeyed, leaving the Padrino to speak with their cousin as he had intended. His brown eyes studied the silent, yet attentive plumber. Using the same finger, he gestured for the younger man to sit in the adjacent cream and brown chair. Moving the chair to draw to a close, though respectful distance, Luigi did as he had requested. "You grew up speaking Italian?" asked Carlo in the language.
"Yes," affirmed Luigi, replying in kind. "My parents, particularly my father, wanted me to know my roots and learn Italian. My paternal grandparents rarely spoke English at home."
The old man nodded. "It's funny – your father was a known bleeding-heart liberal; parlàva tischi-toschi. It turns out he was the most Italian of all of us. My sons never had any interest in learning our language. Antonio's a bit different, but ..." his brown eyes sparkled in mirth at Luigi, "he speaks Italian like a fuckin' Amerigun. But I don't imagine that you get much chance to keep it in your home." His eyes narrowed pointedly. "The Portoghese."
Luigi chuckled as good-naturedly as he was able in the moment. "Actually, she speaks Italian fairly well. She's not perfectly fluent, but she's comfortable enough. In fact, she insists on speaking it with me and Mario."
Carlo twisted toward his great-nephew, blinking a few times to indicate his surprise. "Chista è a zita, cu 'a voli sa marita," he muttered.
Reflecting upon what he had said – this is the bride; whomever wants her, he can marry her – the plumber wondered if he was pressuring him to give up Daisy or acquiescing to what fate had given him. Before he could pry that from the Boss, the front door opened, and a steady line of men entered: Pete Morello, an unknown robust man wearing the thousand-dollar suit of a caporegime, Fat Tony Morano, and John Bowser, who, in contrast to the others, wore his usual jeans, brown leather jacket, and New York Yankees baseball cap, which he made sure to remove in the presence of the don. Quietly gesturing to Luigi that he remain seated, Carlo received each man in order of rank: Pete, Joey Bernacchi, Fat Tony, Joey-B's soldiers, Markie and Leo, and finally, Bowser. Sam and Matt came from the kitchen area to pay their respects to their senior wiseguys and fellow soldiers.
"I know it is not our custom to include outsiders," began the Padrino, tilting his head in Luigi's direction, "but I am making an exception in this case. In addition to me, the Vor requested that my great-nephew be present. He is keen to resolve this whole mess as we are."
One of the junior wiseguys watching at the front door called out, "Boss, they're here." Carlo made a faint nod while keeping his eyes forward. The junior obeyed, opening the portal a crack at first and widening it to allow two men to pass. Luigi gasped audibly as he observed an unaffected Piotr dragging a handcuffed, smirking Lucas into the house.
"Oh, look, it's the Mafia Brady Bunch. Buongiorno! My father must've given his regards!" the Manhattanite snarked, causing both Matt and Sam to clench their jaws.
Without moving his near-black eyes from the scene, Carlo commented, "I consider this a bargain trade: the lives of two innocent children for just one small piece of shit."
Lucas rolled his eyes. "Call it what you want, but I do hope you enjoy your remaining years watching the leftovers of your little famiglia fight over the crumbs." Directing his attention to his former best friend, he added, "This is your life now, Weeg. You could've been a techie badass with me, but you chose this. Believe me – the Amazon Feminazi will bail eventually, too. You'll be all alone ..."
The Italian wiseguys started to growl obscenities at the impudent man. Carlo merely glared at him, careful not to provide any further reaction. Piotr continued to display his normal stoic expression. However, to everyone's surprise, Luigi burst out laughing. "Lucas, you know, there's a saying in Sicilian. I'm sure Greek has a similar expression: 'Chista è a zita, cu 'a voli sa marita.' It means, more or less, that our fates are sealed by our and others' wants and desires. You never had a chance because you refused to believe there was ever something about you to change. I'm sure you'll have much to discuss with your equally shit father. I hope you find whatever the fuck it is you're looking for. Arrivederci."
As the Italians gaped at the Finocchio of Bensonhurst and the Russian gave him a mildly impressed look, a black limousine drove to the curb. Carlo soundlessly tilted his head toward the door.
As Piotr manhandled him outside to the waiting limousine, Lucas spat, his eyes attempting to burn into the plumber, "Yeah? Well, fuck you, Fredo!" Not even sixty seconds afterward, two preteens rushed inside to embrace their worried uncle.
"Believe me, niputi, I'd love nothing more than to whack both of those treasonous low lives," snarled the Padrino, "but costly peace is always preferable to cheap vengeance." He turned to Bowser who was hugging his freed wards. "You got what you came for."
Understanding that they were being dismissed, John whispered, "Thank you, Padrino," to which the older man lightly waved his hand once more. The redheaded bartender took a hand of each child and ambled out of the house, the wiseguy-guard closing the door with a soft click.
Still glaring at the door, Carlo growled, "As far as I and the Commission are concerned, they are the mick's problem now. Jackie's fucking around caused this mess. He was warned. As such, the Vor did me a favor." Then he shifted his gaze to the unreadable Piotr. "We will be in touch. I assume you have what you needed from us?"
"Yes," answered Piotr with a curt nod. "Vor gives his regards to your great-nephew. His thanks, as well, for dealing with Polina Lepeshinski. Furthermore, he is ... relieved that the missile did not strike hospital. He expects your call presently. Goodbye." Following Carlo's bob of his head, he quietly took his leave, while peering at the visibly angered plumber.
"The Russians have their own concept of loyalty, hence why they got an expression, 'Trust, but verify.' Anyway, it's better to deal with this shit now than to go to the mattresses." Turning away from the entrance, the boss went on, "Now, we deal with the trouble in house." Tilting an impenetrable regard to his attentive caporegimes and soldiers, he announced, "I've obviously invited the top men from the Morello, Morano, and Bernacchi crews. We need to settle this cazzate once and for all. Everyone except for Pete, Joey, Antonio, and Luigi, go get a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Ana and Nico have set up an awning and gas warmer outside to make the rain and fog more manageable."
Every mafioso in attendance, including Matt and Sam, gawked at the boss, stunned that he would dismiss the made, omertà-boundsoldiers, yet keep a marginal associate in the meeting. Carlo's eyes changed to black, expecting that his order be followed.
"Excuse me, uh, Boss, but ..." started Markie. Joey-B signaled for him to drop it, as he was the caporegime.
Carlo smiled thinly. "You think you have any recourse in challenging me, Markie? A fuckin' Siciliano who was made roughly twenty years before you were born? Huh?" At the man's embarrassed silence, he nodded. "Bene, now do as I fuckin' asked."
Joey-B signaled to his lieutenants that it was fine for now. Likewise, Matt, Sam, and Carlo's wiseguys filed out of the room, leaving the captains and acting captain Fat Tony, to whom the Padrino pointed at the empty chairs and sofa. Once they were seated, he said, "I will not let youse destroy this family – la mia famiglia – when I'm six feet under, capite?!" With a sneer, he focused on a blank-faced Pete Morello and irritated Joey. "I may be on my way to hell, but don't think for one fuckin' minute that I won't take youse with me. I am still the boss of this family. You stupid shits want to replay the wars in the '30s? The '80s? You want those days? Because, Pietro," he addressed the Denver capo who quivered, "I know you and a few a-youse soldiers remember. It ain't good for business, and the Feds are fuckin' us as it is with this RICO bullshit." Then he rotated his head toward his grandson. "You're too young to remember, Antonio, but let this be a lesson to ya from your nonno: men on the street don't get rich in wars."
Adjusting the blanket, he sighed, staring into the flames of the hearth for several moments before his harsh tenor became almost childlike. "Anyway, I'm almost eighty-five, old enough to know that none of this will matter once I'm gone. You'll think this is the act of an old man-turned-musciada until you learn your lesson, either in prison or when your vision suddenly goes black. Either way, you won't be able to keep your money, which is why you and me got into this business. And stability brings in the dough." Pete tried to interject at this point, yet the Padrino held up a hand. "Pietro, keep your fuckin' mouth shut. You've been a good soldier; it's not the time to be disloyal." He abruptly became quiet, guiding the gazes of his men toward the staircase in the corner where an olive-skinned man in a black and white pinstripe suit was descending, albeit with some difficulty. Luigi's blue eyes rounded in terror upon recognizing his maternal uncle. The slender man crossed the empty space, his leather shoes click-clacking against the floor, to kiss his uncle on the cheek. Next, he eased himself onto the padded bench to Luigi's and his uncle's left and folded his arms semi-patiently. Joey-B smirked at Pete's aghast expression.
"La situazione non si è rivoltata contro di te, eh, coscinu?" stated Salvatore in a half-question, half-statement.
"What the hell is this, Zio?" demanded Pete. "I had nothing to do with the Bowsers! It was fucking Jackie who ..."
Carlo, having lost his patience, barked, "Do us all a favor and shut the fuck up!" Reluctantly, the Denverite obeyed and waited for his boss to explain. Putting a preemptive hand up to keep his nephews from an inexorable quarrel, he spoke again, "Yeah, Jackie invited the Irish trash into our business. And he created an unnatural bastard that took out half our guys. But let's not forget that you, Pietro, were in charge of this Mickey Mouse computer shit. Youse," he gestured to him and, to an extent, Tony, "stole one-fifty, yet had the paddu to put the fucking Greeks in charge of the account. I gave you the opportunity to clean that bordello up, and what the fuck did you do? Huh? You thought you'd use my fuckin' niputi to undercut us all and whack my son! I know about the contract! This is New York, not Colorado! Incaricato, sono! Not you, Morello!" He shook his head and tossed the blanket off his lap in a mixture of disappointment and repugnance.
"Padrino," Pete implored, his brown eyes shifting to Luigi and Salvatore, "I screwed up. I apologize. I ... let my animosity toward Jackie get in the way of business. It won't happen again." As the chastised mafioso balled up his fists, Joey-B coughed to mask a laugh at his fellow captain's expense.
The angered man ignored his apology. "Luigi, as I understand it, it was you who ... redeemed this fuckin' situation. From not letting that little shit get control in the Middle East to takin' out that puttana at St. Luke's. You and your frati. He's always been the brawn. But ... Rosetti was right: you are Galileo, the brains. You secured quattrini for the plumbing shop, I hear, from your machine. That fuckin' ispanico didn't know the first thing about making money, and we were supportin' his stupid ass for twenty years." Carlo inhaled as he leaned back in his Lazy-Boy. "Ever since I've been alive, niputi, guys like me work off the ideas of guys like you. However, as Salvatore put it, the, uh, situazione è rivoltata. It's no longer us who's collectin' the favors. And I don't like owing anybody."
Five pairs of eyes immediately focused on Luigi, who, without seeing their reactions, felt shades of surprise, curiosity, and, from Pete, covetousness. He now understood why the latter attempted to control him at the hospital: la fortuna aiuta gli audaci. In the race to the top of the administration, he who controlled the giovane d'onore, the recipient of Don Carlo's, the Saudis', and the Emiratis' favors controlled the game. Both Daisy and her father were proven correct; in addition to raw intelligence, his power – and thus the favors – came from actions that benefitted the group. But this power – the thunder – was precisely why he had to tread carefully.
Be who you are, echoed his father's voice from long ago.
Luigi slowly raised his Masciarelli blue orbs to the shades of Sicilian and Calabrian brown. Clearing his throat and sitting up straight, he responded, "Ziu Carlo, I did ... what I had to do for my family, for those in my charge. My family and my ... bottega are what I value most."
Carlo's lips curled upward, and he gave a brief nod. "La famiglia è la patria del cuore. Aight, niputi, go get yourself an espresso, huh? We'll be out shortly." The plumber rose from his chair and respectfully kissed his great-uncle. The Padrino patted him on the cheek while Salvatore squeezed his left hand. As he left the caporegimes and the boss to discuss business, he simultaneously saw the questioning glances of Sam and Matt and heard the low, pointed timbre of his maternal uncle's tenor.
"Luigi, what's going on?" whispered Matt, who handed him a hot espresso.
"I don't know," he responded genuinely.
Sam, who had also begun to observe in earnest, soon joined them. "Can't believe they let the sonofabitch go," he mumbled, just loud enough for his cousins to hear him.
Matt surreptitiously scanned the room to see who might be watching, then murmured, "No shit, dude."
The taste of the rich, bitter liquid lingering on his tongue, Luigi briefly considered telling them about Salvatore's appearance, though he immediately decided against it, knowing very little about Mafia protocol as well as his cousins' motivations. Coloradans or New Yorkers, mafiosi were notoriously fickle when it came to the loyalty that they professed to value. In spite of his muteness, an unusually nervous Sam and Matt stayed with him, clinging to his shadow like a talisman. Likewise, the New York wiseguys had commenced a waddle-pace in the kitchen and outside, with Leo going outside in the rain for a cigarette. While he sipped his espresso, the Brooklynite let his four other senses witness the underworld gathering: smelling acrid sweat, tasting bitter coffee, hearing disordered, often illogical speculation, and feeling aloofness from each wiseguy who worried about exposing himself just a little too much. Luigi suddenly felt the fatigue from the past few months weigh upon him.
He just wanted to go home.
After another fifteen minutes of waiting, a line of captains filed into the kitchen – a neutral Fat Tony, a glum Pete Morello, and a simpering Joey-B. They, along with the soldiers and plumber, stood at attention as Carlo Morano, using the stronger and taller Salvatore for support, made his way step by step into the galley. Halting a few feet shy of the youngest attendees, the Padrino rasped to his driver, "Take young Luigi back to the Upper East. Può ammuccari al ritorno."
Mumbling a "Si, Boss," the wiseguy gestured for the young man to accompany him to the SUV. He stared uncertainly at his maternal uncle, who smiled in reassurance and encouragement. Wordlessly, he trailed behind the big man; the latter pressed the automatic lock on his car keys and rushed to open the rear passenger door for his boss's great-nephew. Thanking the man, Luigi climbed inside, breathing a heavy sigh of both relief at being released and ache at leaving his uncle. He fastened the seatbelt across his slender frame as the man shut the door, thick streaks of rainwater marring the large glass window. Preparing to depart, he gazed out toward the unremarkable upper-middle-class beige house. In the middle of his field of vision, he noticed two figures dash out of the exposed main entry and come to a standstill six feet away from the vehicle. Indifferent to the cold New York fog and drizzle, Sam and Matt remained motionless like statues, their eyes unreadable to the stunned plumber. Unsure of how to react, Luigi awkwardly reached across his body to put the fingertips of his left hand on the glass. A moment later, the SUV pulled away from the curb; his cousins did not shift, save for Matt's hand, which seemingly lifted of its own volition to bid him goodbye.
Having been encouraged by his escort, Dante, to eat a wiseguy's snack of sliced ham, salami, pecorino, bread, peppers, and chocolate-pistachio biscotti, a bloated Luigi moseyed out of the SUV, balancing a three-quarters-filled platter of meat, cheese, bread, and cookies with his functioning left hand. Momentarily distracted by the mental plan of how to retrieve his house key, he failed to notice the heavy whoosh of the front doors and the appearance of an agitated Mario and Peach at the threshold. The sound startled him, and the platter tipped dangerously to the ground; his brother rapidly took two large steps to keep it from tumbling to the sidewalk.
"Weegie, where the hell have you been?" he demanded, albeit without fury. "The Sfacciata's father called DK, who called me. They're waitin' inside."
Luigi smiled a little at his vexed fratello and terrified sister-in-law. "I'm alright – really. After all, it couldn't have been that bad if I've brought a late pranzo."
Whereas Peach closed her eyes in relief, her fiancé peeked at the leftovers in spite of himself. "Maybe DK's hungry. Aight, bring it in." Guiding his fratellino and fiancée inside the apartment, his eyes lingered upon the platter. They walked into the large, white marble kitchen and contrasting small, square wooden table where a pensive DK was seated. Mario motioned for Luigi to give him the tray so that he could remove his coat. The blonde raised her eyebrow in amusement as he gently set it at the center of the table, then went to the cupboard to fetch four dinner plates.
DK rose halfway out of his chair, exhibiting a concerned expression. "Luigi, are you okay? I got a phone call from Harry Abravanel, who told me that Petey took you somewhere?"
The younger plumber nodded, taking the chair across from the lieutenant. "Yeah, I'm okay. It was a surreal experience, but, uh," he glanced at Peach and Mario, who were sitting down in the empty chairs, "it wasn't worse than the past few weeks."
Distributing the plates, his older brother helped himself to a quarter of the dish, wordlessly setting some of his meat, cheese, bread, and peppers onto hers. DK took a biscotti, swirling it briefly in his cooled coffee. "Do you know where you were?"
He shook his head. "No. Not precisely. Maybe ... Maybe Queens? It was some house that I've never been to."
"What happened there?"
Luigi reached for a biscotti to delay an immediate reply. It was obvious that DK wanted information and, above all, control over the aforementioned. Now that his stomach was full, he was able to assess the situation more judiciously. There were three problems: Salvatore's involvement, Lucas's inexplicable release from jail, and the very fact that they would let him go after seeing all of the current caporegimes with Carlo Morano.
"If ... Carlo Morano is there, then you haven't just been screwing around with – what's his name – Fat Tony Morano or even Pete Morello, but the Boss of the Morano Famiglia. At that point, Luigi, you're more than an associate."
The fact that he was not made was, in the great scheme of things, irrelevant.
Nibbling on the cookie, he finally said, "I was brought there by Pete Morello, and I was given a choice. I left."
His fratello and cognata stared uneasily at him while DK crossed his arms in disbelief. "Kid, this isn't the time to play the Good Son of Bensonhurst. You aren't in trouble." Nevertheless, the younger plumber remained quiet and stone-faced. Unwilling to play chicken with his friend's second son, who, like his father had done so many times, had saved the city and quite possibly his life, shrugged in surrender. "Alright. Let me ask you a single question, Luigi." Though his general expression did not change, the latter did raise an eyebrow. "Did you see Lucas Kariolis and, if so, what happened to him?"
"Yeah, I saw him. He was exchanged for Wendy and Louie. But I think you knew that. If, however, you're really asking me if he was alive, then yes."
Mario and Peach threw piercing glares at the police lieutenant. "You're right on both counts," he replied. "That was not my call. Hell, I wasn't even there, otherwise I'd have guarded his cell at Central Booking myself." His hosts waited for him to continue. "The DA – not even the fucking ADA, but the DA – ordered his release into the custody of 'interested parties.' It was, according to 1PP, 'need to know,' so I don't know precisely to whom. But for that to happen, it had to come from somewhere in the federal government. And given George Kariolis's connections, I have no doubt that someone reached out to the State Department."
"Jesus," muttered Mario, biting off a piece of prosciutto.
DK rose from the table. "So it's case closed. Now that you've been returned safe and sound, I've been ordered by the brass to type up the report." Facing the disgusted Mario and Peach, he managed a half-smile and rasped, "Thanks for the coffee, as always, Mario. It's been good seeing you both. I'll show myself out." He moved to the front door, only to stop a short diagonal distance from Luigi's chair. "There's one more thing," he added. "Your uncle Salvatore was released from the hospital earlier. He hasn't yet been spotted near St. Rosalia's." Patting the young Brooklynite on his injured shoulder, he took his leave.
As the doors clicked in place, Mario and Peach turned expectantly to Luigi who remained silent.