Author's notes: Is anyone still out there?
Many apologies for the late chapter; the last month and a half has been no bueno in my life, many due to work commitments and preparing for a major exam which, thankfully, I passed. As you all know, I'm pretty good with keeping with deadlines, and I hope the chapters will come a bit more quickly now that life doesn't suck as hard.
Chapter 2: Hammer to Fall
A thin, olive-skinned man of medium height unobtrusively entered the small Prospect Park café for his Saturday morning cornetto and espresso. Walking across the wood floor and past the little round tables, the man's dark brown eyes glanced out of the large windows to the unmarked navy-blue car across the street. To an untrained observer, the car appeared like any other New York midsize vehicle whose occupants were visiting one of the many adjacent hipster restaurants lining the old block of nineteenth-century red-brick buildings. Yet with a slight squint, the middle-aged Salvatore Rigassi could see two men sitting inside the cab, occasionally staring in the direction of the café. He let out a silent laugh and shook his head; since the tenures of Comey and McCabe, the FBI had become increasingly disorganized and slipshod – even the selfie-crazed Millennial associates of the famiglia could spot agent-pairs from the George Washington Bridge using their meter-long sticks.
"Yo, Sal!" called out the man at the counter. "Fai colazione? Il solito?"
The owner's question redirected Salvatore's attention from the Full-Blown Idiots on the other side of Vanderbilt Avenue. "Ciao e si, per favore."
Nodding, the mustachioed, balding vendor set to work on preparing the Sicilian's 'usual' while the latter unzipped his black puffer jacket to an old gray St. John's University sweatshirt and took out a black wallet for a twenty and a five-dollar bill, for which he always insisted that Paolo "tenga il resto." Two and a half minutes later, the shorter Italian returned with a small espresso and a cornetto with a dollop of pistachio filling and powdered sugar. Handing him the two folded greenbacks, Salvatore muttered grazie and tieni il resto. This time, Paolo did not protest; a worried look instead passed across his face, and he set about wiping the already spotless counter. At its corner lie a discarded Italian-language newspaper, whose headline and subheading caught the customer's eye:
"7 marzo 2020. Chiusa la Lombardia e onze province. I medici delle terapie intensive: 'Situazione al limite'. Protezione civile, 5.061 malati, 1.145 in più ieri (+29%). Oggi 36 deceduti: da 197 di ieri a 233 (+18%). Nicola Zingaretti: 'Sono positivo'. Borrelli: 'Per vincere cambiamo modo di vivere …'"
Gravely, Salvatore set his espresso cup down upon its saucer and made the sign of the cross. More than five thousand people were now ill from the mysterious SARS-II, now called COVID-2019, and over two hundred deceased and counting. Consequently, several local governments had imposed a complete lockdown of several northern cities and states, including Venice. The former Catholic priest shuddered; in 2007, the year prior to his three-year pastoral tenure in Paraguay, there had been an outbreak of yellow fever whose fatality rate had been roughly forty percent. Luckily, he did not have to preside over those funerals, though he knew of priests who had and whose experiences had since affected them. Then came dengue fever which he had caught in May 2011; as he had not been previously exposed to the virus – not even in Mexico – he was prohibited from receiving the vaccine and thus consigned to suffer a high fever, nausea, migraine, and diffuse pain for seven days. His case was apparently mild to moderate. Sometime after paying his penitence, the local clinic in Asunción inoculated him for free, but he would never forget the burning perspiration or the diffuse pain.
Paolo silently shook his head in dismay, continuing to wipe the countertop while the taller man nibbled on the cornetto, his appetite blighted by the news report. They worked and ate in complete quiet until there were only crumbs left on the small plate. As Salvatore wiped his mouth of the butter, sugar, and pistachio filling with the small, white paper napkin, the Calabrese spoke again in Italian, "And now the sickness is here in New York. They're gonna blame us Italians, I know it! And who's got the balls to ask them where Italy got it from, huh?"
Taking a sip of the espresso to calm his nerves, and then freeing his hand to make a steeple with the other, Salvatore replied, "Calm yourself, Paolo. No one's coming after you. Americans can be a judgmental bunch, but they won't bother the Italians. At least nothere when at least a sixth or fifth of the city's Italian. And besides," he added with a smile, "they'd have to go through me first."
The owner's lips tried to force a smile, yet it didn't quite reach the corners or his eyes. "U buonu jurnu se virre e ra mattina."
A good day is obvious from the morning.
Redirecting his consternation to sweeping the floor, the pensive Paolo left his only patron to finish his breakfast at the bar. The latter snuck glances out of the windows where the blue car remained in its place. Once he had sipped the last drop of espresso, Salvatore put the empty cup and plate in the dish bin and, leaving an extra twenty by the register, exited the café while pretending not to notice the ABCs in their conspicuous vehicle. He began to walk briskly in the opposite direction; out of the corner of his eye, he saw the car pull into traffic, then stop, angering oncoming New Yorkers who honked in impatience. He chuckled at the obvious rookie move and started to whistle Carosone's "Tu vuò fà l'americano" as he bounded toward the subway stop at Clinton and Washington, concluding with his own lyrics, "... Tu vuo' fa' l'americano, 'mericano, 'mericano, ma si' nato in Salt-Lake-a-City." Slipping into the occasional alley, doubling back, and looking up to the blue sky to ensure that he was not being followed, either by car or drone, Salvatore eventually caught the C-Line to Bedford-Stuyvesant and, after a quick smoke break, took the bus several blocks north to a tranquil row of large trees and white and reddish brownstones. At the fourth door on the right, he opened the low gate and jogged up the steep stairs to unlock the black-painted brass and glass double door. Entering and closing the door behind him, he shed his jacket and proceeded to the spacious parlor where an ensemble of expensive Italian furniture was arranged in front of an old fireplace and along tall windows; on one of the leather couches lay two fluffy colorpoint cats who were curled up in discrete balls. The right-most cat, whose markings resembled those of a seal point Himalayan, opened one blue eye to regard her human; realizing that he had returned from wherever, she yawned, then stretched her paw forward to greet him. Salvatore reached over to give her a scritch atop her head and underneath her chin, looking over to the left-most lynx-point cat who continued to sleep.
Unwilling to disturb the sleeping cat, he gently lifted the now awake Sasha to pet her. Sasha and her brother Fyodor were littermates from an unknown, likely illegal breeder in Saint Petersburg. About two years ago, the head of the "Russian Mafia," who were actually a loose collection of thieves and racketeers from the former Soviet Union, gifted the two kittens to Salvatore as a sign of partnership between their organizations. Although the Russians eschewed families, preferring to have mistresses or prostitutes, the Vor recognized that this was generally not the case in the Cosa Nostra; the former priest was, in fact, the only high-ranking mafioso who was unmarried. In a surprising act of compassion, for which the Russian gangsters were not known, he insisted that Salvatore benefit from the companionship of the national cat of Mother Russia. Even though he made sure to accept them with humility and praise, the Sicilian took them to a reputable veterinarian, who reported that they were indeed healthy and seemingly free of any genetic abnormalities or illnesses. Throughout the first year, he endured the snickers and jokes by Joey-B and several capos, calling him the Lone Cat Man and Pussy Priest andasking him if his next pet would be a French poodle.
That was until Fyodor brought a present from the garden into their previous location in Queens. Like a proud beast, he spat the dead rat at Joey-B's and Salvatore's feet during a Friday night card game. Sasha caught her first a few weeks afterward. Subsequently, they became il Mietitore's prized Russian Assassins. On a daily basis, however, Sasha and Fyodor spent their days as lazy, pampered housecats who enjoyed fresh chicken breakfasts, moderately priced cat trees, a supervised or leashed jaunt around Brooklyn or Queens gardens or quiet brownstone streets, and several tasty, evening treats. The only downside was their semi-nomadic existence with their human; every month or two, as his late uncle and old Padrino had done, Salvatore changed houses to make it harder for the FBI to bug or surveil him. Though the cats made their displeasure known for the first couple of days, either by glaring or hiding, they nonetheless colonized their two or three-bedroom brownstones and maintained their routine.
In his nearly three-year tenure at Saint Rosalia's Catholic Church in Bensonhurst, the middle-aged man was poor, yet had his days and nights filled with his parishioners and interpersonal activities; conversely in his five-year tenure as a 'special consultant,' even as he had unlimited funds at his disposal, he associated with criminals and sociopaths by day and spent nights alone with his cats. On occasion, like a prisoner receiving a reward for good behavior, he permitted himself a visit to his eldest nephew, his wife, and their son. Yet he was still a prisoner, thus he was not allowed to return to his immediate family.
That was his penitence – to spend his life alone and without refuge. The man that he could have been had died with his sister, Gabriella, his brother-in-law, Mario, and his parents, Audenzia and Luigi.
Scratching behind Sasha's dark brown ears, a self-disgusted Salvatore mulled over the events of a few nights ago. At one of their social clubs in Long Island, one of the capos had decided to "buy him a woman" for the night, much to his chagrin and the whoop-and-hollers of his fellow wiseguys, including Joey-B. Knowing that both his reputation and fellow mafioso's honor were at stake, he made a show of accepting the man's gift by taking the blonde into a locked room and, pointing the barrel of his Beretta in her face, swore her to secrecy about his decided lack of interest. Terrified and too high to formulate a cogent response, the blonde, who was no more than twenty-two, merely stared into space, her pupils dilating from whatever she had managed to score prior to or during the party. He sat her forcefully on the garish purple couch, handed her a fresh bottle of water, and ordered her to drink it. Then he exited into the bathroom and committed a mortal sin to keep up appearances with the group of eager, sniggering men who were gathered around the buffet table just outside the room. Once he was finished, he walked back to the sofa where the half-dressed woman was still tremoring and, handing her a tissue to dab her running mascara, whispered in English, "We're all prisoners here." The ruse had worked as they assumed that she had given him a satisfactory pompino and thus rewarded her with several hundred dollars instead of a beating or worse. Later, when he returned to his brownstone and was alone in its umbrous garden, he lit a cigarette and quietly wept.
Thankfully, Father Ramirez would be at Saint Rosalia's later that afternoon to hear the weekly sordid confession.
Since the beginning of the twentieth century, made men had turned their backs on the Church because they could not, and more often would not, repent their sins. The vast majority enjoyed the money, notoriety, and power too much. However, Salvatore's participation was due to none of those things; he was born into it, circled the periphery for thirty years, and, against all odds, returned to keep rival gangs inside and outside of the Morano clan from destroying Brooklyn. He stayed to save his family – Giuseppe, Luigi, and Mario. His participation guaranteed Luigi's freedom from being made and ensured Giuseppe's survival, having 'stolen' the younger plumber from Uncle Carlo and Pete Morello, his cousin and caporegime in Denver.
Carrying the fluffy cat into the kitchen for her morning snack, Salvatore frowned at the thought of his first cousin. Since the events of 2014, in which he had attempted to use one hundred fifty million dollars of embezzled investment funds and to manipulate Luigi to dethrone Carlo and Jackie 'Big Jackass' Morano, he was relegated to obscurity in Colorado; though he remained caporegime and crew boss in title, he was forced to share decision-making with his brother-in-law, Gene Carlino, in Colorado and him in New York. On the surface, Pete was subdued to the point of obedience; he even made Salvatore's biannual trips to the Rockies pleasant, treating him to fancy, private dinners in Aspen and Cherry Creek. However, in spite of his attempts to ingratiate himself, Sal never fully trusted the wily Denverite, and kept him under surveillance at all times.
Gently placing Sasha down at the edge of the counter where he allowed her and Fyodor to monitor him as well as to eat, he fetched a platformed bowl, whose slight clatter against the cupboard provoked the notice of her brother, and the latter came running in to join Sasha for chicken. The Sicilian grabbed an identical bowl, then opened the refrigerator for the half-day-old, boiled chicken. Warming it in some watered-down broth, he presented each bowl to them and observed the greedy cats lick and gulp down both meat and liquid. In another life, somewhere in another universe, he lived with both his cats and dolce metà, whom he had loved for over fifty years. On the semicentennial anniversary of the Moon landing and their first encounter, he had left a voice message for his lover, reciting an old poem from the Abruzzese Gabriele D'Annunzio:
"Rimani! Riposati accanto a me.
Non te ne andare.
Io ti veglierò. Io ti proteggerò.
Ti pentirai di tutto fuorché d'essere venuto a me, liberamente, fieramente.
Ti amo. Non ho nessun pensiero che non sia tuo;
non ho nel sangue nessun desiderio che non sia per te.
Lo sai. Non vedo nella mia vita altro compagno, non vedo altra gioia.
Rimani.
Riposati. Non temere di nulla.
Dormi stanotte sul mio cuore ..."
His declaration went characteristically unanswered, and Father Ramirez castigated him for making such an inappropriate statement to a married man. As a former priest, he knew better. That was not to say that Ramirez was unsympathetic; he too had been 'tested' in his youth. While Salvatore performed his act of penitence – recitation of three full Rosaries per day for two weeks and a full Jesuit meditation on Proverbs 6:32 – he could not bring himself to feel true remorse as he clutched the black beads in his scarred left hand which had served as a souvenir of their first time almost thirty-nine years ago to the day. When he promised to remain true to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love and honor him all the days of his life. Inasmuch as it was sinful and, according to the strict interpretation of Church doctrine, worse than the brutally avaricious crimes of the Mafia, he clung to his desires like a lone raft. Even as Ramirez challenged him in the confessional: "Why do you dedicate so much of yourself to a man who does not honor you?"
Though Salvatore did not reply, inwardly, he retorted, "For the same reason that Dante refused to abandon his Beatrice."
Fyodor licked his lips of his meal's remnants, then rubbed up against Salvatore's arm. Unlike his sister, he tended to gobble his food, perhaps in fear of the former, who was not shy about finishing any leftovers. In spite of her saturnalian love of chicken and treats, Sasha kept a nice, svelte form due to chasing a variety of rodents as well as Fyodor around their various abodes. Chucking, the Sicilian scratched his marked ears and chin, which earned Sasha's blue-eyed glare. When he started to chatter at Fyodor in his first language, she stomped over to them and interrupted the petting session with her headbutt against his hand. Salvatore kissed the top of the Tsarina's furry head and dedicated his free hand to petting her so that she would not retaliate against her brother with a jealous swat. After several minutes of chattering with the cats, he took their finished dishes, rinsed them in the sink, and put them on the top shelf of the dishwasher. While Sasha and Fyodor jumped down to the floor to give themselves a post-brunch bath, he made himself a cup of tea, not wanting to overload on caffeine, and returned to the living room. The Neva Masquerades followed their human and, as he sat down in front of the television, jumped on the sofa, arranging themselves in discrete spots above and next to him. Lady Grey in hand, he pointed the clicker to the monitor; a second later, the screen displayed a local news channel – New York Channel 3 – with brief clips of the Mayor and Governor of New York each speaking at a podium in their respective cities with a female voice over stating, "... As of this morning, eighteen New York City residents are under mandatory quarantine from COVID-19 and 2,255 are under voluntary quarantine ..."
"Jesus," muttered Salvatore, having taken his third sip of his tea. Recalling his conversation with Paolo, he shivered involuntarily at the nascent feeling of dread spreading throughout his chest.
Luigi grumbled irritably in Italian following Josh's third tantrum that morning. Mario's business trip of a "few days" turned into nearly seventy-two hours of radio silence. He tried to call Peach in Venice, at least to calm his upset nephew with his mother's voice, but there was no response. No amount of coaxing, warnings, and timeouts reassured the angry little boy who was not at his normal school and had never been without one or both of his parents for so long. The child's crying and screeches could still be heard from behind his bedroom door, and the plumber was silently gratified that he and Daisy owned a brownstone with fairly thick walls. Needing a few minutes to himself from the little Masciarelli tornado upstairs, he cut through the kitchen and dining area to the patio door and out to their small, Brooklyn garden which was, in reality, a strip of lawn and rocks. He checked his phone – 12:23 in the afternoon and no missed calls. Daisy would be home soon; a second reason for his exasperation was her being called into work for some fucking brief instead of an early-morning celebration of Saturday. Although he did not blame her, Luigi was nonetheless upset at her job and the noticeable lack of work-life balance.
He had not been able to touch his fiancée since Wednesday night.
Subsequent to that thought, medicinal Chinese was in order; Luigi unlocked his phone to log into his favorite delivery app and order Kung Pao chicken for he and his nephew and Szechuan tofu for his lioness. He then leaned back in the patio chair, trying to relax in the cool Brooklyn temperature, when his Monarch app flashed an alert that someone had rung the doorbell. Peering down at the screen, his eyebrows raised into his dark brown hairline, and he returned inside to answer the front door, still ignoring the dimming tantrum upstairs. A few seconds and two locks later, the plumber opened the portal to reveal a somewhat tall, blond-haired man of a similar age.
"Miles?" Pushing it open to allow him to pass inside, he voiced quizzically, "What are you doing here?"
His best friend, along with Yoshi and Daisy, did not immediately reply; instead, he strode into the apartment and, frowning briefly at the fading cries of a child on the floor above, stopped at the kitchen table to wait for his host to follow. Luigi soon arrived, eyebrow raised, wordlessly beckoning him to respond to his original question. He took note of his friend's appearance which seemed more disheveled than normal, and he had not sent a hex-text to ask for permission to visit – not that he had ever required it.
The blond engineer ran a hand over the days-old yellowish shadow that covered his jawline. "I, uh, I haven't heard from my brother. Last I heard, he was somewhere in Guangzhou. I don't know where he is. For the first time in, uh, a while, I got out my tools." He turned his teary brown eyes toward the concerned plumber. "Still nothing."
"Jesus, Miles," breathed Luigi. "Are you ...?"
"And that's not all!" he suddenly interrupted, pacing back and forth. "There are now over two thousand cases in New York, Lou! Of course, they're calling it 'voluntary quarantine,' but given what's happening in Italy ..."
He put up his hands to interject the oncoming rant. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, take it easy! Two thousand?! Nah, I heard only five! Where are you getting your information?"
Miles sank unceremoniously into one of the chairs in an attempt to process information and emotion. He hated feeling so out of control and frightened; that was one reason why he took a hiatus from professional cybersecurity and hacking that had, thus far, lasted five years. While he finished his doctorate with honors from New York University, he refocused his business toward programming drones and small aircraft whose profits turned into flying lessons and the purchase of a Cessna 172. He welcomed the less stressful job, which offered equal to or even better pay than as an elite penetration tester, and the risk of pissing off the Mafia – Salvatore Rigassi's Mafia – was less than one percent. Yet from time to time, he ventured into the seedy world of the Dark Web, if only to investigate the few remaining clues as to the identity of the mysterious 'Fat Fucking Ferengi,' the man who had nearly killed him and his friends in November 2014. Triple-F was a master black hat, having left little to no trace of his existence. The continued failure to unearth his nemesis only reinvigorated his interest in aeronautical engineering. Nonetheless, in the words of Sonic, sticking his head in the sand would only last for a short time. The latter announced another trip to China that would last the usual three to four months; Miles, a committed monolinguist, fretted over his safety in places where there were few, if any, cognates between their native American English and Mandarin or other Chinese variants, and he followed Sonic's position whenever possible. It was in early- to mid-February when he learned of the new SARS virus through reports from Hong Kong and a crude, yet intelligible, Chinese to English translator that he had designed.
He lost contact with his brother shortly thereafter.
Lost in his thoughts, the blond engineer forgot to answer Luigi, who opened his mouth to repeat his question when the front door suddenly opened. Both men twisted their heads to the entrance, revealing a visibly annoyed Daisy. Shrugging off her coat and shoes, though still carrying her messenger bag, she ambled into the kitchen to greet her fiancé with a kiss and to say hello to their overwhelmed friend. The upstairs tantrum had gone silent a few minutes prior, and no one heard any further shifting or lamenting from the child.
"Hey, kerido," murmured Luigi against her lips. "I ordered Chinese for lunch."
She hummed her approval, then faced the paler man. "Miles, hello. Are you joining us for lunch?" Simultaneously, her plumber lifted his eyebrows in an open invitation.
He forced a smile. "Yeah, sure."
Gesturing to them that she would return, Daisy took her bag into the safety of her study, closed the door, and came back to the kitchen. "Are you okay, Miles?" she asked him, now properly noticing his perceptible anxiety.
He lifted his brown eyes to Daisy's curious, amber orbs. "My brother's somewhere in Guangzhou. China. That's not abnormal in itself, but ... I lost contact with him. It's hard to track him when I can't read Chinese. Plus, I think this virus's ... not the run of the mill cold. China's being cagey about just how many there are, though some of those tracking it online are saying there are likely thousands of new cases. In Italy, there are over five thousand cases and two hundred dead. And in New York, there are two thousand cases already."
The lawyer blinked in disbelief. "No, wait, they said ... they said three, maybe five cases. Where are you getting two thousand?" Luigi nodded his agreement.
"It was on the news this morning. Two thousand have been asked to quarantine. Five have been confirmed. Mathematically speaking, among those two thousand people, there have to be more positives or who haven't shown symptoms yet. And, as far as I understand, there aren't enough tests or reliable tests to verify them all." He looked around the apartment and asked, "Also, where's Mario? And is Peach back from Venice?"
Sighing, the plumber checked his watch, abruptly impatient for his lunch. "No, she's still in Venice. No answer. And I don't where in southern hell Mario is."
"They still haven't returned your calls?" inquired Daisy, to whom her fiancé wordlessly shrugged.
Miles stared pointedly at the couple. "So that's why Josh is here. This ... This is not good. This is a train stop and several airplane rides' worth of not good! This is ..."
"Basta!" interjected Luigi testily. The other man's clamped shut, stunned at his friend's unusual intolerance.
Turning his head toward hers, she murmured while rubbing his back, "Bad day, kerido?"
He let out a ragged sigh and rubbed his eyes. "I'm ... I'm sorry. Josh's been having on-and-off tantrums all morning. He knows something's wrong, and ..." His chin almost fell to his chest, and he whispered mirthlessly, "I don't know how to comfort him. I don't know where the hell either of them are. So for right now, 'cause I don't have a fucking clue otherwise, I just want to sit and eat my kung pao chicken."
A sympathetic Daisy nodded. "Go take a break, amor. It sounds like he's sleeping, so maybe, he'll give us all peace until lunch." Too tired to argue, Luigi accepted the second peck on his lips, and he retreated into the living room to de-stress.
Once the plumber had exited the kitchen, Miles mumbled, "I'm sorry. I guess I picked the wrong moment."
Halfway to the refrigerator to fetch some ice water for them both, she responded, "You didn't know. We've watched Josh before, but never for this long. Like you, I'm concerned, though more for Peach and your brother than anyone here. Even when there was that outbreak of SARS in 2003, I think, no one died here. And even when there was Ebola in Texas, they had it quarantined almost immediately."
As she handed him a cold, filled glass, he stated, "Daisy, it started in China, then spread to Italy and Iran in under two months. This is becoming a pandemic."
Taking a sip of her water and losing herself in thought, she did not react. Her blond companion attempted to make eye contact, waiting over the course of several minutes for her to say something. Yet the normally vivacious woman remained pensive and taciturn. Although she wanted to object, to deny what Miles's recent caution of danger, she, like him, ascertained risk on a daily basis – how viable a complaint was in the eyes of an arbiter or judge and how likely an adequate settlement would be for plaintiff, defendant, and her law firm. Having read about the explosion of cases in Italy as well as the recent arrival of the virus on American soil, from New York to Seattle, she felt a cold shiver snake down her spine.
But surely New York Public Health would contain the recent cases?
Every time she attempted to speak, to try to assure the blond engineer that everything would be under control, the attorney in her demanded that she say nothing.
Wait and see.
They stayed silent for the rest of those twenty minutes, drinking their ice water while benefitting from the other's presence. A knock at the door interrupted their individual meditations, and they heard Luigi's muffled voice talk to someone, ostensibly the delivery person. Shutting the door, he loudly announced to the occupant upstairs, "Josh, a tavola, huh? È la cucina cinese." The plumber then entered the kitchen, a large paper bag in hand. Unpacking its contents, a thump-thump echoed throughout the hallway and kitchen, and a petulant Josh arrived a few seconds afterward. Slumping into the chair next to his zia, who ruffled his blond hair, he watched his uncle divide up the food between the four of them. Much to Luigi's surprise, the little boy did not mind eating a little of the tofu, so long as it was well-coated with spicy sauce.
"Ti piace il tofu, nipote?" asked Daisy in Italian. Their lunch companion, having eaten with Josh before and sympathizing with the equally monolingual little boy, had grown tolerant of the conversation in Italian. Nonetheless, he tuned out the quick exchange of words and focused instead on gestures and tones.
Josh shrugged between bites. "È okay. A volte, Mamma mi fa mangiare il tofu."
Wordlessly, the plumber plucked one of the pieces of kung pao chicken on his plate and set it on Josh's dinnerware, which he accepted with a soft grazie.
The rest of lunch was sparse of conversation in English or Italian, with every member of the table lost in their own sense of fatigue and foreboding. An hour later, a sympathetic Miles, who was searching for an excuse not to return to his empty apartment in Chelsea, set up a double-game console for the excited little boy, eager to battle him in his favorite kart game. As they played downstairs in the parlor, Luigi and Daisy entangled themselves on their king-sized bed upstairs. Too mentally and physically exhausted to engage in their usual shenanigans, the plumber contented himself with wrapping his long arms covetously around the purring auburn-haired lioness and letting the tip of his Roman nose and mustache touch the crown of her medium-length hair. Laying her head upon the upper part of his right pectoral, she gently brushed her fingers along his sideburns and rough shadow burgeoning along his jawline, which caused a sleepy masculine grin to appear. "Cat-face, let's run away," he murmured dreamily. "Let's run away to some place warm ... palm trees ..." Glancing down to meet amused amber orbs, he added in a low tenor, "a private beach."
She hummed, followed by a breathy snicker. "Is this a permanent proposition?"
"Nah. Just ... for a few days. A week."
Chewing on her bottom lip, then quickly flashing him a forced grin, Daisy rasped, "Maybe I could request time off in August ..."
Luigi twisted his head away from her to stare at the ceiling. "I don't want to wait that long," he spoke so softly that she had to strain to hear him.
Gentle fingertips pushed his gaze toward hers. "Kerido, what's this about? Is something wrong at work? Why can't a vacation wait a few months?"
He shook his head. "I don't know, cat-face. I just ... I need to get away. I want ... to take you away. From here. From New York. W-w-w-we could go to ... Hawaii. Th-th-there's no waiting period."
Daisy burst into confused laughter. "No, of course not, kerido. I'm sure JFK has a daily flight or two to Oahu."
The now fidgeting, reddened man shook his head. "No, no, no! Th-th-th-that's not what I meant." Swallowing heavily while his fiancée leaned back in concern, he stammered, "I ... We ... We could go to the H-H-Honolulu courthouse. It'd only take a few days. We could ... eat seafood, surf, and lay in the sun."
Her eyes widened in comprehension. "You want to elope in Hawaii?" He froze, uncertain at her reaction as she sat up next to him and ran a hand through her hair. "Oh, Luigi, I ... Are you asking because you sense that I ... I'm ... stalling?" They remained silent, waiting for the other to speak. Realizing that the visibly shaking Luigi would continue to be mute, she inhaled to gather the strength to break the détente. "Kerido, you're right; I'm stalling. Because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of being ... swallowed up by tradition. Not by you. By your family ... by my family."
Suddenly, he sat up and took her hands into his. "Th-th-th-that's why ... we could elope. You and me. No one's expectations but ours. No tradition. Just us."
Though she flashed an amused, toothy grin, Daisy shook her head. "Giuseppe would kill us. So would Mario, Peach, Yoshi, Miles, Salvatore, Lucia, my parents ..."
Putting a finger to her lips, he interrupted a second time. "We could have a party for their benefit if they're really gonna be that fucking salty. What do you want, Daisy Abravanel? Not what we should do. What do you want?" She raised an eyebrow at him, soundlessly retorting that they would absolutely be that fucking salty. He shook his head again, mouthing, "What does Daisy want?"
They stared into each other's eyes for several minutes thereafter; as if they were one mind, he removed his index finger to allow her to verbalize her answer. "Okay," she whispered.
His blue eyes sparkled with hope. "Okay?"
"Yeah. Let's do it. The question is when. We're in the middle of a big case, and I can't go, like, tomorrow. Plus, we have Josh with us at the moment and Salvatore's sixtieth birthday is coming up in a week."
The beaming Luigi pulled her into a tight hug. "We can wait for Mario to come back and after Sal's birthday. I mean, not months from now, but ..."
Daisy, now giddy with excitement, wrapped her arms around his lanky torso. "End of the month or beginning of April, perhaps. Mid-April at the latest. I can plead with my supervisor. It may mean that I have to work during part of our, uh, honeymoon, but I promise that," her nose rubbed against his, "you'll have me during the ceremony and fully at night."
His only reply was a low growl and a gentle push of her body to the mattress underneath them.
Miles had spent the weekend with Luigi, Daisy, and Josh, which had calmed the latter to an extent, as he could channel his unexpressed anxiety over his missing parents into video games, while his aunt and uncle attempted calling Mario's and Peach's cellphones, only to receive a "mailbox is full" message for each person. Next, Luigi phoned Rospo's wife, who had as much information as he, and the Italian government had been less than helpful. Daisy received little to no communication from her contacts in the U.S. Government, who bluntly advised her that she was not "need to know."
The following Monday and Tuesday, the plumber stayed home to care for the antsy Josh, who screamed and cried his terror and incomprehension at his absent mother and father. Between replying to emergency calls and assignments, he did his best to calm the frightened child, redirecting his attention to Italian cartoons and walks to the nearby Brooklyn Bridge Park. Despite the gloomy March weather, the young Masciarelli reveled in chasing the birds and running along the greens. Once he had tired himself out, his uncle took him to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory for their shared favorite vanilla chocolate chunk. In the back of his mind, Luigi could hear Peach's disapproving voice, yet he snapped back to the phantom aristocrat that if she wanted to enforce her dietary rules upon her son, then she could return to Brooklyn. After all, what was so goddamned important that she couldn't spare a moment to call them? Another nagging voice reminded him that the virus count in northern Italy had doubled within a week. Sitting on a bench next to the shop, he chewed his lip and put his free hand on his nephew's shoulders, who ignored the gesture in favor of finishing the last bit of his ice cream cone, and his eyes darted to the supertall glass structure from across the East River.
Now I know how Uncle Joe felt, Pops, he thought while rising off the bench to return to Carroll Gardens. Why do the Marios all have to be fucking heroes?
Predictably for most weeknights, Daisy did not return to their brownstone until late, leaving him to care, cook for, read to, and put the little boy to bed alone. Exhausted, Luigi retreated to their bedroom to close his eyes to the forgotten television program. He blinked awake to rustling on her side, which was around one o'clock. As he rolled over to curl into his fiancée, he felt a feminine hand cover his. By the time he awoke the next morning, she had already gone, though he found a small note stating that she had been approved for only five days during the last week of the month. His excitement was, however, muted; he had used two days of paid time off to care for Josh, and neither his brother nor his sister-in-law had returned to New York. Clenching his jaw in pure anger, he stomped down the stairs to start breakfast for the innocent boy, invoking every Sicilian and Abruzzese curse word that he knew. Still in his pajamas, the timid Josh stopped just at the threshold of the kitchen, observing his angry uncle bang and grumble at the sauté pan and toaster. Finally noticing the terrified boy, Luigi jumped, then relaxed, approaching him cautiously to assure him that he was not to blame. His blue eyes watering, Josh's lips began to tremble in an oncoming meltdown when they heard a firm knock at the door. The plumber's heart thudded in anticipation – who would knock on his door at seven in the morning? Momentarily leaving the upset boy, he rushed to the front door. His eyes rounded in shock upon opening the wood and glass portal.
"Z-Z ... Sal? What are you doing here?"
Salvatore, who was, for the working week, unusually dressed in blue jeans and black puffer jacket, raised his eyebrows. "Niputi," he greeted softly. "May I come in?"
Feeling a mixture of surprise, inquisitiveness, and fear, he wordlessly permitted the shorter man entrance, which the latter accepted with a sincere smile. Luigi locked it behind them and followed him into the kitchen.
Josh's moist eyes fixated on his great-uncle who reached down to greet him warmly in Sicilian. The blond Masciarelli grinned and held out his arms so that the older man could carry him to the kitchen table.
"Uh ... d-do you want some coffee? I was gonna make some eggs for Josh here, but I have bagels if you want one?" Luigi proffered uncertainly.
"Coffee and bagel sound great, if it's not a problem?" replied the Sicilian lightly, removing his jacket to reveal a purple and yellow printed Carroll College sweatshirt.
He shook his head. "No, no! No, uh, trouble at all." Calm fell upon the kitchen while the olive-skinned man chattered excitedly with his great-nephew in Italian, who appreciated both the attention as well as the conversation in their native language, and the tallerman prepared eggs, toast, and milk for Josh and a bagel and coffee for his uncle and himself. Serving his guests and setting a jar of blood orange jam in front of the impressed older man, Luigi sat down to enjoy his bagel with cream cheese and espresso. Salvatore was careful to keep conversation around Josh pleasant, which the plumber took as a sign that he was there to talk business. He played along, allowing his uncle to take the lead, for which he seemed appreciative.
Once breakfast was concluded, the Sicilian soothingly asked the little boy to go watch cartoons in the living room, and he would be there in a little bit. Josh, who was excited at his presence, nodded and gave his elders no resistance. Now out of earshot, he turned to the nervous Luigi and, in a serious tone, spoke in English, "I've heard that you've been absent from work. Mario and Peach are ... AWOL."
Toying with his small espresso cup under the mafioso's piercing gaze, he rasped, "Yeah. Mario dropped Josh off last week, said that he was going for a few days on a job. I've tried to call him. Nothing. Same with Peach." His dark brown eyes expanded, yet he remained quiet, sensing that Luigi would elaborate. "Daisy's working on a case, so she can't help."
"And Josh can't go to Joe and Lucia?" asked Salvatore with a hint of annoyance.
Luigi lifted his now angered gaze to him. "No! Mario brought him to me! And how the hell was I supposed ... ?!" Inhaling to keep his temper in check, he added immediately to avoid offending the Mafia administrator, "I'm sorry. I didn't know that he'd go AWOL."
He gave a relaxed nod. "Niputi, I'm not angry at you. I get it, believe me. But you can't keep missing work. You know that. If Joey-B finds out that you're not overseeing the shop, then I hear about it. Josh needs to go to Joe. He'll be cared for, spoiled even."
The plumber rolled his eyes. "What the fuck does Joey-B care? The shop's fine. A few days won't cause it to go under, and he's been getting his cut."
"Trust me, niputi mo, he cares," the Sicilian retorted, taking a sip of his espresso. "Ever since you started bringing in eight figs, he's been paying attention. It's not just about the money, kid." His eyes intentionally connected with his nephew's from across the table, "You make more than most of his soldiers and even some of his captains. Yeah, he's got ... investments, but you're bankable. Solid. You get that PE in a few years, and you'll be the next Donald Trump or Elon Musk. A public moneymaker that neither the IRS nor the FBI can touch."
"Yuck," he deadpanned.
Salvatore let out a chuckle. "Sorry, niputi, but you get the point. You're the golden goose. And as such, he won't allow anyone, not even a former Green Beret, war hero, and eldest son of Mario Masciarelli to get in the way of that. That's why it's better that Josh be sent to Staten Island. Mario will understand when he gets back."
Luigi bit his lip angrily. "I thought getting and maintaining the eight figs was enough! I don't ... I don't spend time with Daisy as it is. Now, I'm some fucking indentured servant. I thought that you all," he spat at his maternal uncle, who calmly raised an eyebrow, "would leave me alone after I did what youse asked me to do. The shop's out of debt; it's been well in the black for the past three years. The world won't go to hell if I have to take care of family for a few days! Not to mention a vacation that was planned for the end of the month!"
"Vacation?" inquired the other man, crossing his arms. "I didn't see anything about that in the schedules."
The plumber shrugged and rose from his seat to start clearing the table. "I was waiting for Daisy to get the okay from her boss. They're in the middle of a big case, and we never know when the next big case will fall into their lap."
Now perfectly still, Salvatore frowned at him in suspicion. "And it can't wait for another month or two?"
Shaking his head, he murmured, "Daisy works for a nationally ranked law firm. She takes the time that she can."
"Precisely. Didn't she start just over a year ago? It seems a little sudden for a high-powered law firm." Sighing, to which Luigi did not react, he quietly solicited, "Where do you plan on going?"
"We're thinking about either upstate or, uh, California." Rubbing his face to conceal any tells that would alert his maternal uncle to his lie, he whispered, "Look, Zio, we need this time. As a couple. I just don't see how that is Joey-B's business. He's getting paid."
"It's not," Sal agreed. "It is, however, my business, Luigi. It's true that you've done well, and no, you haven't arbitrarily missed work in the past. That being said, family is important. I know you proposed to Daisy some time ago, and nothing's been done on that front. Are you two ... alright?"
The plumber harrumphed. "First, Uncle Joe, now you, Zio? Yeah, we're fine. Look, why don't you all come out and say that you're pissed because I can't get married in the Church?! Daisy's Jewish, which you've fucking known for a while now!"
Leaning back at the table to point his finger, the Sicilian growled, "Attento!" Like a little boy who had been chastised by his elder, Luigi dropped his angry gaze and crossed his arms in a gesture reminiscent of his paternal uncle. Once the younger man had been cowed, the mafioso eased his posture, though he kept his darkened eyes upon him. "I know Daisy's Jewish, niputi. And I have never had a problem with that! Although I can't speak for Joe or Lucia, I can't imagine they'd have an issue, either. Joe in particular ..." He shifted his eyes away and exhaled raggedly, letting the heartbreak echo throughout the empty kitchen. "Well, he's always been a traditionalist – sometimes too much. Life doesn't always work that way – you and I both know that. But he'd, I think, agree with me when we say we're confused by your actions. It's been six years, almost as long as the wait for Mario and Cristina. There were several reasons: his numerous deployments, injuries, and traumas. You two, however, have had a good, solid life!"
"Daisy needed to finish her education, as did I, Sal!" Luigi interjected, risking the mafioso's ire which, thankfully, never appeared. "And Joe, Mario, the family ... scares her. Your collectively overbearing attitude isn't making this easy on us." Salvatore chewed his lip, nodding absently. Both Rigassi men fell into an uncomfortable silence, the younger avoiding the elder's piercing stare. After several moments passed, he muttered, "I thought... the, uh, other Family had no more ... personal interest in me. Why is it so important to them that Daisy and I be married? I'm not, uh, made."
"Niputi, you forget whose nephew you are," Sal countered, refocusing his now pained brown orbs upon the mustachioed man. "It's true that you're a bystander, but you are still the heir to the Rigassi Family. That protection and status come with obligation. Remaining an innocent is a privilege, kid, one which has never been afforded to your ancestors. You're the first."
Without lifting his blue eyes, the shaken plumber whispered, "What do you want, Zio?"
"I've told you what is expected. First, you're the master plumber of our shop. Second, you're a good Italian – part-Sicilian – ragazzo with a good fiancée. Get your house in order." Slowly, the older man rose from his chair to stand before his distressed nephew. Urging the latter to face him squarely, he said, "It's a part of being a man, kid. You're a leader now. The guys look up to you – you're the go-between them, the union, and ... us. That's why appearances are so important. That's why priests are celibate: to represent God, they have to be pure in mind, spirit, and body. You? You're the leader of a community. And men in a community respect those with power, success, and a spouse."
"I never wanted those things."
A neutral-faced Sal placed a warm, olive-colored hand upon the taller man's shoulder. "Everyone dreams of those things at some point in their lives. While you may not value the first as much, the heart wants what the heart wants."
Luigi bit his lip, then fixed his eyes upon his maternal uncle. "Alright. But I ask that you give me the time at the end of the month. Daisy and I need time to start ... planning. That way, we accomplish the major tasks associated with the wedding prep, and I resume work without further interruption."
Salvatore raised an eyebrow before glancing to the side to reflect upon his proposal. Following twenty seconds of unexpressed contemplation, he gave a single nod. "Okay. I don't find that unreasonable. I, uh, assume you're opting for the courthouse?"
The mixture of disappointment and irritation in his voice did not escape the younger man's attention. "Yeah, Zio. You know as well as I do that ... it would take time for the Diocese to approve a 'natural marriage.' And given their family history, the Abravanels wouldn't be thrilled with a Catholic priest marrying us. As for a rabbi, I'd say roughly half of the ones I know of in the Brooklyn area wouldn't be keen on performing a ceremony in which one of the partners isn't Jewish or hasn't converted."
Moving first to the cupboard and then the refrigerator to help himself to a glass of ice water, the former priest merely sighed in response. Glass now filled, he turned toward to the attentive Luigi and whispered, "Will you convert for them?"
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I don't ... I don't want to be pressured into religion. Would I celebrate Jewish holidays and customs? If we ... If Daisy and I have children, I would think so, yeah. Just as I'd want them to be a part of the Italian ... Sicilian culture."
He nodded again, having accepted his reply. "Niputi, you know I'm ... laicized from the Church. If things had been different, I'd have gladly married you and Daisy. But I ..." He suddenly shifted his gaze to a spot to his right, biting back a wave of indescribable emotion. "I can't even become a secular officiant without ... facing excommunication."
"Zio," began Luigi, who stepped deliberately to the saddened older man, "we'd never ask you to do that. And I know – Daisy and I know – you'd do it if you could."
Salvatore sipped the icy liquid. "Mario – your frati – got a big wedding. He and Cristina could have been married in the Catholic Church. But I knew that ... like your father, he never believed in God. And your father only agreed to the religious wedding because my mother and Gabby had insisted. I ... never could marry." Opening his left hand to reveal a forty-year-old scar, he added with a mirthless smile, "But I got one weekend of pretend."
The plumber slowly nodded in comprehension. "You wanted me – us – to have the big wedding that youse never had."
He swallowed harshly. "Niputi, it's almost time for work."
Luigi frowned in confusion. "Josh's still here, and it'd be at least an hour and a half in traffic to Staten ..."
"I can watch Josh until this evening. Once you get off work, we can take him to Joe."
Blinking in disbelief, he stared at the older man. "Wait, what? You?"
A light chuckle emanated from his throat. "Yeah, niputi. As I seem to recall, a small Sicilian bambino was often left in my care by his, uh, overworked father more than once."
"No, I mean," the blue-eyed man gulped while gesturing vaguely with his finger, "I didn't mean that. It's just, uh, um, you-you-you know, your, uh, job."
Giving him a meaningful stare, Salvatore replied, "You let me worry about that. Now," he tilted his head toward the stairs, "preparati. The shop's waiting."
After mumbling a grazie, Luigi jogged upstairs to shower, shave, and change into work clothes, leaving his maternal uncle to put his plate and glass in the dishwasher. Once he had ensured that all plates and food were stored in the proper places, he ambled into the living room where Josh was sitting on the floor in front of an old Bugs Bunny cartoon on television. The blond boy studied the images carefully for the comprehension that he was otherwise unable to obtain from the audio. Seconds later, his blue eyes focused to his great-uncle who, despite some discomfort, took the space next to him on the rug.
"È tutto in inglese," complained the blond in their native language.
Sal nodded, having suddenly remembered his long-forgotten first days of elementary school, where he had been reduced to tears over the American teacher's insistent and often badgering questions in a language which he was unable to speak. Like his older sister, who had been held back a year due to an insufficient grasp of English, he struggled during his first two years in school until he made friends with the bilingual latchkey kids of Bensonhurst's 62nd and 65th Streets. "Anche quando ero bambino era tutto in inglese," he finally answered.
"Ma ora parli molto in inglese," reasoned Josh. "Parli inglese con Babbo e Mamma. Parli inglese con Zio Weegie."
He laughed again, sliding an inch closer to his great-nephew. "Hai ragione, piccolo. Ma io parlo italiano con te."
Satisfied with the older man's reply, Josh turned back to the television, laughing at Bugs slapping the angry black bull behind him.
A little after eight o'clock, the newly showered and changed Luigi dashed down the stairs. Josh's head pivoted away from the television to observe his uncle rushing about the kitchen to gather his computer, car keys, and green backpack. "Zio, where are you going?" he demanded in Italian with a faintly shaking voice.
Both uncle and great-uncle gave the boy sympathetic looks. The former halted his preparations so that he could kneel before Josh in the parlor. "Nipote, I'm going to work. I will be back this evening. Uncle Sal's going to spend the day with you. You can come see me at lunchtime, huh?" He shifted his regard to the other man for support, who nodded in agreement.
Instead of a tantrum, Josh's blue eyes widened. "Babbo never takes me to work. Can I?"
"Yeah, piccolo."
"And at lunch, I can have a pizza?"
The two Rigassi men exchanged an amused look at the young Masciarelli boy's Marioesque entreaty. Luigi reached over to ruffle his blond hair. "Well, we'll see what we can do. If you're a good boy for your Uncle Sal, we can have a slice."
He smiled excitedly. "Okay!"
Kissing the top of his head and assuring him that they would see each other at noon, he closed his backpack, grabbed his coat, and headed to the front door. Salvatore immediately trailed and called out to him, to whom the plumber spun expectantly, keys in hand. "Niputinu, I ..." he began in a hesitant tone. Luigi raised his eyebrows and waited patiently. "I'll bring Josh to the shop for lunch. Let me take care of it."
For a few full seconds, he eyeballed Salvatore, who remained motionless. Finally, he answered, "Okay. But just you."
Salvatore gave a faint bob of his head, having understood his nephew's thinly veiled admonition, and watched him disappear out of the door to the street and his car. With a heavy sigh, he returned to the sitting room to his great-nephew and Looney Tunes, which entertained the child throughout the morning. Every so often, Sal would step outside for a brief smoke break, to run the dishwasher, or to put away the cleaned dishes from the previous evening and that morning. Thankfully, the ever-present burner phone in the back of his jeans pocket had not rung a single time; despite his promise to Luigi, the oath which he had taken decades ago demanded filial obeisance to the Family, even if his mother was dying or his (imaginary) wife was giving birth. During his first few years as a made man, he recalled several soldiers and capos casually attending sit-downs with fellow wiseguys in other families while their wives were in the hospital or their children were ill. Their real family was the Family; wives and children were superficial, a means to maintain societal appearances of legitimacy while pursuing unlimited money, power, and influence for themselves. In an ironic continuation of the hypocrisy, he had only to answer to Joey-B; everyone else owed loyalty to him, and thus, he could take time if it was necessary. Whispering a prayer that the Boss would not require his presence at another evening sit-down or poker game, the former priest finished with the household chores and cajoled the four-year-old to brush his teeth and get dressed to visit Zio Luigi. Enthusiastic over the trip to la officina dello Zio Weegie, he straightaway ran upstairs to do as his great-uncle had asked. As he waited for Josh to get ready, Sal re-arranged the blankets and pillows to their original placements on the couch and, out of boredom, flipped through the channels. Halting at a 'breaking news' scroll bar on one of the news channels, he took note of an unusual emergency press conference – from the Director-General of the World Health Organization – that had been held earlier that morning New York time. A grim expression deepened in his facial features with every word that the Ethiopian medical expert had pronounced:
"Good afternoon, everybody. In the past two weeks, the number of cases of COVID-19 outside China has increased thirteen-fold, and the number of affected countries has tripled.
There are now more than 118,000 cases in 114 countries, and 4,291 people have lost their lives.
Thousands more are fighting for their lives in hospitals.
In the days and weeks ahead, we expect to see the number of cases, the number of deaths, and the number of affected countries climb even higher.
WHO has been assessing this outbreak around the clock and we are deeply concerned both by the alarming levels of spread and severity, and by the alarming levels of inaction.
We have therefore made the assessment that COVID-19 can be characterized as a pandemic. Pandemic is not a word to use lightly or carelessly. It is a word that, if misused, can cause unreasonable fear, or unjustified acceptance that the fight is over, leading to unnecessary suffering and death.
Describing the situation as a pandemic does not change WHO's assessment of the threat posed by this virus. It doesn't change what WHO is doing, and it doesn't change what countries should do.
We have never before seen a pandemic sparked by a coronavirus. This is the first pandemic caused by a coronavirus. And we have never before seen a pandemic that can be controlled, at the same time ..."
Ghebreyesus's voice dimmed thereafter, and a wall of ice had unfurled into every cell of the Sicilian's body.