Epilogue
The wait times at the Brooklyn Marriage Bureau had been horrendous, with Masciarelli party being the very last that the Deputy Mayor would marry on December 19. Per the direction of the Bureau, Mario, Peach, and their witnesses had arrived at 12:50 p.m., only to find that Christmas and Hanukkah were among the busiest for courthouse weddings in New York City. The elder plumber, who absolutely loathed wearing suits, let alone a three-piece gray and silver wedding ensemble, paced, gestured, and kvetched in his finest Italian and Brooklyn English, as Peach, who was wearing her second-best wedding gown and veil, per Venetian tradition, rolled her eyes and reiterated to him to calmare. About halfway through the three-hour-plus line, they were called to a DMV-like counter to present identification and sign the paperwork. All the while, Luigi, vested in a similar three-piece suit, tried to calmarsi at the maid of honor's exposed skin from an off-the-shoulder gold dress. As his groomzilla brother ranted and raved in front of the visitor's benches, he exchanged several heated looks with the blushing, yet appreciative Daisy. By three-thirty, he had enough; leaning over to his equally turned-on girlfriend, he whispered that the bridesmaid would be ravished before and after the reception.
Ten minutes prior to close, they were finally shuffled inside an almost courtroom-like chamber where the bride and groom were requested to step onto a wooden platform encircling the podium at which a tired-looking, thirties-something Asian woman stood. While Luigi, Daisy, Rospo, and the latter's wife, Samira, positioned themselves around the platform and stained-glass background, the deputy mayor conducted the five-minute ceremony and pronounced Mario Giuseppe Masciarelli and Maria Cristina Françoise Louise Antoinette Venier husband and wife in the eyes of the State and City of New York. They embraced each other in congratulations, though sparing the normal welcome to the family.
They were already family.
After the two plumbers helped their significant others into their coats, the five exited to the pleasant surprise of late afternoon sunshine. Rospo, Samira, Daisy, and Luigi, nodding to each other, then tossed rice upon the couple who laughed in delight. Due to exams, work, and, in the case of Giuseppe, recovery from surgery, it was decided that everyone else would attend the evening reception at a hotel and wedding hall just across the Verrazzano Bridge in Staten Island. Though disappointed that he was, indeed, too booked to fully cater his nephew's wedding, Uncle Tony had vowed to present them with a grand wedding cake, for which Mario and Peach were grateful. He had also called in a few favors at one of the best Italian restaurants in Midtown to prepare an Italian wedding feast for roughly one hundred twenty guests from family, the plumbing shop, Cappy and his firehouse, his Army buddies and their families in Massachusetts, and Peach's hospital colleagues, including Doctor Gauthier. Once they had snapped a few pictures for future albums, the wedding party made plans to meet up later in Staten Island at quarter past seven. Mario summoned the black town cars and drivers which they hired for the afternoon and evening; whereas he, Peach, Rospo, and Samira returned to their renovated apartment in the Upper East Side so that the bride could change into her best wedding gown, Luigi and Daisy took the second car to Park Slope to have a little private time.
Since their ordeal the previous month, Daisy and Luigi's need for intimacy had become insatiable – lovemaking mixed with candor. The third night following his sit-down with the Morano family, he tearfully confessed to his lover what he had observed and what he could not bring himself to tell Mario or Uncle Joe: Salvatore had gone back to the Mafia. Or perhaps he had never really left the life. Stroking his hair while kissing his hairline, Daisy did not reply, torn in two directions by the turn of events. On one hand, she was dismayed and angered by her boyfriend's uncle's choice, viewing it as a betrayal of his promises to Luigi's father and paternal uncle. On the other hand, she was grateful that Luigi was at last free from Carlo Morano and Pete Morello's twisted sense of familial obligation.
Much to the couple's surprise, neither Mario nor Giuseppe had questioned them about Salvatore, even as José made a quick visit to the shop just before Thanksgiving to inform both brothers of their maternal uncle's potential whereabouts. According to an unnamed source at the Brooklyn Diocese, rumors, which the archbishop had steadfastly refused to confirm or deny, circulated that the former Father Rigassi had been laicized. Subsequent to his release from St. Luke's and the sit-down, the man had basically vanished. Luigi later learned that Mario had driven to St. Rosalia's, only to find Father Ramirez as the new parish priest; he briefly checked the A-frame on 17th Avenue, only to find it in exactly the same condition as he had left it a few weeks ago.
It was if the man whom he had always known as Father Sal Rigassi had passed away at St. Luke's Hospital.
That night, nearly succumbing to the temptation of the fighting circuits in Bay Ridge and Bensonhurst, a semi-broken Mario sought solace from his fiancée, fratellino, and Sfacciata. During the eerily quiet Thanksgiving, which the four of them spent with Harry and Yael in Midtown and the Masciarelli family at the hospital in Lenox Hill, no one dared to speak the name of Salvatore Rigassi, especially around their paternal uncle. The latter had undergone a partial pneumonectomy, which Dr. Gauthier announced as a success to the anxious Nonna Mia, Lucia, Adriana, Maria, and Lucy. He was awake and alert about a day afterward, happily receiving family as well as a few friends from his plumbing business in Eltingville and Captain McCollough's firehouse.
No one, not even Joe, spoke his name.
Yet the evening before he was discharged, when he thought that everyone else was out at dinner or running errands, the curly-haired plumber stared at the blemish across his left palm. Luigi, who had arrived late due to Black Friday-related traffic, came upon the scene; unwilling to startle or embarrass his paternal uncle, he stayed in the hallway, watching the unreadable older man trace his right index finger along the silvery impression. On the way home from the hospital, the green plumber picked up a pack of Marlboros which the censorious Daisy confiscated upon smelling the stale stench on her lover's breath. Jabbing her finger to the bathroom, she ordered the forlorn man to brush his teeth and use mouthwash. While he dutifully scrubbed his mouth of the offense, the lioness stripped naked and, in spite of the late hour, ran a candlelit bath for two. Seduced by her bare curves, he rinsed his teeth a final time, immediately shed his clothes, and pressed her against the wall. Twenty-five minutes later in the warm water, between kisses on her damp hair, he shared his thoughts with her. Should we just pretend as though Sal didn't exist? he rasped. Unsure of how best to answer, Daisy simply traced her finger along his thickening mustache. Ultimately, she whispered that perhaps Father Sal disappeared so that they could live. And he would want them to live to the fullest. Though her words did not make him forget the last couple months' events, they, along with weekly sessions with Dr. Czernin, made putting one foot in front of the other easier to rinse and repeat.
Or swallow down like old-fashioned, saccharine cough medicine.
Luigi checked his watch once more, sighing contentedly as his girlfriend re-dressed, touched up her makeup, put on the heart of valor necklace that he had gifted to her for Rosh Hashanah, and slid the Rigassi ring onto her right fourth finger. The next phase of her life had mostly been settled; a few days ago, she had submitted the final copy of her thesis – the Eat My Ass – guaranteeing a defense date in February and graduation in May. Although she received perfunctory rejection letters from Yale, Boston, and Chicago, about which she merely shrugged and Mario commented that New Haven smelled like ass anyway, she was requested for an in-person interview for a new program and full-ride scholarship in cybercriminal law and policy at New York University, and was already shortlisted for Columbia, Georgetown, and Maryland. He gazed at her with loving eyes; if she had to go as far as Washington or College Park, then so be it. Mario, Peach, and his family were, at most, a four-hour drive away. Notwithstanding Daisy's gentle nudges for him to call the Columbia President's Office or Professor Omaya, the business card would remain unused in his pocket until they knew where she would be attending law school. It was a non-negotiable for him.
Grabbing her evening coat and wallet, she called out to him. Offering his left arm to protect his healing shoulder injury, Luigi escorted his lover, best friend, and plus one to the waiting black town car. As the car radio played Cher's rendition of "Walking in Memphis," Luigi tenderly put his left arm around her and kissed the crown of her auburn hair. Humming her approval, she took his still weak right hand and intertwined it with hers. "Beautiful ceremony," she murmured absent-mindedly to her boyfriend.
He moved his lips to her temple. "Yeah, it was. Fucking long-ass wait, but it was worth it."
Daisy tilted her head so that she could connect with his dark blue orbs. "The wait at the courthouse or their, uh, delayed engagement?"
Chuckling a little, Luigi replied, "Both, I guess." His left hand glided over her arm and shoulder blade to stroke her back lovingly. "I'm glad for 'em, though. I think it'll give Mario that push to ... move forward. For us to move forward." Looking down at her, he added, "Daisy, I've been thinking. Your lease is up in May, I think. And ... well ... Bensonhurst isn't home anymore. I've started looking at brownstones in Carroll Gardens or around Prospect Park. It's near NYU and a metro ride to Manhattan ..."
A shy, loving smile spread across her face. "I've, uh, been looking, too. Same areas. Yael even sent me a few ads for nice apartments in, uh, Carroll Gardens or Williamsburg. She also said that – and I quote – 'If the Italian wants to visit San Francisco, we can have a room set up in the basement.'"
A tittering snort emanated from his nostrils, and she felthim lift his hand from her back to pinch his fingers. "I'm moving up in the world, cat-face. I can bunk with the future family cat. Of course, that's if she'll let me. Her kingdom and shit. I'll have to beg her for an audience – 'Excuse me, Your Majesty, but uh, would you let Mister Cannoli stay down in your lair?'"
"Heh," she snickered smugly at him, "you'll be cleaning the litter box, too, plumber." Brushing a kiss across his neck, she spoke softly, "Don't worry; you'll be bunking with me. It's non-negotiable."
The plumber made a noncommittal hum, nuzzled the top of her head, and relaxed to the faint sound of 104.3 in the background. Due to Friday night traffic and an accident on the BQE that added fifteen minutes to a minimum half-hour drive, a semi-hangry Luigi unapologetically snatched a granola bar and banana from the mini fridge. Offering chocolate-dipped strawberries to his delighted girlfriend, they traded salty and sweet kisses on the way through south Brooklyn and across the brightly lit Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge. As they play-fought over the last strawberry, the couple felt the car swing to the left, heading toward the northeastern shoreline of Staten Island. Checking his watch, Luigi quietly signaled that they were nearly at the Honeylune at South Beach; they hurriedly cleaned up their pre-reception nosh, every so often exchanging flirtatious looks, especially when he leaned over to run his hands over her curves to 'brush off the crumbs.'
Engaging in one last lingering kiss, a dopey Luigi helped his likewise giddy lover out of the black car and, hooking her arm with his left, escorted her into the ballroom where valets were already bustling to park guests' cars. Although Mario and Peach had worried about procuring an available wedding reception venue within a month's time and especially close to Hanukkah and Christmas, Uncle Tony and Cousin Vinny assured them that they knew a guy who knew a couple guys who could make a few calls.
Legally, of course.
The couple's eyes widened at the elegant setup: fifteen circular tables, each with eight gold chairs, matching gold and ivory place settings, and white floral centerpieces. Next to the main table where they would be seated as part of the wedding party stood a three-tiered white wedding cake whose edges were lined with bright red strawberries. At the side of the room was a medium-sized rectangular desk with a series of photographs; from across the room, Daisy could see the images of Mario and Luigi's parents, an older man whom she surmised was their paternal grandfather, and an olive-skinned woman in her forties or fifties standing with a teenaged Gabriella and Salvatore. There were other photographs, including one of a well-dressed couple and a blonde girl positioned in front of a Venetian canal.
"Wow!" exclaimed Daisy. Then she frowned. "Wait a minute, kerido." He turned to her expectantly. "I thought that Italians have the millefoglie as the wedding dessert?"
Smiling, he nodded. "Yeah, that's true in Italy. And it's very, very ..." Without finishing the spoken commendation, he kissed his fingers. "But ... Mario's a Brooklyn asshole with a sweet tooth which, as I'm sure you've noticed, Peach completely enables. And she also has a serious cake fetish." Sloping into her body, he whispered, "Uncle Tony's one hell of a baker, actually. I don't know where he learned it, but he can do more than toss pizza dough in the air and donate money to a certain Jersey bridge troll equally as, uh, corpulent."
Daisy raised an auburn eyebrow at her boyfriend. "Actually ... Yeah, having met your Uncle Tony at the hospital, I could see that. As long as he didn't actually invite the aforementioned troll."
He let out a snort and gestured for them to make their way to the bride and groom's table. Arm in arm, they marched to the settings closest to the wedding cake. Just behind them at another table sat or stood a feeble, yet pinkish Giuseppe, fatigued Lucia, a neutral-appearing Nonna Mia, and Zia Maria; Joe and Mia were conversing in Abruzzese dialect, of which Daisy could understand perhaps forty or fifty percent while the sisters-in-law discussed Uncle Tony's exquisite creation in English. Their cousins had gathered on the other side of the wedding hall to discuss or argue over – Daisy was unsure which – college sports, specifically whether the Rutgers football team would, in the twenty-first century, ever achieve a winning streak of at least two back-to-back games. As the younger plumber was about to pull out one of the chairs for his girlfriend, they both heard a gruff male voice call out, "Figlio, if you pull the same courthouse shit that your brother did, I'll kill ya."
Luigi groaned softly and steered his snickering lioness toward the table behind them to greet his elders, particularly Nonna and his adoptive father. After kissing each on the cheek and mumbling a buonasera, they took the momentarily empty chairs next to the old woman, who rasped in Italian, "Pino mio, you forget that your father and I were married in a civil ceremony in Manhattan. It was good enough for him. For us." Her blue eyes darted toward Daisy; sliding closer, she continued, "February 13, 1952. It was bitterly cold that day; I insisted on taking a picture with my wedding dress only – it was a light-yellow chiffon. I'd traded favors for one of the last remaining fancy dresses on my street in Pescara. All of the shops had been destroyed, and no one had any money to pay the seamstress. After our wedding, he warned me that I'd catch cold. And sure enough, I was ill during the first week of our marriage. He laughed at me for a week, but I was still glad that I did it."
The little things. The young man and Daisy exchanged a shy look at the conclusion of his grandmother's story. Prior to that moment, the auburn-haired woman had never considered her wedding day, as she had resisted giving into a symbol of male domination and end of female independence. She was fairly certain that Luigi had already made up his mind; given the Masciarelli tendency to date and marry their first serious partners, Nonna Mia's reference was an ostensible recommendation for their future nuptials. Though she had, in the back of her mind, put her boyfriend in the "serious-quasi-fiancé" category, Daisy had not planned out what she wanted on that day. Despite the Family's visible discomfort over Mario's choice to avoid the sanctity of the Roman Catholic Church, or even a large and formal ritual at the bare minimum, she quietly agreed with his decision. Sephardic weddings had never been a long affair: sign the ketubah, exchange vows and ring in front of the rabbi and congregation under the chuppah, and finally, break the glass. Even they were thirty minutes too long; after all, what was wrong with exchanging vows before a judge or mayor and saving for the big party and honeymoon? Studying Joe's blue eyes, which had silently expressed a certain amount of irritation at his mother's 'encouragements,' she realized that there would be hell to pay if Luigi opted to do the same. As her mind played out a set of worst-case scenarios over an interreligious marriage ceremony, another set of blue eyes entered her field of vision as if to say: we'll cross that bridge when we're good and ready, cat-face.
"Oh, leave the poor girl alone!" ordered Zia Maria in a half-joking voice to her elder brother and mother. Then, in English, she added, "It's not even been a year! She's got law school, for Chrissakes! And as for Mario, well, if his father – God rest his soul – could've gotten away with marrying Gabby in a courthouse and not incurred Audenzia's wrath, he would've!"
Joe pointed a bony finger at his unimpressed little sister. "Don't you start, Mariella!"
She flashed a shit-eating grin, eager to watch his blue eyes darken at using his detested childhood nickname. "Oh, shut up, Peppino."
A rather corpulent, olive-skinned man in a burgundy and ivory chef's jacket waddled up to their table, followed closely by an amused-looking Lucia, who moved around him to kiss her adopted son and Daisy on their cheeks. "Ey, youse," he announced from behind her. "Are the bride and groom here yet? 'Cause I don't want that buttercream to get all warm and shitty." Abruptly grinning at the Italian Grinch in glasses, he appended, "Oh yeah, hey, Peppino. You still owe me five bucks from your team's predictable, uh, ass-bending to the Vikings."
"Nah, Zio," replied Luigi, who attempted to ignore Joe's chin flick at his brother-in-law. "Traffic was a bitch comin' in from Brooklyn. I'm sure they'll be here soon."
Mariella looked at her husband in confusion. "I thought you used an Italian meringue?"
"I did," Tony answered, putting up his hands to deflect any potential protest. "But I don't want it to sit too long. Like Peppino's Jets."
The Masciarelli women collectively rolled their eyes at Tony's anticipated baiting of his brother-in-law who crossed his arms, glared defensively, and pinched his fingers. "Ey, re degli stronzi, you gonna keep breaking the balls of the guy who just got cut open?"
Tony shrugged nonchalantly. "If he roots for the Jets and the fuckin' Mets? Yeah." Then he gestured at Daisy. "Well, I guess better them than the fuckin' Red Shits."
Lucia, Luigi, and Mariella hissed a basta at the latter's chortling husband while the auburn-haired woman raised an eyebrow, daring him to comment further. Before the family troll could accept her silent invitation, the entire wedding hall, which had steadily filled with guests over the course of their conversation, erupted in loud hoots, whistles, and applause at the entrance of a beaming Mario and Peach. From the far corner of the room, one of Mario's Army-buddies called out, "About fucking time, Brooklyn!" Although the groom was wearing the same tuxedo from the afternoon ceremony, the bride had changed into a designer ivory gown that sparkled from the pale pink and gold embroidery on its sweetheart bodice and organza-covered skirt. Much to the Family's surprise, Peach was not wearing a veil; she had opted for a matching diamond and pink pearl hair comb and a matching choker necklace.
Joe clicked his tongue while Nonna Mia muttered, "Magnagatta!"
Arrived and incoming guests rushed to take open seats for dinner and dessert. With exception of the couple's table, there was no assignment; thus doctors ended up with plumbers and special forces guys sat next to firefighters. Making his move to extricate himself and Daisy from the Family, Luigi gently rose from his chair, flashed an apologetic smile, and tugged her toward Mario, Peach, Rospo, and Samira who were walking across the hall toward their seats. Joe rolled his eyes and crossed his arms tighter at their departure. Reaching their designated places, Mario seized his fratellino into a bear hug; the taller man in turn whispered a grazie and package deal in his ear. As the wedding party embraced each other, two smaller groups entered and took the remaining seats. The first group was a visibly flustered Yoshi, Birdo, and Miles, who had to commute from Manhattan, and the second consisted of a plain-suited John Bowser and a smart-casually dressed Louie and Wendy. Luigi glanced around the hall; in spite of the short notice, all of the invitations had been returned with a yes or maybe, even José, who was sitting with two of the firemen, save two unknowns – Miles's brother, who was on some sort of adventure involving penguins in Antarctica, and Uncle Sal. The plumber sighed heavily at their maternal uncle's absence, asking the God in whom the priest had been a fervent believer to bring him to the wedding.
Like a choregraphed dance, the waitstaff filed into the dining room, carrying trays of deep-fried olives, cured prosciutto, arancini, breads, mozzarella, tomato, and basil salad, and oysters with Prosecco, Aperol Spritz, and Bellini. For the children – notwithstanding Wendy's attempts to reach for the Spritz – and others unwilling or unable to drink alcohol, Chinotto and a selection of Italian and American sodas were offered. At their table, Yoshi cajoled the innocent Miles into taking a sip of Chinotto; his lips puckered at its orangey, bitter taste, and he glared at his pink-faced friend and sympathetic-looking Birdo. Louie bit his lip to suppress a snicker at his sister's crush's reaction. As for Wendy, she tried to reach over to put her hand on Miles's shoulder, yet John slapped it away and barked at her to be a lady. Much to the delight of their guests, except for Nonna who mumbled a few choice invectives at the very suggestion of cat-eater cuisine being served at her Abruzzese grandson's wedding, the primi consisted of a choice between two dishes: casunziei – beet and ricotta ravioli in a half-moon shape – and maccheroni alla chitarra con crema di zucchine e zafferano – guitar-string pasta with cream, zucchini, and saffron. The latter choice stunned Luigi, who had been certain that Mario would have chosen any number of Abruzzese meat or lamb-based pasta dishes. Instead, the groom shrugged, noting between bites of the bright yellow and green noodles, "I didn't want the Sfacciata to be deprived. Besides, the secondi will more than make up for a few fuckin' murdered zucchinis. Don't worry; I'll say a few prayers for the departed."
In response, Daisy wrinkled her face at her boyfriend's snorting older brother, abstaining from giving him the normally obligatory middle finger in front of a hundred-odd wedding guests. Peach, however, imparted a noticeable side eye to her husband. Unable to contain his laughter at the exchange, Luigi choked on a bit of the risotto, tossing an apologetic look to his blasé lioness.
She would extract his penitence later.
Next came the secondi which, as the groom had promised, were two meat options: Boeuf Bourguignon with baby potatoes and Agnello brasato – braised lamb – with peppers and potatoes. Before Luigi could ask, one of the waitresses brought over a small dish of cheesy, Abruzzese-style stuffed artichokes for the vegetarian's consumption. The purring cat lapped up the contents of the baked mazzaferrata, causing the alternatively curious and covetous green plumber to stick his fork into its corner and pluck a small amount of the melted pecorino and breadcrumbs.
Shaking her head at the indignant Daisy and unrepentant Luigi, Peach quipped, "Masciarelli men." No sooner had she finished her comment when a seemingly innocent Mario stole a piece of the red-wine braised beef and carrot off her porcelain gold and ivory dish. The bride casually dabbed at her mouth, then retaliated against her visibly impressed groom by scooping two pieces of lamb into the place where her piece of beef had been, much to the laughter and scattered claps around the room.
From the Masciarelli elders' table, Mariella called out, "Yeah, that's how you handle 'em, Peachie!" Lucia, Lucy, Adriana, and Cousin Maria covered their mouths to stifle their mirth.
Whereas Joe remained impassive, between bites of bread and lamb, Nonna mumbled a third magnagatta.
At the conclusion of the secondi, the waitstaff took away the finished plates and presented the wide-eyed guests with a small serving of sorbetto di fragole to clear their palates as they set up a long buffet table of profiteroles, rainbow cookies, cannoli, bocconotti, berries, sliced pineapple for digestion, and distributed the traditional bomboniere. Once the head waiter indicated that they were ready and the majority of guests had finished the refresher, hand in hand, Mario and Peach walked up to the cake.
Whistling to get his guests' attention, the plumber subsequently motioned for Uncle Tony to join them. "Hey, how youse doin'?" he began, to which they clapped and a few of the firemen, plumbers, and soldiers shouted back various, playful insults, provoking him to jokingly pinch his fingers at them. "I know it's not traditional at Italian weddings to make a speech, but," he looked at Peach with a loving grin, "our path hasn't been the most, uh, traditional. We're passin' out the bomboniere a little early, to say thank youse, in case New York's Bravest and Finest here get called away. Anyway, we hope youse are enjoyin' the reception and ... youse haven't eaten enough!" The room erupted into laughter and applause. "We brought up Uncle Tony here to say thank you for making the cake. He told me to invite youse to his pizzeria up in Long Branch." The bride, groom, and fat chef melded into a group bear hug. After the latter handed them a long knife, Mario spoke, "Aight, let's cut this fuckin' thing."
"Hey, big piece, mano!" exclaimed Felipe.
Handing the knife to an amused Peach, Mario used his thumb and index finger to gesture for a small, cheesecake-like piece. The crowd, mainly the men, yelled a boisterous no, to which he switched to a hand, then two, and finally his arms after each refusal. "Aight, aight, get outta here!" he acquiesced while returning to his eager bride. The plumber placed his thick, right hand upon his princess's, and they cut into the top layer, ignoring the multiple camera flashes. Setting aside the first piece to be shared later, they exchanged a ten-second kiss to the second bout of applause. Mario handed the knife to the waiter who, under Tony's watchful gaze, continued dividing up the cake. The rest of the staff helped serve cookies, fruit, and white satin bomboniere pockets filled with sugared almonds to the stream of guests.
Now bombarded with well-wishers, Mario and Peach retreated to their table to ease the traffic heading toward them as well as the buffet. Both needing a breather from the multi-course meal, Luigi escorted his princess outside to the open patio and crisp Staten Island air. They ambled to the railing that disjointed the wooden platform from the hew of sand and dark waters of the Lower Bay. In the background stood the illuminated Verrazzano Bridge. Upon perceiving Daisy's shiver from the freezing temperature, he enfolded her into his body and kissed the top of her head. "Having a good time, cat-face?"
She nodded against his chest. "Yeah."
He reached over to shift her ringed right hand closer to his body and pressed his lips to it. "Ti amo, per sempre. Non me lo so spiegare," he whispered, singing the last five words to the corresponding Tiziano Ferro tune. Though she did not reply, Daisy grinned. Glancing down at her, Luigi went on, "You know the Family is expecting you for Natale. Unless, uh, you're going home to San Francisco."
"Yeah," she responded in an equally soft tone. "Papai bought me a ticket for New Year's, knowing that you, Mario, Peach, Giuseppe, and Lucia would probably want me there for Christmas. Especially since ..." He waited for her to finish, unsure of her thought. Taking a deep breath, she added uncertainly, "Since Salvatore is ... somewhere."
Stroking her cheek to assure her that it was alright to mention him, he gave a simple nod. "Yeah, cat-face. To be honest, I'm ... I'm kinda pissed at him for not being here. It's the wedding of his eldest nephew, for fuck's sake."
"Lo so, kerido. I think Giuseppe is, too."
The plumber grunted his agreement and, kissing her temple, began to sway them to an imaginary slow dance. Sharing the same memory, they pretended that they were in the dance hall from the Valentine's Day party, stepping to "Earth Angel." As Luigi started to croon the lyrics, Daisy fixed her amber orbs onto his boyish face, silently pledging her love.
Ending their dance, Luigi touched his forehead and nose to hers. So engrossed in each other, they failed to notice a man observing them from a few feet away. His cough to alert them of his presence caused the couple to jump, and their eyes widened in surprise at the faintly shorter, olive-skinned man dressed in a tan overcoat, charcoal suit, yellow silk tie, and shined leather shoes.
"Z-Zio?" managed the younger man.
Salvatore smiled a little. "Yeah, niputellinu. Buonasera." His dark brown eyes focused on the stunned, yet mistrustful Daisy. "Buenas tardes, sobrinha." He took an innocuous step toward them, hands in his pockets. "I'm late. I know. I, uh, got tied up with ... things." They both stared at him, unable to verbalize the series of questions that eddied in the waves of shock, confusion, and, in Luigi's case, anger. Sensing their hesitation, he softened his eyes and took his empty hands out of his pockets. "You're my family. You both ... Mario, Cristina, and ..." he swallowed, "per favore."
Positioning himself in front of Daisy, he glared at his maternal uncle. "Then why'd you disappear? And what happened to being a priest? What happened ..."
The older man gently put a hand up to silence him. "It's Mario's wedding, kid."
"Yeah, it is," deadpanned Luigi. Turning to his equally defensive lioness, he murmured, "Kerido, can you give us a second?" He gave her a peck on the lips, stroking her reluctant face to reassure her in addition to communicating a silent plea to find Mario or Uncle Joe. Eventually, she stepped away to return inside the wedding hall. Ensured of both her safety and his brother's or uncle's inevitable arrival, he said, "And? What brings you here, now?"
The Sicilian took out a cigarette from a half-finished package, lit the end with a purple and black plastic lighter, and, pinching it between his index and middle fingers, gestured ahead, "Let's walk a little." Hesitantly, Luigi complied while his maternal uncle took a drag of his nicotine stick. "How's your shoulder?" he asked in visible concern.
"It's alright. The doctors and PT said it'll be stiff for a few months until the tissue heals," responded the plumber neutrally. "How's your, uh, side?"
He tilted his head back and forth. "Same. The first few days out of the hospital were the worst. But it's not the first time I've been shot." Glancing at his stupefied nephew, he flashed a wolfish grin. "Joe wouldn't have told you. Back in late '81. Luckily, the bullet grazed my leg, but it, uh, it hurt for a couple weeks. He changed my bandages and keep it out of sight so that the occasional cop or wiseguy wouldn't have known." Noticing Luigi's nod and shiver, Salvatore's smile faded. After making sure that they were alone, he halted and, taking another puff of the cigarette, faced the cross man. "Kid ... there are things that ... it's better for you not to know. I wanted – I want – you to live a normal life. You have everything that's important – a beautiful fidanzata, a home, a family. A job with new opportunities."
Luigi's blue eyes immediately zeroed into his uncle's brown ones. "What do you mean?"
Salvatore flicked the used ashes toward the railing. "Some things were decided after the sit-down a few weeks ago. Now that things are stable in Brooklyn, there was another meeting, this time, about the plumbers' union. Specifically, Brooklyn Mechanical and Plumbing Works." The plumber's face drained of its color, yet the mafioso put a reassuring hand on his good shoulder. "The shop's one of the more promising ... legitimate operations. No more pizzo – not directly. This is, however, predicated upon two conditions."
The plumber raised his eyebrow. "Which are?"
Nodding after another drag, he answered, "First: you will be the manager of the shop. Other than being the only eligible plumber, everyone agrees that you're the best chance for the shop to turn a profit long-term. Like it or not, certain ... individuals invested a lot of money back when Sal Maldonado and his predecessor were running it; they want a return, which is only fair. Second: there has to be a return, Luigi. Just like with any legitimate business, if an investor injects capital, then he should get it back or ... make even more." At the younger man's nervous lip chew, he flicked more ashes to the railing and rubbed his shoulder to soothe his fears. "As you've no doubt seen, there are investors who would try to take advantage of you. That's why you won't be dealing with them. Both the, uh," he let out a cackle, "plumbers' union and these investors have agreed that you'll always be speaking with an intermediary. Me."
He frowned. "Y-you?"
The mafioso nodded again. "Yes."
Exhaling, Luigi twisted on his foot. "I ... I don't see how this makes me legitimate, Sal."
"You've got to trust me, niputellinu. And I swear upon Joe that you have nothing to fear."
Their eyes connected, and the younger man studied his elder. His brown eyes were not the glossy obsidian of an imminent threat, but a molten chocolate with flickers of unshed tears. "Okay," he mumbled. "But ... w-what about Pete? Fat Tony?"
Salvatore started to walk again, smoking as he did so. Luigi accompanied him to the railing's corner where they could hear the water swish in the distance. "Pete has responsibilities in Colorado. And as for Antonio, he's in agreement. He too has responsibilities elsewhere, hence why he didn't give us best wishes to the bride and groom in person. He offers his apologies."
"Responsibilities," repeated Luigi in a voice tinged with sarcasm. "Is that what youse call it? What about all that bullshit about the Mafia being a stain? And the priesthood?"
The mafioso stopped at the corner to look out into the bay. "You remember your history, kid? From our talks in the gardens when you were a piccolo?"
"About Rome and the Church? Vaguely," he responded impatiently while copying his maternal uncle's posture.
His lips upturned a little. "When you were about ... twelve, thirteen, I gave you a lesson on the Religious Wars of France. Remember? Catherine de Medici and Henry of Navarre?"
Luigi's eyes shifted before he gave a slight nod. "Yeah, I think so. About what happens when we forget about the lessons of Jesus Christ to love one another instead of judge them, even as leaders."
His brown eyes briefly flickered to him in pride. "Yeah, exactly." Then he resumed gazing into the bay. "Well, after it was all said and done, once his brother-in-law had died, Henry of Navarre inherited the French throne. As you know, he was born and raised a Protestant, which was heresy and punishable by death in Catholic France. A man of faith, he stayed true to Protestantism for four years after his brother-in-law's death ... until he saw that ... his principles would tear the country apart. So," he stood up straight and extinguished the cigarette butt underneath his Italian leather, "he converted to Catholicism, the religion of the Parisian and royal mobs who killed his friends and family, plus twenty or so thousand people."
"Yeah – I remember this now. 'Paris is worth a mass,'" finished his nephew.
Salvatore smiled a little. "Apocryphally stated, but yeah. Once he soothed the French people by becoming 'one of them,' Henry achieved peace, first by bribing the Catholic League with more money than he actually had on hand, then by protecting the Protestants via royal edicts that were later undone by his son and grandson."
To their mutual surprise, the younger man burst out laughing; the mafioso joined him a moment later. Tears in their eyes, the latter embraced his beloved family member which the former did not attempt to resist, although he froze mid-action. "Zio ... didn't Henry ... wasn't he assassinated?"
He closed his eyes and nodded. "Yeah, kid. A Catholic extremist stabbed him."
Footsteps approached their position. Salvatore looked up to see Mario and Giuseppe walking toward them. Relinquishing his niputellinu, he ambled to the tense, yet controlled groom and his discernibly incensed former flame. "Buonasera," the shorter man greeted flatly.
"Buonasera," responded the mafioso. "Congratulazioni. I wanted to pay my respects to you and Cristina."
Mario nodded, albeit robotically. "Grazie."
Swallowing harshly, he murmured, "I, uh, don't want to overstay my welcome. This day's about you. I'll, uh, show my way out now that I've said my peace."
As he placed a warm hand upon Luigi's shoulder and tried to move past the two men, he heard his eldest nephew call out, "You came all this way from shit-knows-where, and you ain't gonna get cake or have a couple cannoli? What kind of fuckin' Italian are you?"
The mafioso's brown eyes widened, speechless at the man's now softer expression. "You're family, Sal. Besides, it's my wedding. The fuck are they," he gestured at the edifice containing the wedding reception, "gonna say about it? Huh?" He shrugged at the three men's reticence. "I didn't give a fuck about Catholic school or catechism. You know that. But I remember somethin' about casting stones and shit."
Luigi grinned while Salvatore, whose brown eyes became suspiciously hazy, gave him a grateful nod. "I'd be honored ... Masciarelli."
Mario grunted and, waving his wrist and hand, spoke, "G'head inside. The, uh, seats are bein' moved for the first dance in a bit, but there's plenty of cake, pastries, and coffee." He escorted the taller man to the entrance; whereas Luigi trailed quietly behind them, Giuseppe remained in place, his fists balling at his sides. Salvatore could feel the man's blue eyes burn into him, even as his nephews coolly ignored their paternal uncle's silent paroxysm. Pretending to pat his pockets, he stopped at the threshold, an action which puzzled Mario and Luigi. "Oh, just give me a minute, piccoli. I'll be inside in thirty seconds, alright? I promise."
The plumbers exchanged an uncertain look. "Aight, thirty seconds, Zio," acquiesced the eldest. "Then we drag your ass inside."
A genuine smile materialized upon Salvatore's middle-aged face as he watched them disappear into the wedding reception. The burning sensation had intensified; spinning around, he slowly returned to the deadly still Abruzzese plumber. He reached into his pocket for the cigarette pack and lighter, only for them to unexpectedly fly across the patio and his fingers to redden and throb. In a wordless demand for an explanation, he raised his eyebrow at Giuseppe, who let his ice-blue points bore into him. Wordlessly, they gazed at each other for what seemed like hours. The first to blink, Salvatore stretched his arm and hand to Joe's left, which was curled into a tight hammer. He took a small half-step so that his fingertips could brush the top of the man's fist. After four back-and-forth caresses, it relaxed, and an olive-skinned index finger traced his newly exposed digits. Salvatore's eyes fluttered to his tesoro's unreadable face, then scanned around them. Brusquely, Joe pushed past him and stomped inside, leaving the bewildered man in the shoreline's winter chill.
With a heavy sigh, he dragged his feet into the wedding reception hall where Luigi and Daisy were waiting with a dessert plate of cannolo and cake and an espresso cup. Accepting the offer of comfort food, Salvatore took one of the empty chairs left along the edge of the room to clear the dance floor. His youngest nephew and girlfriend stepped back to flank him as the lights were turned down, save for the main fluorescence overhead. Several flashes from camera phones cascaded like dominoes among the horseshoe-shaped crowd; the elated bride and groom who, holding hands, made their way to its center for the first dance. Luigi joined his left hand with Daisy's right behind Salvatore's chair while Mario and Peach began to step, sway, and twist to Eros Ramazzotti's "Più Bella Cosa." Applause obscured the closing notes of the tune; the plumber stole a kiss from his princess upon bringing her to a standing position from the final dip. Sneaking a sip of Prosecco from his glass, Mario tossed off his suitcoat and unbuttoned the shirt cuffs to roll up his sleeves before joining his wife for a second turn. Several couples, including Aunt Maria, Tony, DK, Rashida, Yoshi, Birdo, Luigi, Daisy, Cousin Vinny and his newest girlfriend, proceeded to the floor. Salvatore and, across the room, Giuseppe both gasped and choked back tears at the opening chords of Lou Monte's 1958 rendition of "Che La Luna Mezzo Mare." As a puerile joke, Mario Senior had requested this bawdy tarantella at his and Gabriella's wedding, much to the horror of the very Catholic Sòggira Audenzia. Though disapproving of the marriage, they both recalled a gleeful Nonno Mario singing along with the tune, making sure that his eldest son's mother-in-law gasped in embarrassment. Both men turned to Nonna Mia, who was wiping her damp eyes, no doubt remembering her husband and eldest son. Mid-bite of his cannolo, the Sicilian watched as Lucia lovingly brushed the tears from her spouse's cheeks. More people rose to form a circle and dance to the tarantella; the more fluent speakers of various southern Italian dialects howled with laughter, clapping or singing along with the tempo. It concluded with a Uei and thunderous applause.
Copying his older brother, Luigi shrugged out of his wedding suit jacket, tossed it on a nearby vacant chair, rolled up his sleeves halfway up his forearms, and returned just in time for Spice Girls' "Wannabe," Peach's contribution to the customary joke songs. He and Daisy mingled with his reluctant brother, giggling sister-in-law, Yoshi, Birdo, Lucy, Vinny, Marilyn, the family and Rutgers party girl, and Cousin Maria, who used her youngest sister as support to bounce up and down with an actively arthritic spine. The bowtie and suspenders-wearing Miles tried to blend into the bystanders, afraid that Wendy would try to corner him; despite her small arms and stature, Birdo grabbed ahold of one of his red suspender straps and dragged him into the circle.
After a few popular international dance tunes, the well-molested Miles retreated to the bar to order a mojito. Retrieving his drink, he occupied a darker corner of the wedding hall, eyes focusing first on the genial Mario and Peach, who had stopped dancing to greet his grandmother and receive well-wishers, second on the dancing couples, including Daisy and Luigi, who were becoming more handsy as time went on, much to the occasional smirks of the groom and disapproving scowl of the latter's adoptive father, and finally, the unreadable expression of the Rigassi paterfamilias who sat by himself, plate of cannoli crumbs in hand. Although he was happy for his friends, in the time between the Columbia Incident and the wedding, the blond had quietly finished or resigned from his various jobs in cybersecurity for an indefinite pause; perhaps, maybe, refocus his career path in mechanics – build planes and other machines instead of investigating what secrets lie inside them. Since the incident and what he had witnessed in the hospital, the blond engineer had lost all taste for acquiring knowledge which, in the long run, had not helped Luigi, Mario, or Giuseppe one bit. Notwithstanding multiple forays into the murkiest corners of the Dark Web, he found no trace of Triple-F, Lucas, or the elder Kariolis. He took a second-long glance at Salvatore from over the rum of his mojito glass before averting his eyes. The mafioso was wearing a suit from the closet of any middle-class New Yorker.
Correction – upper-middle class.
He discovered nothing concrete about Mario and Luigi's maternal uncle, either. An educated man himself, the former priest would undoubtedly suppress any footprint about his identity. Salvatore's physical presentation was just ostentatious enough to be afforded the essential respect of a made man in the upper echelons of the Morano famiglia. The Mafia were the bad guys, the shysters, the murderers; yet the former Father, possibly current Salvatore Rigassi appeared to belong to none of those categories.
"Hey," called out a familiar voice. Miles turned to face a visibly concerned Luigi, who signaled for a lemon soda while studying his pensive friend.
"Hey," replied the blond, taking a sip of his mojito.
"Fratellino, you're not out there with us. I don't want Mario to come over and give you some bullshit about sheds again," said Luigi with a light tone, to which his friend merely shrugged. Accepting the drink, the plumber sighed. "Aight, out with it. Whether you like it or not, Mario, Peach, Joe, Daisy, and I have adopted you into the family. And since you're now part of a big Italian family, in addition to your adventurous older brother, you're gonna get shit from your brothers, sisters, cousins, et cetera, et-fucking-cetera. We will hound you like ghosts."
In spite of himself, the engineer cracked a smile and guffawed. "Point taken. I guess ... I just ... I don't want to spoil the party, but ..."
Without missing a beat, Luigi finished, "... but it feels like we're forgetting something." He tilted his head very subtly in Salvatore's direction. "Someone. We're not. I haven't. Daisy hasn't. Neither has Mario." Sighing, he turned to Miles. "I know ... you saw something. Because I saw it, too. When I went to meet with Carlo. And yeah, your, uh, nemesis is somewhere out there. It bothers me, too. One day, you'll find him. I have that faith."
"Lou, having that faith ... implies that this isn't over."
Sipping his drink nervously, he finally answered, "No. No, it's not."
The music morphed into the slow introduction to "Vivo per lei" by Andrea Bocelli. Luigi, now uncomfortable at their collectively unknown future, sought out Daisy's reassuring presence. She was, with Mario and Peach, engaged in conversation with Rashida and a couple of the firemen's wives; feeling her lover's eyes upon her, Daisy flaunted a toothy grin, which caused the plumber's heart to sprint and skin to flush. His friend swirled the minty-lime liquid in his mouth, his tongue and insides thawing at the alcoholic contact. "She's your faith, Lou."
He returned her grin. "Is it that obvious?"
Miles shrugged again. "Yeah." A second later, his face clenched at his unintentional directness, and he added awkwardly, "I meant it in a good way, you know?"
The plumber turned toward him, watching as he attempted to hide a mixture of fear and jealousy. "We can have different types of faith. It's not a monolith. Daisy's my partner, my beloved ... hopefully for li ..." He swallowed to stop himself while the blond waited intently. "... For as long as she wants. But my family, with all of its shades, shapes, and," he glanced at his friend, "input, is important to me. All of you. I'm not going anywhere."
Nodding, he downed more of his mojito. "Good. Because moving to California would've been a major pain in the ass."
Aboard Air France Flight 7 from JFK to Paris-Charles de Gaulle, a blue suited Piotr slouched in his first-class seat, his half-finished shrimp scampi, spinach, and saffron rice in front of him. Customarily, he flew in coach to avoid suspicion from INTERPOL as well as to keep to a limited, often arbitrary budget set by his government; however, the Signore insisted that he accept the upgrade as a token of his appreciation. As he would undoubtedly have to fly in economy from Paris to Moscow, the Russian agent was loathe to argue against making two-thirds of the journey more pleasant.
The governmental handlers assured Piotr that, once he touched down at Sheremetyevo International Airport, he would be on vacation through the week of January 7. Inwardly, he scoffed; the third floor of the Kremlin and their assurances could be described precisely using a combination of an equal number of letters. Nevertheless, he was optimistic this year, given that he had just resolved that little problem of Signore Venier's, who was a close friend of the Prime Minister of Italy and thus of common interest to his country's president. The Vor had been far more cooperative than anticipated, though, Piotr supposed, it was not every day that the criminal mastermind was approached by the upper echelons of their government to assist in a situation and be guaranteed a sort of 'diplomatic immunity' for the next few years, even from more annoying U.S.-based agencies like the FBI and NYPD. The Russian agent snickered to himself, visualizing the angry face of one Lieutenant Kendricks upon learning that his case had been summarily closed by agents higher than One Police Plaza. Kendricks could thank the Italians, Emiratis, and the Saudis for that one, even if it also technically benefited Mother Russia.
Prior to his departure from New York, he had heard that the Vor had struck a deal with the Don of the Moranos over territory and their respective markets, thanks to an evolution within the administration. According to two of the higher-ranking Russian Bratya captains, who were too eager to boast their importance to an 'alleged' member of GRU after six shots of vodka each, whereas Carlo Morano remained the figurehead, the newest promotions to underboss and consigliere controlled the family business's daily operations. In one of their more outlandish, drunken tales, the two new 'administrators,' with Carlo's blessing, led all of the captains, including Pete Morello, to an abandoned warehouse near Brighton Beach, forced them to their knees, and gave them two options: swear loyalty or receive a bullet to the back of the head. Whatever had transpired, fears over an impending street war had, to everyone's relief, been alleviated. The murders of Jackie Morano, his brother, and the former underboss were being blamed on the rogue actions of Sergei Shereshevsky, Polina Lepeshinskaya, and Vincent DiScala, all 'low level' criminals with tenuous ties to their respective bosses.
Case closed.
Assuming that the Third Floor was not completely full of shit, Piotr had two tasks before his family's planned winter trip to Istanbul: a hopefully brief debrief in Paris with interested parties of the Italian, Saudi, Greek, and Russian governments, followed by a disappointing return of the merchandise to FSB jackals. Thanks in part to the Vor's spiderweb-like network, a convoluted series of deals led to the recovery of the USB which the Kariolises had stolen in Beirut as well as the liberation of the thieves. Yet unbeknownst to anyone not in a need-to-know circle, it was decided that George and Lucas Kariolis would be allowed to be repatriated to Greece, where they would inexplicably disappear while on winter holiday on Mount Pilio.
Too bad he had not been selected to execute that particular assignment.
Piotr pulled out a small black satin pouch and unfastened the closure, revealing a normal black and red USB drive. Now that several hackers had been able to inspect the code, the project would no doubt be cloistered in some dusty file cabinet of the Kremlin, never again to be activated. Pity; the malware was the first baby step in accessing any electronic device for the purposes of gathering data. Guided by deep learning, or what could be called that in this day and age, the program integrated itself among thousands of others to collect data and make predictions about the user's habits and vulnerabilities that its master could exploit at a later time. Out of thousands of tests, the program had only been discovered twice, and both guest hackers of the project happened upon its signature at just the right moment. The Russian government had used it successfully against the Ukrainians, Georgians, Swedes, Syrians, Chinese, and Canadians, and were planning on an American assault when the idiot Muscovite cocked it up. He slanted his head at the plastic drive between his fingertips. Привидение – Project Boolossus – was the first version; there would indubitably be a second. Slipping the USB back into the satin pouch and resealing it, he tucked it securely in the inside of his coat pocket, laid back in his first-class airline seat, and started to flip through the library of international films.
THE END?