The Hollow Men

by KeplersDream

Intermission sequel to "Tougher than the Rest." Luigi, Daisy, Mario, Peach, and The Family have all moved forward from the events of 2014 and their battle with the Bowsers. Nearly six years later, their idyllic life in Brooklyn is turned upside from an unknown and invisible threat. Note: this will be a short story that will lead into the full sequel taking place in 2021.

2. Più le cose cambiano …

Chapter 1: Più le cose cambiano …

March 4, 2020

Brooklyn, New York

7:05 a.m.

"Here, kitty, kitty ..." teased a smiling Luigi Masciarelli as he looked around the empty kitchen, a still-warm, pre-sliced bagel clutched in his fingers. The plumber frowned in confusion, his Roman nose and mustache wrinkling at the aforementioned feline's absence at breakfast. He stepped carefully into the long gray and white brick-walled kitchen where, again, there was no ruddy-colored cat-face sitting at the table in wait of her meal. Everything else was in its place otherwise – copper-bottomed pots and pans hung on a ceiling rack, the new oven and dishwasher that he had installed a few months prior stood proudly against the old painted brick, and the equally vintage wooden table filled the remaining space, though not so much that the brownstone's occupants could not move to and from with ease.

Did she already leave? Did he already miss her?

As he was about to sink into disappointment, a flash of gray and auburn snatched the bagel from his hand. Whirling in the perceived direction of the thief, Luigi spotted a very familiar woman in a pinstriped suit and long-sleeved ivory Oxford unapologetically chomping on the bread roll and smirking in victory. In response, the tall, skinny man in a faded emerald Henley and blue jeans encircled her waist and gave her several kisses along her cheek and nape. A smile spread across her face; clutching breakfast in her right hand, she slid the left from her leather briefcase to cover his. He grinned at the feel of semi-cool metal from her fourth finger, and his blue eyes caught the sparkle of a sapphire and diamond ring that he had gifted to his cat-face two years ago – the fourth anniversary of that fateful dance at Blu and Timpani's.

"Buongiorno, principessa," he greeted.

Daisy purred and leaned back against him for a peck on her lips. "Hmm, bom dia, kerido. You were already asleep when I got home last night, and I didn't want to wake you."

"Lawyers' hours," he muttered while kissing her jawline.

"Jesus, hopefully not again tonight. I have to go into the city for a deposition. Wall Street, after which I should be able to come home for dinner." She twisted in his arms to face his hopeful orbs. "I know that I haven't been home at a decent hour lately. It's these fucking billable hours. Even though they 'promised' me," she emphasized, voice dripping with sarcasm, "that I'd only work 1900 hours, it's becoming closer to 2300. And then we've got wedding shit on top of that which I know should've been done last ..."

Luigi's lips quietened her burgeoning anxiety, his tongue licking a dab of cream cheese from the corner of her mouth. "Cat-face mia, inasmuch as I wish you'd be able to work less so that I could," he dropped his eyes down to her bosom, "have you all to myself, I knew what I was signing up for when you first went to law school. And we survived 1L. I knew again when you graduated. And I know that you have more opportunity in Biglaw right now. As for the wedding, well, we got time. We haven't even set a date yet."

His fiancée harrumphed. "Tell that to your family. Recently, I've been getting the 'Peach Treatment.'"

The plumber let out a loud chuckle. "Oh, they can fuck off with the Phillies. More specifically, Joe can fuck off. He's been broody ever since Addy had her second and Nonna passed on. Not to mention Mario. And since Maria told him to fuck off years ago, he thinks he's owed piccoli from us." After observing a few seconds of silence for Mia Masciarelli, who had died peacefully at home in 2017, he then wiggled his eyebrows teasingly. "And as for yours, last Friday, I seem to recall getting the fifty-third not-so-subtle request – to quote your father, preference – to convert to Judaism for the sake of our future children. Yael was, of course, more direct. And the cat ignored me completely."

Daisy snickered between a bite of bagel and another kiss. "Kerido, my parents will always have their 'preferences.' But this is our partnership. Concerning Queen Babka, she ignores all those who do not offer her the correct treats. And thanks to Papai, that cat is a waddling babka." He snorted wordlessly in agreement, then wrapped his arms more tightly around her. "I know ... I know you're frustrated. You want to be married this year. Settled. I do, too. It's just ... I'm overwhelmed." She closed her eyes. "Every girl's supposedly planned out her wedding, from the white dress to the floral patterns. Me? I never thought that I would be, y'know? I don't know shit about catering or satin or silk or ..."

"Cat-face," Luigi interjected again, albeit delicately, "We will figure this out. Yeah, I want to be married because I consider you my immediate family, and I want to celebrate that. But not at your expense. Ignore the chatter, sweetie. If needed, I'll take care of the planning. Except the, uh, dress, 'cause, you know, you'd be wearing it."

Brushing a few strands of auburn hair from her face, she sighed sadly. "Kerido, you're handling enough. We'll figure this out. I know we will. I don't ..." She gazed into Luigi's expectant sapphire-colored eyes. "There're so many lawyers who work a hundred hours a week and leave their spouses alone ... to the point where they come back home, and they don't know each other anymore."

The tall Brooklynite lifted one of his hands from his fiancée's waist to stroke her cheek. "Where's all of this coming from? Huh? I still know you, and you know me."

Daisy shrugged. "I don't know. These last few weeks ... I've felt so ... guilty. We both knew that the firm would require me to work fifty to sixty hours per week. I ... I hate leaving early in the morning and coming home late at night." He nodded, waiting for her to finish. "Oxford, Columbia, NYU ... All for this?" She glanced down at her bagel, lamenting the sudden loss of her appetite.

Luigi raised her chin so that her amber orbs were visible. "You're Daisy Abravanel, Esquire and Hellraiser Extraordinaire. You gotta pay your dues. You'll put in your three years and then ... you'll do what you want. Associate, partner, whatever. I know what it's like, love. I had to put in my five bullshit years for the union, too. Like I said, I knew what I was getting into when you got into NYU, what that meant." He took the bagel and held it to her mouth, enjoining her to eat. "As long as I'm your number one, Daisy, then I'm alright."

For his reassurances, the plumber received a flirty Mona Lisa smile that made his heart flutter. "You are my number one, Luigi Masciarelli. Besides ... Saturday is coming up soon. If I were you, I'd check your desk later."

A certain piece of male anatomy twitched at the mere mention of Saturday. Beginning in her first year of law school, they made it a point to take one day for themselves which consisted of sex, brunch, more sex, three different varieties of Netflix and Chill, and the occasional restaurant, dance class, or yoga date before returning for a nightcap. Even while visiting their families in California and Staten Island on academic vacations and holidays, the pair found ways of absconding to places and parts unknown, much to Mario's and Cousin Maria's amusement and the horror of their parents. The sex was good, but the ritualistic build-up was mind-blowing. Both Luigi and Daisy enjoyed finding ways of teasing the other without crossing professional or personal boundaries; the opening chess move in their escapades consisted of a handwritten letter left on his side of bed detailing a tall Italian man's session with an auburn-haired Brazilian dominatrix, leaving him speechless in that moment and subsequently aroused for days. He was no slouch, either; among their mutual favorite hits was placing a description, complete with schematics, of certain items in his personal toolbelt for pleasuring princesses in her study. Despite several grueling years of studies for both of them, they made time for betting and paying up during the 2015 and 2016 Major League Baseball postseasons, in which the New York Mets reached the playoffs and, in the former year, the World Series, only to lose each time. Daisy's gratification came both monetarily from a pissed, semi-drunk Mario and irritable Uncle Joe and physically from her pouting boyfriend. Yet Saturday was not entirely about sex; between lovemaking sessions, Luigi cuddled his fiery princess on the couch, in bed, or in the bathtub, and they talked about anything and everything – their days, hopes, regrets, dreams, and stresses.

Pecking her on the lips and letting his hands trace her athletic curves, he murmured in a low voice, "I can't wait."

Without having to check her watch, Daisy's heart sank at her necessary and imminent departure. As she collected her belongings, she reached up to give him a goodbye kiss, responding, "I'll be back for dinner, kerido. I promise."

Upon feeling her soft lips, he deepened the kiss, walking her back toward the edge of the counter and, after pushing her bagel toward the marble top so that it did not fall to the floor, let his hands wander. "I'll be waiting," he mumbled between open-mouthed kisses on her neck. "I'll have a nice ... cheese and spinach cannelloni ready for you. Candles. Wine."

She moaned in response at both his dinner suggestion and caresses. "Dio, I don't think I can wait until Saturday."

"We can have both, kerido mio," Luigi chuckled, stepping away to leave her breathless and frustrated. "Like I said, I'll be waiting. I love you."

"I love you, too," she answered, taking two steps to kiss him once more before sliding on her coat, with Luigi's help, and exiting their brownstone.

Now alone, the plumber let out a sigh of both minor irritation and longing, then focused on getting ready for his own workday. While he acknowledged the professional limitations on Daisy's free time, he was loathe to accept them. He was proud of her, loved that she was so smart and hardworking to end up at a top three law firm in New York City and top five in the United States; yet twelve-hour days meant that she was having adventures without him. During her first two years in law school, they had ended up in at least one or two classes together since her cybercrime emphasis and scholarship required her to take several credits in network engineering and cybersecurity. Although he had enrolled at Columbia, non-major or core electives taken at NYU counted toward his degree. Despite the grumbling at the union, he insisted on the daytime classes just so he could be in her section; among their fellow students, they were known as the "Tango Tanglers" due to having been caught twice making out in the library stacks.

Zipping up his jade Patagonia puffer jacket that his fiancée had bought him for Hanukkah last December and grabbing his decades-old avocado backpack, Luigi moved into the living room where several photographs sat atop an ivory mantle: in addition to three that had been taken of Giuseppe, Zia Maria, his parents, and Salvatore Rigassi during the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s, plus one from Mario and Peach's wedding in December 2014, he and Daisy had added three new memories from the past few years. The first featured a purple and black-gowned Daisy, him in her favorite charcoal gray suit, a beaming Harry and Yael Abravanel, and two of her closest friends from Oxford. The second, taken by Cousin Maria, was of him in the emblematic light-blue graduation gown of Columbia University surrounded by his ivory and yellow polka dot-clad princess, a heavier-set Mario Masciarelli in a red polo shirt and blue jeans, a grinning Peach in a floral pink dress, a neutral-faced, still skinny Giuseppe Masciarelli in a gray suit, his more visibly proud wife, Lucia, who chose to wear a Columbia-blue blouse and black skirt, the elder Professor Omaya, now in his sixties and nearly emeritus at NYU, and the stylishly suited Salvatore. Luigi's eyes cast slightly downward to the little blond boy standing with his parents; the newest addition to the Masciarelli family, Joshua Mario Masciarelli, was born almost four years ago in Brooklyn.

The final picture was of he in a navy-blue suit, Daisy in a plum-colored A-line dress, and the mousy blond Miles Prower in a similar ensemble among several Japanese and Taiwanese in suits. At the center stood a newly married couple: Birdo in a red cheongsam and Yoshi in a black montsuki. To accommodate their feuding parents as well as to legalize their wedding for New York, Yoshi and Birdo married in Taipei, which Luigi, Daisy, and the reluctant Miles attended as the only 'Western' invitees. Whereas Yoshi's parents and grandparents welcomed them as honored guests, Birdo's elders remained merely cordial, having been uncomfortable not only with her wearing the cheongsam instead of a man's chang pao ma gua, but moreover inviting non-Chinese to a solemn ceremony between families. Birdo's more liberal cousins, however, did not mind, and took the newlyweds, Luigi, Daisy, and Miles on a variety of cultural activities around Taipei and Taiwan: the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial; biking at night to the market; the Thousand Island Lake. True to her adventurous spirit and much to his and Miles's building anxiety, Daisy spotted and engaged in base jumping; though not sufficiently skilled to leap from Taipei 101, she did parachute from a hundred-foot cliff in the Taroko National Park. Inspired by the bravery of the lawyer-princess, Luigi and Yoshi tried their luck and, in spite of Miles's blubbering admonishment of "the moderate to high probability of injury in a foreign country," successfully jumped from the same position. A jubilant Birdo took video of both jumps, which inevitably led to commentary by the Masciarellis and Abravanels.

Are you fucking pazzo?! demanded both Uncle Joe and Mario via Skype later that evening. Just because Daisy jumps off a fuckin' bridge doesn't mean you gotta!

The following early morning came stern emails and voicemails from Daisy's parents and a "concerned" message from Uncle Sal, which the plumber and his lioness exchanged to read to the other for comic relief.

After locking up their brownstone, Luigi steered his green bicycle into the cool Carroll Gardens air and carried it down the staircase to the street. Adjusting both his helmet and backpack, he started to pedal down 2nd Place and north on Clinton Street toward his shop in Dumbo. The two-mile trek was cathartic for the master plumber who used the twenty minutes to let his mind relax, an activity both Daisy and his therapist had suggested during his first year at Columbia as a way to cope with Manhattan-related post-traumatic stress. Soon afterward, he replaced cigarettes with biking, and he reaped the benefits of improving his endurance and physique, possessing a clearer mind, and being the object of a certain sexy lawyer's heated gaze. The latter soon joined him on the occasional weekend ride, of which both he and Dr. Czernin approved. His life was so different and so much better than in February 2014; he had a beautiful and fierce fiancée whom he hoped to wed in a moderately-sized ceremony within the next year, a close-knit family, friends only a stone's throw away, the Ivy League college degree that his father had always wanted for him, and a solid job that he enjoyed and was firmly his.

While he never begrudged his older brother for his popularity among the guys at Brooklyn Plumbing and Mechanical Works, Luigi was secretly glad that, once he had received his long-awaited discharge papers from the Army, he had resigned to become an 1811 Special Agent with the federal government. Due to Homeland Security's concerns over securing physical infrastructure, the Office of Personnel Management was looking for an investigator with a solid background in terrorism and plumbing or construction to evaluate potentials for infiltration throughout the United States. His commanding officer in the Special Forces had volunteered his name, and he was offered the job within weeks. In spite of a mild to moderate risk of danger, both he and Peach knew that Mario was happiest being a protector – like their firefighter father and Italian partisan grandfather. Whereas Mario was fulfilled in his role as the head of their immediate family, Luigi made the plumbing shop his own by converting it into a hybrid of traditional plumbing and heating with advances in thermal technologies. Roughly a year after his initial visit to Felix Müller-Schmidt in Germany and marketing his thermal device to Mohammed and Ali al-Ketbi in Dubai, he received nearly a quarter-million dollars in start-up funding by late 2016, which, thanks to their collective influence, turned into a seven, nearly eight-figure income in two years. Brooklyn Plumbing and Mechanical Works was, as of end of third quarter 2019, one of the wealthiest mid-size shops in the five boroughs. The only thing that kept him from crossing into the high-eight, low-nine-figure mark was acquiring large-scale contracts for supertall structures.

Luigi smiled to himself. Commie Dave and Sal Maldonado's little shop had become the envy of most plumbing businesses, including that of Uncle Joe and his second-in-command, Cousin Maria. While the latter had, like Zia Lucia, been proud of her cousin-little brother, Joe had grudgingly acknowledged his adopted son's successes, albeit with a gruff statement that "plumbing's becoming that chichi Ivy League techie shit." Never mind that his thermal device had injected badly needed revenue for the ultra-traditional Staten Island shop. Even though he wished his paternal uncle would be more grateful, Luigi knew he was a proud – in Uncle Sal's words, quarrelsome – man and hated appearing 'weaker,' the number two, to either his son or any Mario. Yet he also visited the aforementioned Chichi Ivy League Techie Shop every Wednesday in person, especially as he and Daisy had committed the transgression of skipping Sunday dinner for the past four weeks.

Fifteen minutes later, he dismounted his bicycle to enter the shop. Walking it inside, Luigi came to the wooden door of his office, unlocked it, and went inside, flicking on the lights as he laid the bike against the opposite wall. He unhooked his helmet, put it on the handlebars, and sank into his office chair to unload his backpack when he heard a loud fart echo throughout the room and shop. "What the fuck?!" he muttered, having heard but not felt the flatulence. Lifting his derrière, the master plumber pinched a whoopie cushion between his fingers. A few snickers and snorts resonated in the shop, and he shook his head. "Fuckin' Ginsburg!" he yelled to the howls of laughter. Subsequent to Mario's departure to the OPM, Jacob Ginsburg became Luigi's second-in-command. A self-described "Ukrainian-born Jewish guy who just doesn't give a fuck," he loved his family, his pipes, pissing off the union higher-ups, and playing pranks on his slightly younger, "tight-assed" boss. While Luigi found his antics occasionally annoying, he tolerated them due to Jacob's inherent ability, which he attributed to his ethnic background and history, to play negotiator between the Slavic, Latino, and African journeymen. Though most of the previous resentments and bickering had abated due to the shop's increased income and ability to hire when needed, many of the senior Latino and African journeymen still retained their mutual antipathy. That was not to say that Ginsburg lacked enemies; one or two of the African Muslims gave the side-eye to the openly pro-Israel senior journeyman, whom the master plumber had to reprimand for "reenacting the Middle Eastern Conflict during business hours." In a stroke of malicious compliance, he acknowledged his boss's directive, waited until five-thirty in the evening, approached the two offended Muslims, grabbed his balls, and yelled the Shema.

The best part of coming to work was the guys; the worst part of coming to work was the guys.

Luigi turned on his laptop to play Radio Italia. Scanning through the automated tickets to ensure that no one journeyman or journeyman-apprentice team were being assigned an overabundance of assignments, his ear caught the Roman newscaster speak, "... Il governo ha deciso la chiusura 'in via prudenziale' di scuole e università in tutta Italia dal 5 al 15 marzo." He blinked, and a sinking feeling began in the pit of his stomach. About two weeks prior, his sister-in-law, Peach, had received word from her family secretary that her seventy-four-year-old father had fallen severely ill with a form of pneumonia; that evening, she had left their young son with Mario and, accompanied by her aide-de-camp, Rospo, taken an emergency flight to Venice. Thereafter, his older brother was tightlipped about whatever the hell was going on with Peach's family. By late-February, reports of an outbreak of a mysterious SARS-like virus had ripped through northern Italy.

Up until a few days prior, when an 'isolated' case arrived at John F. Kennedy International Airport, the official position of the U.S. Government and New York City Mayor's Office was that it was a Chinese and Italian problem: "The Coronavirus is very much under control in the USA ... CDC and World Health have been working hard and very smart."

Unless, of course, one was in Chinatown in San Francisco, Bensonhurst in Brooklyn, Yeshiva University, or in a Seattle nursing home.

Reminding himself to call Mario later that evening, he briefly left the office to fetch some water for his electric kettle and French press. As he set the water to boil, Luigi heard a cough at the threshold of the door; glancing toward the sound, his blue eyes zeroed in on a corpulent figure in ill-fitting pink pants, black shirt, and ripped blue-jean jacket, whose fat index finger was digging for nose nuggets. He tried to affix his best possible neutral, strong-stomached gaze at his second cousin. "Hey Tony," he greeted. "What brings you to Dumbo this morning?"

Antonio "Fat Tony" Morano shrugged and, brushing his snot-covered fingers across his pants leg, replied, "Just out ridin' the 'cycle. It's a nice day. Thought I'd check out the family investment." His beady, brown eyes first wandered about the office, then he nodded in momentary satisfaction. "Bene. I see business is good."

Luigi crossed his arms at the obese Bensonhurst Italian in disbelief. "Yeah, somehow, I doubt you'd just 'drop in' for shits and giggles. You even got an increase starting a couple months ago, so I don't think it's your, uh, return."

Tony snickered, answering, "Nah. 'Cause if it was, you wouldn't be gettin' a courtesy call from me. But don't think you can get smart with me, kid. Your rabbi might be Cousin Sal, but remember who you're talkin' to, capisce?" The younger master plumber's body language remained unchanged, to which the fat man added, "Actually, I wanted to know about Mario. Rumor has it that his moglie left for parts unknown. Venezia. Piccolo stayed behind with the Fat Abruzzese Fuck."

"Where'd you hear that?" the man in green inquired neutrally.

"The biggest fuckin' canary in all of Bensonhurst – John Bowser. The crazy Irish fuck's got it in his head that this is all part of a conspiracy to get the President."

He rolled his sapphire eyes. "You're getting your news from a guy who has a gold-framed portrait of Fuckface von Clownstick hanging above his bar like some fucked-up shrine? Plays OAN and InfoWars twenty-four-seven?"

Reaching into his nose once more, Tony quipped, "You're not denying it, are you, Snowflake?" Luigi continued to stare wordlessly at him. "That's what I thought. When's the Princess comin' back to, you know, la sua famiglia?"

"I don't know," replied Luigi tersely. "I was gonna ask Mario."

Tony nodded. "Yeah, you do that, kid. It ain't right that she left her husband and son to go do ... whatever. You tell Mario that we tolerated that disloyal bullshit before, when she was married to that cocksucker, Marco Bowser, but we won't be so forgiving a second time."

"Hey!" the plumber interjected, raising a finger at his second cousin. "She didn't just 'abandon her family'! Her father's sick with pneumonia! She's got loyalties, too! And since you claim to be and speak Italian, Tony, I'm sure you've heard about half of Italy getting sick from this new virus. She didn'ttake Josh to protect him! Mario's got to work, and I'm sure youse don't approve of that job, either!"

He sneered, "No, we don't. But he's not doin' anything that would put us at odds, so it's nothin' right now. Just make sure la Principessa Peach's back at home where she belongs." Before turning to leave, Fat Tony took a final scan of his younger cousin and said, "You could use a few extra slices, Lou. I hear being a lawyer's stressful, but Daisy's gotta learn how to cook one of these days, huh?"

Scowling at the heavy-set man's disappearing back, Luigi mumbled a few expletives in Italian and poured the hot water into his French press. Normally, his dealings with the Sicilian side of the family were restricted to a monthly visit or dinner with Uncle Sal, who made sure that he, Mario, Peach, Daisy, and the shop were left alone in exchange for a percentage of the profits. He had not seen Tony Morano in months, though he did make it a point to harass Mario during his intermittent visits to the Koopa Bar in Bensonhurst. According to John and Mario, Fat Tony was now an 'acting captain' in the Morano Crime Family; in spite of the hierarchical vacancies created his father's and uncle's murders in 2014, the reigning Padrino, Joey Bernacchi, was reluctant to promote anyone until they had adequately proven their loyalty. No more independent cells, or insomuch as the RICO Act permitted: everything was closely regulated by the administration. Luigi shuddered, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Given the little that he knew of the current Morano Family realpolitik, the message pertaining to Peach's absence came from high up, likely from Joey-B himself. He disliked thinking about them; aside from their known participation in a variety of crimes including racketeering, illegal sports betting, drugs, and the occasional murder, there was the unsaid within the Masciarelli family – Uncle Sal's present status as an administrator. No one precisely knew in what specific capacity or title; while John and Mario postulated that he was the underboss, Miles once mumbled something about him being an advisor – the consigliere. For the past five years, Salvatore lived a transitory existence, never permitting his beloved nephews to know his exact location, let alone his activities within the Cosa Nostra. Every so often, he would drop by Mario and Peach's brownstone for dinner or to play with little Joshua; he was always supervised by either parent, which he did not protest. Yet the administrator kept a distance from Luigi and Daisy, usually surfacing to talk business with the plumbing shop's manager.

The tall plumber bit his lip in a sudden surge of anger. Except for Uncle Joe and Cousin Maria, whose visits ranged from weekly to monthly, every single member of The Family, be it Masciarelli or Rigassi, seemed more interested in Mario, Peach, and little Josh. Maybe that's why Daisy was in no hurry to get married for their sake, he mused, sipping the smooth dark roast. Yet they sure would throw a collective Abruzzese-Sicilian fit if they decided to elope at city hall, Niagara Falls, or, even better, San Francisco City Hall. His resentment soon turned into a chain of audible, self-satisfied sniggers at a beautiful Daisy in a flowing, A-line white dress, and he in a black and white tuxedo exchanging vows before one of his father-in-law's colleague-judges; his phone buzzing nonstop during the fake wedding ceremony from which his family was so unfairly excluded. Luigi blinked conciliatorily; they would, of course, invite Mario – if he could even attend – Peach, little Josh, Yoshi, Birdo, and Miles. After a nice celebratory meal by a private chef that would cater to his wife's vegetarian diet, they would all head to the Southern California beaches, and then he and his bride would honeymoon for a week in Maui, Bora Bora, or New Caledonia. During his fifteen-minute morning break, he did a quick DuckDuckGo search on "marriage license" and "California;" skimming the process which was, in fact, easier than that of New York, he giggled, favorited the page, and made a mental note to share it with Daisy.

At lunchtime and with one final stretch of his long limbs, Luigi rose from his chair to step out to the market a block down the street to pick up a salad and items for that evening's candlelight dinner. Wallet in his inner coat pocket, he collected his keys when he heard a firm knock at the door. "Stai uscendo da officina? È mercoledì, figlio!" demanded a middle-aged male voice.

He turned around to see a stern-looking Giuseppe Masciarelli, who was carrying a medium-sized brown paper bag. The younger plumber's eyes fixated questioningly at the sack. "Zio ... I didn't ... I didn't know you were coming," he answered in English.

Uncle Joe rolled his identically blue eyes behind the trademark Buddy Holly framed glasses. "Well, let's see, figlio: I haven't missed a Wednesday in ... three fuckin' years. I'd have thought that fancy fuckin' Ivy League school would've taught patterns." Luigi settled back into his seat while his unbothered adopted father stepped inside, slid the visitor's chair across from him, and, sitting down, held the brown bag to him. "Your zia saved you some eggplant parmigiana."

Accepting the parcel, he greedily unwrapped it and took out the large glass container with a portion that could comfortably feed three people: he, Joe, and Daisy. A second later, his conjecture was proven correct when two plastic forks and plates slid from the bag's opening. Unable to resist Zia Lucia's eggplant parmigiana, he quickly removed the cover and placed the thick glass dish in his microwave to reheat its contents.

He could go to Wegman's after work.

They waited in silence for lunch which would, in Luigi's unspoken estimation, benefit his semi-retired paternal uncle. The latter had always been thin; however, after losing most of one lung and submitting to multiple rounds of radiation and chemotherapy, he had never recovered those lost fifteen pounds. His dark brown curls had become cropped and more salt than pepper. Although he was not especially vain, Giuseppe covered his thinned hair with a faded blue and orange New York Mets baseball cap. "How are you, Zio?" he finally asked.

Giuseppe slouched a little. "Can't complain. Your cousin Maria's running the shop like it was always hers. Little Giulio's got quite the arm, made pitcher for his Little League team ..."

"I meant your health," he interrupted gently, spinning away from him to remove the heated dish from the beeping appliance.

"I'm a sixty-year-old Italiano with one lung." While Luigi divided the eggplant parmigiana into thirds, plating and handing the first to his uncle, which he wordlessly took, the older man continued, "I'm aight. Some of the guys in the shop apparently have caught this weird bug that's been going around. Some lung or stomach shit."

Cutting into his eggplant with one of the plastic forks, the younger man frowned. "Yeah?"

He nodded after his first bite. "Yeah. My doctor's seeing the same. He wants me to get the fuckin' flu vaccine as a precaution. He already made me get the pneumonia whatever. Next, it'll be shingles. Don't get old, figlio; it's the shits."

"Seems worldwide, Zio. I, uh, had Radio Italia on, and that new SARS virus's really hitting Italy hard."

Joe chewed on his second mouthful. "I got an email from the cousins in Pescara. It's been there for the past two or three weeks, and the situation isn't improving any." Wiping his mouth with one of the neatly stacked paper napkins on Luigi's desk, he scoffed, "It's in New York, too, and of course, the fuckin' Masshole and Amazon Cuomo are sayin' it's just an 'Italian' problem. Never mind that this escaped from under whatever rock in China. This is gonna blow up in all our faces if they keep pissing Trump off."

Mid-bite, Luigi raised a sarcastic eyebrow at his uncle. "Jackass O'Lantern just said that everything's under control."

He shook his head, pinching his fingers. "He can't control tourism, figlio. New York's a flight away from Rome and Venezia. Not to mention Beijing. Fuckin' Chinese know more than what they're saying."

Disallowing lunch to deteriorate into a shouting match over disparate political philosophies, he decided to change the subject. "How's Addy doing? She was pretty miserable the first time, you know. Giulio didn't let her sleep at all."

The hint of a smile passed over Giuseppe's face. "Ah, Cecilia's a little micina compared to her brother. But Paulie's being attentive, and she's getting more sleep this time. Your cousin Lucy's doing well, too." Abruptly, he rolled his eyes before going on, "She's met someone. Another teacher – he's teachin' ... fingerpainting and other stupid shit."

"I believe it's called 'Art Appreciation,' Zio," snickered Luigi, to which the elder man scoffed.

"Art Appre – Figlio, the kid probably spent, what, fifty, sixty grand a year at NYU for his fucking 'Art Appreciation' and now makes a shit salary! How's he gonna support a family, huh?" he barked while using the che vuoi once more. "At least the union paid for your engineering degree from Columbia! With that and your master plumber license, you're making good money. You can start a family any time now."

Dramatically, Luigi tossed his free hand to the air. "Ecco qua, il vero motivo !"

Undaunted, Giuseppe, who was working on his last quarter of the eggplant parmigiana, replied, "What? You and Daisy have been engaged for two years now. Youse ain't getting any younger, and neither am I."

"Let's worry about the wedding first before," he glared at the unrepentant spectacled man, "i bambini."

Joe set down his paper plate and directed a pointed stare at his nephew. "Ascolta, figlio mio: I don't know what the fuck the problem is. She's got a very good job, apparently. She's making, what, two hundred grand a year? You have your degree and you're a good ragazzo. Honest, hardworking, loyal. She's lucky! I even know of a priest in Eltingville who will gladly conduct a Jewish-Catholic wedding ..."

"Basta!" interjected the now cross younger man.

"Then what's the problem, huh? We've been waitin' for two years! Cazzo, even longer than that!"

Visibly upset, he growled, "Why can't it be enough for youse? Huh? Daisy's got her dreams, which I fully support! She comes to Sunday dinner, only to be told that she isn't good enough. She's not Catholic, so she'll never be married in the Church! And if she has kids now, she'll never be the lawyer that we – she and I – know she can be! She's got to pay her dues like I did. Is the union somehow more important?! Is she somehow lesser?!"

Sighing, Giuseppe crossed his arms and turned away from the angry man. "And what's she giving you, figlio? 'Cause the way I'm seeing it, you've been doing a lot of crying, waiting, and hoping."

The second paper plate scrapped against the top of the desk. "Well, let's see," began the plumber in green as he held up his fingers to keep count, "she gives me a home, she gives me companionship, she makes me laugh, and she loves me! And I love her!" His blue eyes blazing, he added with a sneer, "Who the hell are you to say anything about my relationship?"

Older blue eyes regarded him hotly. "Sono sposato da trentasette anni. E sei mio figlio."

For the second time that afternoon, Luigi bit his tongue to keep the peace. Inwardly, he snapped: You may have been married for thirty-seven years, Zio, but your loyalties have been divided for over forty. Taking a few deep breaths to regain control of his emotions, he then rasped, "Is this really why you came here? To criticize someone else's relationship?"

Joe sniffed stubbornly; his arms still crossed. "We're not talking about someone else!"

Angrily, he rose from his chair to loom over the offended Abruzzese. "Precisely! Daisy's already weary of youse! Know why? Because she's feeling the pressure on all sides: her job, her family, youse, and even me at times! She stayed with me, with youse during that little jaunt into the tunnels five years ago, so what else do you want from her?! And if you keep pushing, you could cost me the ..." Joe watched as the young man heaved with a mixture of anger and fear, "... the most loving relationship that I have ever known! And yeah, that includes la-fucking-Famiglia! If that happens, then consider me dead to youse!" Walking to the door, he hissed, "Tell Zia thanks for the eggplant. I'm going to use the restroom; you can see yourself out." Luigi stormed out of the office, leaving his adoptive father stunned in his chair.

---

Around a little past five in the evening, Luigi dismounted his bicycle while balancing a canvas shopping sack filled with cannelloni shells, spinach, ricotta, a couple cans of Cento, and a wedge of Parmesan cheese. As he briefly stopped at the base of the brownstone steps to fish his keys from his pocket, a familiar figure immediately snatched the wobbling bicycle and, lifting it over his shoulder, hiked it easily up the stairs; behind him was a small blond boy with a Superman-themed backpack.

"Mario?" inquired the younger man quizzically.

At the top of the stairs, the man in his patented red hoodie and jeans turned to face him. Since he had been granted his separation and honorable discharge from the military in June 2015, Mario had gained an additional twenty pounds, making him about the same size as their paternal grandfather throughout much of his life. His formerly cropped hair, now wild with curls, was neck-length and his mustache was even thicker than Luigi's. Though he was sporting a cheeky grin, fatigue and apprehension accented his blue eyes. "Fratellino, you makin' somethin'? Must mean that the Sfacciata's comin' home to use that mouth of hers for something other than objecting!"

Rolling his eyes at his older brother's nickname for his fiancée, he followed his brother and little nephew up the stairs and pushed past to unlock the door. Still carrying the green bicycle, Mario gestured to his son to enter first, which he did wordlessly, then walked inside, setting it along the wall next to the door where he knew Luigi kept it. A second later, Luigi shut the door and made his way to the kitchen to make his brother an espresso and his nephew a very small cup of orange soda. Despite Mario's more liberal attitudes toward American junk food, including sneaking his son a variety of Italian ices and gelati much to his wife's verbal disapproval, the master plumber did his best to respect Peach's wishes to observe a more European approach to her child's diet. "I, uh, wasn't expecting youse for dinner. I can order a pizza ..."

Hoisting the little boy into the cream-colored chair at the wooden table, he interrupted almost sheepishly, "Nah, I can't, uh, stay for dinner." A puzzled Luigi turned toward his guests while the brand-new espresso machine whirred to life. On the way to the refrigerator for the orange soda, he kept his eyes on them, waiting for him to continue. "For some reason, they're having me go up to fuckin' New Orleans." Anticipating his question, Mario held up a hand. "Yeah, they know it's just me right now. But my boss said, and I quote, 'You knew what you signed up for, Masciarelli. We've already given you two weeks in New York. It's just for a few days.'"

The younger plumber's eyes widened. Setting the small cup in front of his nephew, he murmured, "Bevi, nipote." Refocusing his attention back to his brother, he spoke in English, "So you need me to watch Josh?"

Mario nodded heavily. "Yeah, just for a few days. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"What about Peach? When is she coming back to New York?" he asked, handing the fresh espresso to his fratello.

Using small sips of the coffee, the portly man declined to immediately answer. "She's been ..." he looked down at his uncomprehending son, "delayed."

Luigi frowned at Mario's cryptic response. "Wait a second ... didn't she leave two weeks ago? The hell's ...?"

"Two and a half," the other man interrupted pointedly. Again glancing down at the little boy, he murmured with what he had hoped was a reassuring smile, "Puoi prendere la tua soda e andare in soggiorno, huh? Va bene, bambino."

Josh turned toward him, his blue eyes narrowing suspiciously in an action reminiscent of his mother whenever his father decided to sugarcoat or obfuscate his intentions. Mario raised an eyebrow at him, a silent plea and order not to argue. Helping him down to the ground, the little boy walked slowly to the living room. As he disappeared from the kitchen, Mario mumbled, "Kid's got a lot to say – sometimes too fuckin' much. I'm kinda glad that Peaches insisted that we speak Italian at home. His English is still limited, so he doesn't understand what's going on here." Luigi nodded, waiting for his brother to continue. Sighing, he then appended, "Weegie, her father's ... not doin' so good. This ... whatever the hell it is that's spreading in Italy ... it's something that we only talked about in the military. Anthrax this, smallpox that." He took another sip of the coffee, imbibing it like a shot of whiskey. "I got a bad fuckin' feeling about this. Especially as there are reports of it here in the States. Here in New York."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," the younger man concurred in an equally uneasy tone as he began to unpack his grocery items.

Pushing the cup away with his fingertips and scoffing in agreement, he said, "Fuck, I gotta catch this flight. Take care of yourself and the Sfacciata, Weegie. Whatever the fuck you do, promise me that you don't let the union push you around, aight?"

They moved to embrace each other, with Mario reaching up to kiss his fratellino on the cheek. "Yeah, you too," Luigi responded. Together, the brothers walked into the living room; leaning down to his son's level, the red-hoodied man hugged and kissed the confused boy, who demanded his father's whereabouts in their native language, to which the elder Masciarelli simply promised to return in a few days. A half-minute afterward, he exited the brownstone, leaving the distressed child with his uncle.

Uncertain as to how to console the visibly distraught boy, he sat cross-legged next to him. Josh climbed into his lap and clung to his neck, fearful that his Zio Weegie would also leave him. "Va bene," Luigi crooned, rocking him slightly. "Non vado da nessuna parte, huh? E Zia Daisy tornerà a casa presto." He felt his nephew nod. Rising from the ground, though making sure not to move the scared boy too much, Luigi cradled him with one arm and retreated back into the kitchen. He set Josh into one of the chairs and gently explained that he needed to start dinner. Upon hearing the recognizable 'cena,' Josh relinquished his towering uncle who kept in sight while preparing the evening meal. Eventually, Luigi's nipote relaxed and proceeded to talk nonstop about Topolino and Geronimo; the older man listened, asking questions and, on occasion, correcting Josh's characteristic mispronunciation of four-or-more-syllabled Italian words. During the day, the youngest Masciarelli went to a private Italian-language 3-K for a selective clientele, normally consisting of wealthy New York and Italian families of Manhattan and Brooklyn. Although Mario was less strict than their father concerning education, he agreed with his wife that the public schools and preschools were subpar and preferred that his son go to a decent school where he could learn in Italian. Yet like his paternal forebearers, Josh was a late bloomer, and did not seem interested in the English or French lessons to the point of throwing tantrums when asked a question in either language. Instead, he preferred picture books, comics, cartoons, and playing catch.

At a little after six-thirty, the front door opened, revealing an exhausted Daisy to an excited Josh and content Luigi, who had just finished with the table settings. "Zia!" cried the little boy, running over to embrace the surprised woman.

"Ciao, bambino," Daisy tiredly greeted him, lifting his forty-pound frame, albeit with difficulty. "Stai bene?"

"Si, Zia! Zio ha fatto da mangiare!" he excitedly responded.

"He did, huh?" she answered in Italian while moving to the kitchen. As she crossed the threshold, child balanced against her hip, Luigi was setting an opened bottle of Chianti on the table next to the piping-hot spinach and cheese cannelloni. Looking up and noticing Josh in the arms of his fiancée, he smiled and approached them.

"Kid's getting so big," he murmured in English, taking Josh from her struggling arms and seizing her lips with his. Josh made a sound of disgust, forcing the couple to part and giggle. Luigi then guided the little boy to the chair next to his favorite Zia's, where he normally preferred to sit. "How was work, kerido?"

Sitting down next to the expectant boy, Daisy sank into the chair and proceeded to put the cloth napkin in her lap. "Ah, it was ... Well, it was a deposition. I'm happy to be home. How about you? And where's Mario?"

Luigi went to the refrigerator to fill Josh's cup with ice water. "It was, well, busy with visitors." He set the cup next to his nephew's plate, then kissed her left temple. "And Mario got sent out on a job. New Orleans. He'll be back in a couple days, I guess."

She nodded pensively, her amber eyes still fixed upon her lover's blue eyes, which swirled in the familiar periwinkle of anxiety and deep blue of love for her. He met her gaze, and quickly flashed her a soft, yet reassuring grin. "And Peach?" she asked, holding out her white dinner plate to her fiancé.

He shrugged, eyes shifting toward the uncomprehending little blond. "Nothing yet, sweetie."

Now impatient with the spoken English, Josh interrupted in Italian to his auntie, "Zia, io ho guardato Topolino!"

Both adults chuckled good-naturedly at their nephew despite his unintentional rudeness. After Daisy gently corrected his behavior, she engaged him in conversation while Luigi dished up a kid-sized and two adult-sized portions of his fiancée's favorite cannelloni recipe which he had learned from Lucia and Cousin Maria and tweaked to make it acceptable for his lioness's vegetarian diet. Due to her sixty-plus-hour workweek, he was responsible for much of the cooking, though she made sure to keep the common areas orderly and managed her dry-cleaning; this suited them both, given that she had never been much of a cook. Between bites of pasta, spinach, and cheese, he observed Daisy interact with Josh with a mixture of pride and longing. In spite of her difficult schedule, she had always made time for his immediate family and gladly spoke to the piccolo in her seventh language. He noted passively that, following Josh's birth and his brother and sister-in-law's decision to speak Italian exclusively at home, her command of the language had improved from conversational to fluent. Watching his nephew grow up, Luigi started to feel a certain nostalgia, not simply for his native language and culture, but for his own family. In his mind's eye, he pictured Daisy chatting in Judeo-Spanish and Italian with a small, brown-haired girl over the same dish.

One day. Daisy isn't ready yet. And that's okay. She is my family.

Having ensured that all had enough to eat, they collectively cleared the table, rinsed the dirty dishes and utensils and placed them into the new dishwasher, and wrapped up leftovers for the next day's lunch and dinner. Over the next hour, they watched RAI and played with the animated Josh, who usually experienced a final burst of energy after dinner; he climbed on his taller uncle and pulled on his exhausted auntie's arm to coax her into the game of running up and down the stairs. By eight o'clock, Luigi dragged the petulant child to the guest room and bathroom, where he ordered him to shower, brush his teeth, and prepare for bed. Josh eventually did so, though not without demanding that his uncle read or tell him a story. Inwardly, Luigi lamented the minutes away from his waiting princess; however, he relented, knowing his nipotino could not articulate his anxiety over his absent parents. The little boy's blue eyes brightened when his zio began the tale of a lanky plumber who had been rescued by a beautiful, auburn-haired princess; they finally closed when she approached the castle of the evil turtle king. Out of the corner of his eye, Luigi noticed the newly robed Daisy entering the room, which was an unspoken enticement to a shared bath. He whispered a buonanotte, waited as she also bid the child a good night, and escorted her back to the master bedroom. Closing the door behind them, they silently leapt into each other's arms, fingers unbuttoning and unfastening various items of clothing on their way to the candlelit bathroom.

Sometime afterward in the large, clawfoot bathtub in the farthest corner, Daisy leaned back in gratification against her Italian lover who was leaving a trail of wet kisses along her jawline. For Valentine's Day three years prior, Luigi had spent an entire weekend remodeling the plain, 1990s-era bathtub to the two-person silver and white acrylic tub; despite her somewhat heavy schedule throughout her second year of law school, she made time to thank her personal plumber with two baths. Thereafter, they enjoyed bath time in that tub at least once per week. It was their sanctuary. "Obrigada pelo delicioso jantar, kerido," she rasped.

Luigi moved the soapy powder-blue loofa across the top of her chest. "Imagina. Te amo para sempre."

Smiling relaxedly against his damp chest, she interlaced her ringed hand with his inactive left, which he returned with a kiss to her temple. A low, yet feminine giggle emanated from her throat at the tickle of his fuller mustache that had started, for the past year and a half, to resemble both his father's and Mario's. Prior to February 2014, if anyone had asked her whether she would have dated a mustached man, her answer would have been an emphatic no; however, Luigi made the previously disliked mustache strangely sexy, and she could not picture her fiancé without one, not even on their prospective wedding day.

"Penny for your thoughts, Counselor," she heard him entreat softly.

"I was just thinking about your full Italian mustache."

He hummed absently while massaging the silky skin of her back with the loofa. "And does the Princess approve?"

"Much," she replied with a purr.

He set the sponge aside and began kissing her neck. "Molto bene."

"Porra ... Mi fai impazzire così!" she moaned as a low masculine laugh echoed against the bathroom walls.

"You know me, cat-face – I fucking love it when I hear you."

Suddenly twisting so that she was straddling him, Daisy captured his lips with hers. Several splashes of water landed on the cool tile below them as their bodies rocked against both the water and each other's. Their encouragements became louder; from behind the doors, there was a sound akin to a high-pitched moan, and they froze, afraid of having woken the four-year-old in the next room. Once assured that no little boy would come looking for them, Daisy rested her head upon Luigi's shoulder. "Sorry; I didn't mean to ..."

He smirked. "We're not used to having a bambino nearby. Jesus, I wonder how Mario and Peach ..." Wrinkling his nose and shaking his head, he amended, "Actually, no, I'm not wondering."

She let out an alto chuckle. "Heh, yeah, no."

"I suppose it's practice," concluded the plumber. Her amber eyes connected with his hesitant sapphire orbs. "I mean, you know, one day. Obviously not now."

Reaching up with her right hand to stroke his mustache, she murmured, "Have plans, do you?" Luigi blushed yet said nothing, unwilling to push the potentially thorny subject. Daisy watched the swirl of blues which was her window to Luigi Masciarelli's soul – midnight blue, periwinkle, royal, and navy. "Are you asking me?" she enjoined in a tone just above a whisper.

A few seconds passed, then he cleared his throat and stuttered, "Yeah. I-I th-th-think so."

Laying her head against his shoulder and using a fingertip to trace the blue, yellow, and red of his bicep tattoo, she took several poignant moments to reflect upon his question. "One day ... Yeah, I'd like to have a child. You're right that ... I'm not ready now. Not because I don't want one with you, kerido, but because ... it's harder for a woman. I was just hired at Lander and Bardeau last year. And I don't ... I don't want to wonder 'what if?' I want it to be on my – our – terms." She gazed at her attentive fiancé. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah," he responded with a light smile. "I'm sorry. I don't want to pressure you. I'm proud of what you've accomplished. It's just ..." His content expression faded into a pensive one. "It's my fucking baggage, actually."

"Giuseppe," his fiancée concluded. "It's Wednesday. And it's our baggage, Luigi. After all, I'm marrying into your family."

"Yeah," he bit out. "Why can't they fuckin' leave it alone? It's like ... Mario and Peach didn't have Josh until they were, what, thirty-seven, thirty-eight? That means we've got at least another four or five years."

She slid up his body to give him a peck on the lips. "Mario's not his son. You may not be his biological child, but we both know that means shit to him. And," she added teasingly, "you are the family favorite."

"Bullshit!" the plumber griped as he wrapped his arms around her body. "Mario's the war hero; he's given them the next Masciarelli and ..."

Daisy placed a finger on his mustache and lips to quieten him. "In the past almost six years, I've attended all the Masciarelli Christmases, Thanksgivings, and Easters, not to mention several Sunday dinners. And more than a few times, I've heard the Family talk about Mario being like your paternal grandfather and you ... being like your father ... with your mother's, Joe's, and Salvatore's intelligence. There's some truth to that, I think. In some sense, you've brought him back to life."

He nodded with a pained sigh at the mention of his firefighter father. "But Joe's ... still in competition with him ... Pops. I feel it. And I feel that ... I'm still being made to answer for him."

"I know," she agreed. "Just remember that you're you, Luigi Gabriele Masciarelli. Giuseppe's hang-ups aren't yours."

Luigi closed his anxiety-filled eyes and leaned into his lioness's comforting touch. "I know. I told him to fuck off today. I'm just so sick of his meddling, cat-face! The man's never satisfied. No wonder why Pops always ended up in a screaming match with him."

The lawyer made a non-committal hum at her lover. "Fathers and sons."

He scoffed. "Masciarelli men, I think."

"Are you satisfied with your life?"

It was the plumber's turn to take a couple minutes to reflect before answering. "For now ... yeah. If you're asking whether I'm satisfied with us, then yes – without hesitation, yes. I mean, I'd like to be married. I guess it's cultural, being Italian and a lapsed Catholic. I want our relationship respected as much as Mario and Peach's. But ..." He looked down at his expectant lover. "Before a few years ago, I didn't know that my mother was so gifted at math. It was never mentioned by Pops, Joe, or the rest of the family. I know ... I get that she wanted Mario and me. I just don't want you to be forced into a path that you don't want because my family thinks it's the right one for everybody. Part of loving you, cat-face, is loving who you are and what you want. I ... I don't know if I'm making sense."

"I think so. You don't want my career, my life, to take a backseat to, uh, culture." Wordlessly, he nodded again. "And you're afraid that ... I'll end up like Gabriella."

"Yeah. I ... I don't think I'd ever have the balls to say this to anyone in the family, sweetie, but I ..." he swallowed harshly, scooping up the bath water in his hand to warm their tangled bodies. "I've always wondered if Pops wasn't just a tad bit disingenuous with Mama. Apparently, he kept encouraging her to return to school, but ... how could she have done that with two sons in tow and his firefighting career taking off as it did? And even if she did manage to get her degree, what could she have done with it?"

Daisy placed a kiss next to the gold saint's medallion hanging around his neck. "I'd like to think that she would've been strong-willed enough to overcome the obstacles. From Lucia's description of her, she didn't seem like a helpless damsel. And I now loathe to judge another woman's choices. However, I understand what you're saying, kerido." With gentle fingertips, she turned his head so that their gazes met. "As long as you support me, as long as I'm your equal, we will always find a way."

Taking her ringed left hand into his right, Luigi's now molten blue eyes bore into hers. He cupped her cheek with his palm and brought her to his lips.