Author's notes: Hello, hello!
Yet another chapter in the story! A few notes to start:
1) For those of you who haven't read "Tougher than the Rest" and who know Spanish, you'll probably be a little confused at the spelling of the words in some of the dialogues. This is intentional; Judeo-Spanish (called Ladino) is based on Medieval Spanish, Portuguese, Hebrew, French, Turkish, and a few others. So the "qu" (i.e., "querido") becomes "k" instead; same with b and v, and j and h. Also, the vosotros/Ustedes conjugation is more similar to Hebrew than it is to modern Spanish or Portuguese, so it is NOT a misconjugation.
2) There's a slight rating change from Teen to low Mature, as a particular character uses very bad words. But it's nothing gratuitous and is appropriate to the speaker.
3) This chapter is pretty heavy, so I am announcing TWO games for the reading audience! Because I'm taking a very brief vacation for a couple weeks, it's a good time to do it. The deadline for the two games is June 21, 2024 at 11:59 PM EASTERN TIME. Here are the games and rules:
(a) I have included an Easter Egg in this chapter, heh heh heh. The first person to correctly write what it is wins a small prize (to be announced in the following chapter). No money, I'm afraid; Nintendo will sue my ass if there is any money or art exchanged. It is first come, first serve, so the person with the earliest timestamp in the comments wins.
(b) In the story, presents for Salvatore are mentioned. (I'm keeping this vague until you've read the chapter.) Everyone gets to suggest TWO presents. Try to keep this on the low side of Mature (Age 16 in Europe/Asia). Nothing pornographic or extremely obscene, please; I don't want to get an angry message from the moderators, LOL.
For those reading on FF net, you can either write a comment or send me a PM.
Let me know if you have any questions. Thanks for reading, as always!
Chapter 6: Esfuenyo no le esta entrando
An insistent ringing woke Salvatore from a fretful sleep. Immediately checking his watch, panicked that he had left Daisy unattended in his body's desperate need for rest, he exhaled in relief that he had just dozed off some thirty-minutes ago. The dread, however, returned when he saw the screen of the other phone brighten. Ensuring that the woman curled in his arms remained as comfortable as possible, he reached over to grab and answer the device. "Pronto ... Yeah, that's fine." Following his response, the call disconnected. Gently, he left the bed, arranging Daisy's perspiring and feeble body along the pillows, to access his laptop. Logging onto a secret admin account that Matt Morello and Sam Carlino had installed for Mafia business, he connected to his 'business VPN' and private email inbox to which an encrypted link had been sent. He clicked on it and waited for further instructions; a moment later, a dialogue box appeared, requesting access to his video and microphone. Accepting the entreaty, he waited an additional thirty seconds when a nervous middle-aged man emerged on screen. He looked disheveled, as if someone had yanked him out of bed.
"H-H-Hello," he stammered, rubbing his eyes. "Your, uh, associates told me that you needed a doctor. Medical emergency?"
"That's right," stated Salvatore whose eyes changed into the black of the Administrator. "I have a patient for you, Doc." Striding to the bed, he held the device at an angle where the doctor could see the ghostly pale woman.
"What happened? Did your girl ... take too much of something?" asked Doctor Grayson reluctantly.
"No! She's my niece, not my mistress!" barked the Administrator in irritation at the man's insinuations.
"Oh." Coughing to regain his composure at potentially angering the mafioso and to shift his emotions into professional detachment, he inquired, "How long has she been like this? What are her symptoms?"
Placated at the man's acceptable change in demeanor, the man replied, "About two or three days ago. Temperature's been between one hundred two and one hundred four degrees consistently. She's been wheezing and has been vomiting. She's been in and out of consciousness."
Defeatedly, the doctor slumped in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Earlier that morning, he, like several thousand medical professionals in Manhattan, had received the flyers from the WHO, NIH, CDC, New York Public Health, and countless other agencies about the strange coronavirus and its bizarre indications: fever above one hundred one degrees, fatigue, chills, difficulty breathing, and a loss of smell and/or taste. "Has she been able to eat? Does she have any conditions such as diabetes or asthma? Heart conditions?"
The Administrator sat down on the bed next Daisy to contemplate the question. "She's eaten less, I think. But she has eaten. And, no, she's perfectly healthy. Athletic."
Nodding, the doctor rasped in a voice just above a whisper, "I can't be sure, as the only definitive test that we currently have is a PCR. That's when we collect a sample from inside the nasal cavity. However, I would say it's possible that she has the novel coronavirus. You could arrange for her to get a test. But given that she's young and healthy, I wouldn't ..."
Black eyes met terrified brown ones. "How the hell would a test reduce her one-hundred-four-degree fever?!" he snapped. "I wouldn't come to you of all people if I could fix this with a test!"
Rubbing his eyes once more, he responded in a more insistent tone, "Unfortunately, I can't do anything from a screen. And if her fever is that high, she risks organ damage, if it's sustained. If there's a concern, you can take her to the hospital. I can write a medical note attesting to the necessity. The emergency services will be called, as they'll need to take extra precautions."
Raising an eyebrow, the Sicilian growled, "Or?"
"Or ... You can wait it out. Do what they'll likely do in the ER – cover her with bags of ice and fans or ice packs. Try to get her body temp to come down as much as possible, then push clear fluids as she's likely dehydrated. If it rises any higher than one hundred five degrees, her organs will start to fail. That's the point of no return."
He nodded and said to the wiseguys flanking the physician off-camera, "You heard the man. Anything else?"
Grayson exhaled worriedly, taking a moment to curse himself for his online poker addiction and subsequent debts to Louie Lazzarini, a low-level soldier for the Morano Family. As an oncologist, he would normally placate the patient and his or her family, reassuring them that everything would be fine and the vicious side effects of chemotherapy or other incidental illnesses were just a fever and usual aches and pains. However, the Moranos were notorious for their brutality, and word on the street was that this particular gentleman could simply raise an eyebrow to obliterate those who crossed him.
Yet too much honesty could get him a hammer to the hand or a final trip to an unmarked grave underneath the foundation of the newest shopping mall in Staten Island.
"There's a lot that we don't know about this virus," he finally began, though he studiously avoided eye contact with the mafioso. "If she doesn't have any pre-existing conditions, then she should recover in a few days."
Sensing that he was holding back, either out of cowardice or a reluctance to speculate, the Administrator leaned forward to the camera and, letting his black eyes contract and shimmer like polished obsidian, hissed lowly, "I know there's more. So don't bother hiding it from me. This is my niece; if something happens to her, I'll make sure something happens to you."
Now terrified, the man's green eyes moved from the left to the right, presumably to see what his captors were doing as a result of the Administrator's threat. "Alright, alright! Honestly, it's not a good sign that she has a fever that high. From the little that I know, surviving patients usually present with a dry cough, fatigue, and a slight fever. But that's all I can tell you; I swear!"
Salvatore chewed on his lip, debating whether to hang up and let the ciarlatano dangle like a worm or have his guys teach him a lesson. Opting for the former, he angrily disconnected the video call and logged out of incognito mode to wait for the ice that would arrive within the hour. Still enraged by the sfattone's indifference to the Hippocratic Oath, he returned to re-wet with cold water the cloths covering Daisy's burning form. As he worked to keep her from overheating, her weak amber eyes fluttered open. "S-Salvatore ... Estas akí?"
The man in the wrinkled purple shirt nodded, taking her hand into his. "Yeah, sobrinha. Esto akí."
"Ande ... esta mi ... kerido?"
Moving his right hand to brush dark tendrils of wet hair from her cheek, he murmured, "Esta durmiendo abasho."
She gave him a faint nod, then rolled her head against the pillow. "Bueno ... Abasho. S-S-Si yo me siento mal, grave, d-d-dile que …"
Shaking his head to protest her words in Judeo-Spanish, he quietly interjected in English, "No. I know it's bad now. But we're getting help. Alright? You've got to hang in there, bambina." Though his eyes sparkled in watery fear, he forced a grin and squeezed her hand. "Besides, who am I going to practice my spanyol with?"
Daisy's head lulled against the pillow, and she moaned in discomfort. "It's so hot now."
"I know," he said sympathetically. "I'm getting something that will help with that. It'll be here very soon."
She gazed at him, this time, with worn-out orbs. "I ... haven't been this ill ... since ... I was young. It's one of the few ... memories I have of my mother."
Leaning toward her in a sudden, inexplicable interest as he held a glass of water to her lips, Salvatore probed, "You were raised by your father and madrasta, right?"
Nodding, she slurped the liquid which caused some to run down her chin. "Yeah," the woman rasped as he dabbed a cloth on her skin to wipe it away. "My parents divorced when I was six. My mother ... was ill. It wasn't her fault, but she ... didn't want medication, and my father couldn't handle the extremes. I think ... she felt rejected by the world."
"Do you go see her? Where is she now?"
"Every other year maybe," answered Daisy flatly. "She's ... a Buddhist nun in San Francisco. We talk, but it's always ... been distant. I remind her of a life that ... I think she's largely forgotten. Or wants to forget."
Momentarily stunned by the description of her mother, Salvatore squeezed her hand and looked away in a pensive manner. "Regardless of the belief system, the religious life offers peace in a ... chaotic world. Answers," he let out a self-deprecating laugh, adding, "and, just perhaps, redemption." Then he shook his head and squeezed her hand again. "When I was in the priesthood ... No matter where I was, those dearest to me were always in my prayers."
"Did ... you go into it because of them? The ... Mafia?"
He turned to look directly at her, though without malice or menace. "No." Stroking her cheek, he implored, "Now rest. The more energy you use, the more time it'll take to get it back."
Instead, and the Sicilian's visible horror, Daisy pushed herself upright, willing herself to sit up straight in spite of her high fever. "No, I need ... I need to get up."
"No!" he shouted in Judeo-Spanish, scrambling to his feet to intercept her. "Kedate em la cama, miha."
Disregarding his command, she tottered to her feet to make her way to the bathroom and, once inside, shut the door in his face. "Can I piss in peace, Father?!" she sarcastically demanded in English.
As she relieved herself, outside of the ensuite, Salvatore crossed his arms and bit his lip in equal and opposite annoyance. Were young women always this stubborn or was this merely a character trait of one Daisy Abravanel?!
From the other side of the bedroom door, he suddenly heard the masculine groan of his nephew and the insistent chattering of two nocturnal felines. Remaining near his obstinate niece, the mirthful older man checked his watch and snickered at the plumber's grumbles at the Russian cats' commands for their breakfast. A minute later, the toilet flushed, and the sickly woman weakly exited the bathroom, slowing down to right her body, which had begun to sway side to side. The Sicilian swore in his native language and moved to brace her from behind with his hands. "Cazzo! I'd have expected better from you. You're not Joe or Mario!" he growled.
Shutting her eyes from the wave of heat and nausea, she quipped, "Why, because I'm a woman?"
He rolled his eyes as he walked her to the bed. "No, because you're smarter than they are." Before she could protest, Salvatore unceremoniously bent down and, wrapping his arm around her thighs, lifted her body to lay it on the mattress. Incensed amber met bistre. "You forget, sobrinha, that I am a man of great resolve." Whereas he punctuated his statement by sitting down on the edge, Daisy merely glared at him in response. He sighed, reached over to the night table, and held up the thermometer.
Offended at his previous gesture, she crossed her arms and looked ahead.
Rapidly losing patience with Joe's daughter-in-law, he firmly grasped her head with an open left hand and slid the device underneath her tongue with his right, keeping her still until it had beeped. She spat a slew of Italian parolacce, which, despite the gravity of the present situation, caused him to laugh as he retracted and read the number.
One hundred four point two.
His merriment ended as soon as it had come. "Where is that fucking ice?!" he snarled, tossing the thermometer across the room, which quashed Daisy's internal plotting of his demise. Her eyes widened, having never heard the former priest use anything worse than cazzo, let alone in English. Embarrassed at his outburst, Salvatore twisted to the side, yet his hand tightened around hers.
"Mi dispiace," she whispered, breaking the minutes-long silence. "I know ... you're trying."
He neither replied nor glanced in her direction. Afraid that she was somehow responsible for his muteness, Daisy attempted to withdraw her hand. Instead, the man's fingers interlaced them, refusing to break the clasp. She then felt her body being pulled forward into his torso; one hand encircled her back and the other went to her hair. Relaxing into the warm embrace, her fever-impaired mind raced to assess awaiting dangers, only and strangely to find none. His right hand moved to her forehead, as if to verify the device's reading, after which he set his unshaven chin atop the crown of her head.
"You're going to get this virus, Salvatore."
Without moving an inch, he answered, "I know."
Pivoting her head so that she could hear her voice and draw in air, she said, "I thought that ... suicide was a mortal sin."
His eyes shut, allowing a single, fresh tear to fall, and his tenor chuckled in a mixture of indignation and nervousness. "Then we'll both walk out of here alive."
Luigi winced at the pain in his shoulder, neck, and back from his crouched position against the master bedroom door. At his feet, the two fluffy felines gobbled their early-morning chicken breakfast. Stepping around their platform bowls in the dim kitchen light, he inaudibly returned to his previous sleeping area upstairs and sat cross-legged outside of the closed door. His heart ached at being kept from his gravely ill princess. Within the shadows of his mind, he screamed, wailed, and begged his maternal uncle to let him inside, to hold her hand while her body fought off the unknown invader. Pressing his hand flat against the wood, the plumber mouthed a long-forgotten Petrarchan sonnet that, ironically, he had to memorize for both his professore di lettereas well as his seventh-grade Italian class:
Non pò far Morte il dolce viso amaro,
ma 'l dolce viso dolce pò far Morte.
Che bisogn'a morir ben altre scorte?
Quella mi scorge ond'ogni ben imparo;
et Quei che del Suo sangue non fu avaro,
che col pe' ruppe le tartaree porte,
col Suo morir par che mi riconforte.
Dunque vien', Morte: il tuo venir m'è caro.
Et non tardar, ch'egli è ben tempo omai;
et se non fusse, e' fu 'l tempo in quel punto
che madonna passò di questa vita.
D'allor innanzi un dí non vissi mai:
seco fui in via, et seco al fin son giunto,
et mia giornata ò co' suoi pie' fornita
A whimper escaped his gut after concluding the final stanza. Would Daisy become his Laura, leaving him to spend the rest of his life mourning her? As a near thirteen-year-old, Luigi had not truly understood the poet's lament over love and death, which only led him to question his teacher further, to which the kindly man countered, "Niputi, this isn't just about learning to read and write our native language; it's about understanding where you come from and what our values are. One day, you will understand it because you'll find someone whom you care about very much. Feelings only become more complicated as we get older."
In that moment, he hated Father Rigassi for having burned those accursed words into his mind for eternity.
As he laid his cheek upon the door, he heard a high-pitched ringing from the other side, followed by his maternal uncle's voice: "Pronto. Si. Grazie." A moment afterward, Luigi heard rustling and footsteps approach the door; the older man sighed, unlocked the door, and started to turn the knob. Scrambling to his feet, he whispered, "Zio, I'm awake; d-don't open the door. J-J-Just tell me what you need."
The man exhaled in relief. "Grazie, niputi mio. There's a delivery outside. I need you to bring it upstairs to me. Immediately."
"Si, torno subito," replied Luigi obediently. Creeping down the stairs and along the living room to avoid waking Josh or Miles, he arrived at the front door and eased it open to find several large bags of ice on the doorstep. Hauling them inside, he used the strength that he had cultivated over years of manual labor to carry them upstairs in one go. After setting them down at the door, he knocked gently.
"Bene, niputi, bene. How many ice bags are there?"
"Uh," the plumber began, lifting one to inspect it further, "there are five, sixteen-pound bags." Facing the door, he then demanded, "Why do you need these?"
"Daisy's running a fever, niputi. I've been told that this is the best way to get it down, what the ER doctors would do with a case like hers. Take two and store them so they won't melt."
Feeling his breath become shallow at his uncle's unemotional statement, he quickly took two bags – one in each hand – and rushed to the freezer in the kitchen. As he arranged and rearranged the drawer-like box to accommodate the large sacks, the upstairs door opened and shut. Stuffing the ice bags inside as best as he could and adjusting the temperature to ensure that they would stay frozen, he ran into the laundry room, closed the door, and plugged in his phone. Dialing Salvatore's number, he waited and, when it went to an automated voicemail, redialed until his uncle's haggard image finally appeared. "Per favore," he pleaded, "I-I-I won't lose it. Just ... let me see her."
The video streaming abruptly faded to a blur. Luigi was about to call him again when he realized that Salvatore had not hung up; a moment later, a clear view of Daisy, who was submerged in a tub of ice, appeared on his phone. Her head turned to the device. "Lu-Lu-Luigi?"
"Yeah, sweetie, it's me," he said with a heartbroken smile.
"Th-th-the last ... ice bath I had was wh-when ... I pl-pl-played varsity soccer. Twisted ankle. Belgian ... girl tr-tr-tried to trip me. She instantly regretted it."
Both he and Salvatore giggled at the distinctive Daisy attitude, even as a teenager. "That's my Daisy," he rasped, wiping tears from his eyes. "The hellraiser."
As the older man adjusted the cold cloths on her brow, she moaned, "T-tell me a story, kerido. I-I-I need to hear your v-v-voice."
"A story, huh?" He sank to the cold ground, reflecting on what he could tell her. "What haven't I told you, amore?" His mind raced through his boring life in his boring plumbing shop. What could he tell her that she didn't already know? He was not his older brother, who had rescued his own wife from terrorists, nor was he his firefighter father. "I ..." he began sheepishly. "All I can tell you is a story that you've always been a part of. My princess." He swallowed, relaxing at her softened amber eyes. "Let's see ..." Arranging himself more comfortably on the hard floor, he started, "There once was a lioness in a brush in ... Tanzania, I think." Seeing both Daisy and Salvatore raise an eyebrow, he stammered, "A-After hunting zebras and feasting on their carcasses, she decided to return to the pack when an arrow flew through the sky and pierced her in the side. Quickly, she retreated to the only bush for miles in each direction, too injured to flee. Trembling, the cat licked in vain against the wound when she heard footsteps approaching. Ready to pounce as a last option, she momentarily crouched down when her pack attacked the poacher. As the man shrieked in agony, the lioness licked her lips, charged, and finished him off with a bite to his jugular." Luigi cleared his throat nervously, glancing at his perplexed uncle and unreadable fiancée. "But once he was, uh, dead, the queen laid down, still injured and in pain herself. One of the lions, which had thus far been hiding behind the bigger one, like he always does, came and covered her wound with his mane. You know, 'cause he's a coward and doesn't know what else to do." He lifted his fearful blue eyes to hers. "Laying there, hoping ... Because he, they, need her."
Salvatore gave a light grin while Daisy sighed contentedly. "The lioness needs her lion, too. And he's ... not a coward," she gasped tiredly.
Luigi's gaze shifted to his ever-present uncle, who checked her forehead and other parts of her skin. A sudden wave of jealousy washed over him at the thought of Salvatore having seen intimate parts of her body. Then he noticed that she was in her tank top and underwear, and he exhaled in self-reproach. Where were these feelings coming from? Uncle Sal had never shown any interest in anyone except for Joe.
What are you feeling right now? echoed Dr. Czernin's encouraging voice.
Exhausted; angry, he answered his therapist's imaginary question.
And perhaps a little jealous that it's not you with her right now?
I want to care for her, Rosalina. And I'd trade places with her if I could.
Give the fear a name, like we talked about, Luigi. Expose it to the light.
"I ..." he voiced, inexplicably hesitating, as Uncle Sal turned to him and waited. "I feel ... so powerless." Rubbing his face and staring at the ground, he went on, "You're my strength, Daisy. And here I am, in this ... fucking empty laundry room, five-thirty in the morning ... searching. You're my compass. Even when you have to get up at o-dark-early and come home late, my life feels purposeful knowing that ... Daisy Abravanel's going to bring justice to the world. I can't fight this for you. And I hate that I can't. But if anyone can fight this, it's you, kerido. I don't give a fuck what that goddamned thermometer says. Nothing can stop my Daisy. And nothing will stop me from loving you."
He dragged his eyes to the video, where the woman in the tub had fallen asleep, though she was beaming. Then he connected with the chocolate brown orbs of his maternal uncle. To his surprise and shock, he saw the image of his minutes-old envy reflected back at him.
Subsequent to making the house breakfast, a reluctant Luigi went into work due to being understaffed and a surge of tickets that no one journeyman could handle. To distract Josh from his aunt and great-uncle's absence, Miles took him to the nearby park, ensuring that they remained a distance away from everyone else, as the count was on the rise and the governor grudgingly admitted to the first two deaths in New York. Nevertheless, the adults of the Carroll Gardens brownstone were collectively dedicated to the mission of keeping the little boy unaware of the dangers that lurked behind each corner, narrow Brooklyn street, and uncovered neighbor's breath.
Within the makeshift brownstone quarantine, the wearied Salvatore lay curled next to the sleeping woman, still damp from her ice bath, on the bed. He had taken her temperature a half-hour prior – one hundred three point three. Whispering a prayer of thanks to the Almighty, he hoped that it would continue to fall with every frigid treatment. His fingertips grazed his dark, whiskery face; it had only taken the illness of one woman to shatter his Mafia-controlled regiment of being clean-shaven at all times, one which had been so ingrained that he maintained the "baby face" throughout his time in the priesthood. No Mustache Petes, his rabbi, Tony DiScala had admonished upon seeing that the youth was beginning puberty.
Not even Joe had been able to break him of that routine.
Interrupting his self-discovery or self-flagellation – he was unsure of which in that moment – was the jingling of Daisy's smartphone. Carefully sliding from the bed so as not to disturb her, he ambled to the dresser where the caller ID "Papai" appeared. Without ceremony or ruckus, he pressed the green key and tiptoed into the bathroom, closing the door. "Hello, el Senhor Abravanel?" he asked in a mixture of English and Judeo-Spanish.
There was an astounded pause. "You ..." began Harry Abravanel, recognizing Salvatore's voice. "Why the hell are you answering my daughter's phone?! Where is she? Where's Mister Cannoli?"
The Sicilian sighed, knowing that he would have to be prudently truthful. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just come to the point. Daisy's ... sick. She's been sick for about three days; that's why she didn't come to the phone yesterday."
"What the hell do you mean, 'sick'?!" demanded the now worried man.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and listened to his middle-aged joints crack as he took a seat onto the bathroom tile. "We ... Luigi and I ... tried to get her a medical visit, but the phone line was ... hours long. We tried in English, Italian, and Spanish. She's got the coronavirus. Her fever's high."
Salvatore waited for the man's response, only to hear the mid-distant echoes of panic in Hebrew, Judeo-Spanish, and Portuguese between two people, presumably his wife. When he attempted to redirect Daisy's father's attention, a woman in accented, though native-like English resumed the conversation. "We would like to see you, Mister Rigassi. Expect a Facetime call." Without waiting for his consent, he received the prompt to switch to video, which he accepted. As he turned down the volume, he saw a thin African-Arab woman, whose black hair was wrapped in an emerald green and gold scarf, sitting next to a terrified, dark amber- and gray-haired Brazilian in a blue Oxford. She briefly raised an eyebrow to his haggard appearance.
"Shalom," he greeted Harry and Yael tiredly. "I don't mean to alarm or disrespect you. But I can't lie to you, either."
"That was a wise decision on your part," she retorted. "What is Daisy's temperature currently?"
Temporarily overlooking the former IDF sergeant's lack of deference to him, the mafioso responded, "One hundred three point three degrees Fahrenheit. I'm sorry; my math skills are rather weak, so I don't know what that ..."
"Thirty-nine point six Celsius," barked the spectacled Harry, whose fidgeting had increased exponentially since their conversation had begun.
Yael put a hand on his arm in a vain attempt to calm him. "Mister Rigassi, that is dangerously high. Why did you not take her to the hospital?"
"Because New York City hospitals are only taking those with a ... referral. As I explained before, Luigi and I tried to get one, but the phone line was tied up for seven hours! And even so, I have it on good authority that they would have sent her home anyway."
Unable to sit still any longer, Harry bolted from his chair and, in the midst of colorful swearing in Portuguese, leaned over his wife's shoulder to hiss at his Sicilian counterpart in a more pronounced Boston accent, "And what good fucking authority might that be, Rigassi?! Huh? And why isn't Mister Cannoli with her?! Where is he?!"
Matching Daisy's father's tone, Salvatore snapped, "You aren't here! I am! And as for my nephew, he's making sure that we have a roof over our heads! That Daisy's being cared for because," he chuckled mirthlessly, "your kind certainly isn't!"
"And just what the hell do you mean by that?" yelled the other man.
"Daisy's firm!" he bellowed into the screen, now uncaring about the volume of his voice. "Those cold bastards want her to come in sick, never mind how dangerous," he nodded at the blank-faced Yael, "it is!"
He watched as Daisy's father and stepmother exchanged a look. "We're on the next flight to New York," he growled, causing his wife to blink. "Then we're taking Daisy back with us to California."
Salvatore stared incredulously at him. "New York's about to become Ground Zero – again. There's no way in hell – Jewish or Catholic – that any airline, even chartered, would let Daisy onboard in her present condition. She's safer where she is."
"Daisy is my daughter! My only child!"
"I know," the Sicilian deadpanned, all of a sudden feeling a wave of empathy toward the usually detached and collected attorney. "It's enough ... to keep you up at night."
They looked at each other – dark brown versus amber – for several moments, after which Harry wordlessly slid back into the chair next to his wife. "Mister Rigassi, I have associates in New York," Yael interjected coolly, "who were colleagues of mine in the Tzahal – the Defence Forces. They can care for her until it is safe for her to travel home. There is no reason that either you or the plumber should risk yourselves further."
The mafioso's eyes darkened. "I've already been exposed – many times over. Daisy's ... important to this family."
She regarded him impassively, her brown, almost black eyes revealing nothing. "We are self-sufficient. We thank you for your assistance, but I can assure you that we have better resources ..."
"Do you?" interrupted the Administrator, effectively silencing Daisy's parents. "With all due respect, Ms. Abravanel, you don't know what resources I have." Glaring at both of them, he straightened his posture so that he was perfectly upright like a king cobra. "She is safe. And I assure you both, on my life and soul, that she will return to health."
Undaunted, Yael crossed her arms. "Why you? Why not his older brother and his wife? And where is their paternal uncle?"
"Mario was sent to New Orleans; he's been detained. Cristina's in Italy due to a family emergency and, as the U.S. Government has closed the borders to and from Europe, is currently unable to return. Giuseppe's in Staten Island. I'm sure you're aware of his current health – he's lost a lung and has been through yet another round of chemotherapy within the past year."
Harry's eyes widened at the man's stated information. "Jesus, a perfect storm!" Throwing him a disgusted look, he added, "No wonder why, of all the New York paesani, it comes down to you, Rigassi."
In response to the Brazilian's thinly veiled insult, Salvatore's eyes narrowed and his fingers stroked the rosary inside his pocket.
"Papai, Madrasta ... basta!" rasped a weak feminine alto. The door pushed open to reveal a pale, enfeebled Daisy in her orange tank top and pajama bottoms.
"Guay de mi!" cried Harry while Yael's eyes visibly expanded from shock and concern. "That's it! W-W-We're getting on a plane to New York tonight!"
"No, por favor," she begged, sinking to her knees next to the upset former priest. "It's bad here. I don't want you ... either of you ... to risk it. They say only old and sick people get it, but ... I did anyway. And I don't want ... to leave Luigi alone." She let out a prolonged dry coughing spell, causing Salvatore to drop the phone to fetch a wet washcloth to squeeze a little water into her mouth. Waving him off, she picked up her phone and continued between heavy breaths, "I know how you feel about Salvatore and about the Masciarellis in general. But Luigi didn't abandon me. He ... tried to get me to a hospital. There are ... a lot of people are sick. So is Mario in New Orleans. They have him ... in quarantine, Papai. Otherwise, he'd be here."
"Miha," panted her father, petrified at his discernably unwell child, "we can get you to a hospital where you'll have the best possible care. I have a, uh, connection in the Mayor's office in San Francisco; rumor is that there will be a complete lockdown in a few days. I can't imagine New York will do any less. We need to get you help – today. And while you may not want to leave Luigi, he's also not here now. Is he?"
Salvatore's grip blanched and constricted around the beads of his rosary.
To their shared horror, Daisy burst into tears and shook her head. "Dio, I'm so ... tired! I want this thing gone! But ... I'd feel so ... responsible if I take the place of someone who's actively dying. I'm sick; I know it. But ... I don't ... want to be in some gurney," she gazed at the now indecipherable former priest, "having my temperature read by complete strangers." Wheezing a little, the young woman affixed her patented look of determination to her amazed parents and muttered, "And the people, whom you treat as strangers, 'remember the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.'"
"You have a responsibility to your health, binti," Yael spoke firmly in her native Hebrew. "Do not fail to care for yourself."
She nodded, replying in the language, "I know, madrasta. But I ... trust Luigi with my life. And ..." Quickly eyeing the uncomprehending Sicilian, she added in Judeo-Spanish, "I trust Salvatore with my life, as well."
Harry's unyielding stare shifted from his daughter to the olive-skinned man next to her. "I'll make this as clear as crystal," he growled in English, to which the latter neutrally returned his piercing gaze. "If her fever gets worse, at any point, you will call the emergency services. She is not bound to you or your ... family. ¿Me entendéish? If Luigi truly loves her, then he'll appreciate my position." Pivoting a little toward his daughter, he addressed her in their native tongue, "Miha, this is not a game; this is your life. And no job, no ... romance is worth dying for so senselessly." His fearful eyes connected to her identical, albeit tear-filled ones. "None at all." Taking one final opportunity to glare at Salvatore, he blinked to his wife that he had finished speaking.
"We will call each evening, Mister Rigassi. Though we would prefer to talk to Luigi or Daisy herself, we will, at this time, tolerate your presence," stated the older woman bluntly. The mafioso gave a single, curt nod in reply. "Now, leave us for a minute to speak with our daughter alone."
At his questioning look, Daisy breathed, "It's okay." Wordlessly, he rose to his feet and left the bathroom, closing the door behind him to provide the requested privacy between parents and child. He jammed his thumb along the rosary beads, reveling in the pain that the pressure had created. Outside the bedroom door, one of the cats – Sasha – had started to chatter and yowl, which provoked an imitation meow from Josh downstairs. Though he swore to keep the area quarantined, an upsurge of primal need overtook him, and he opened the door just a crack to let the Russian Empress inside. Yowls changing immediately to mips and mews, she rubbed her puffy brown cheek against his hand and led him to the bed upon which she jumped and claimed a spot on the corner. At the same time, the bathroom door opened, and Daisy emerged slowly, phone in hand, to her side of the mattress. Feeling abruptly and puzzlingly self-conscious, Salvatore took a seat in the adjacent chair. He watched her gawk into empty space, lost in some sort of serene contemplation after the confrontation with her parents.
Not knowing what to do or say, the former priest reached for his book, using the red ribbon to resume where he had left off when the young woman murmured, "I'm sorry for how they treated you. I ... I won't pretend to know ... what your life is like now. I also ... don't know the first thing about ... being ill."
Closing the book and setting it aside once more, Salvatore responded, "Sobrinha, your father's just protecting you. Honestly, I'd have thought much less of him if he hadn't acted the way he did." Though his lips hinted at a smile, it ceased to materialize. "And no one asks for something like this. When we're young, everything is possible; thus ..." Daisy observed the older man chew his lip and swallow prior to finishing his thought, "Thus ... we never count on the moment when we become, when we're faced with ... vulnerability."
"Do the old?" she asked while extending her hand to the cat who decided to slink closer to her for caresses and warmth.
He snorted, brown eyes twinkling mischievously. "I'm not old! Not yet!" She directed her perfected don't-bullshit-me look at him, to which he slid his chair so that his knee was touching the mattress's edge and grasped her hand in his, intertwining their fingers. "When you age, miha, you know nothing but vulnerability. You learn to live with it, maybe even embrace it. That's when you know that ... life's so damn hard."
She nodded absently, petting the Russian Empress who was settling atop her stomach so that it was easier for her right hand to scratch her colorpointed ears. As he spun around to locate the thermometer, he heard Daisy let out a wheeze and cough; Sasha's ears flattened and her blue eyes closed at the offense, yet she elongated herself to settle in for a nap. Unenthusiastically, Daisy opened her mouth so that he could measure her body temperature.
One hundred two point eight.
The scratching at the door roused the middle-aged man from his nap. Rubbing his eyes, Salvatore removed his hand from Daisy's to rise from his chair and let Sasha use the catbox and seek food from Josh or Miles downstairs. Shutting the door, he took a step toward the bed when the burner phone rang for the second time that day. Accepting the call, he grumbled, "Pronto. Si. Si. Cinque minuti." After the brief call had ended, the mafioso snatched his shaving kit and laptop and, retreating into the ensuite bathroom for the sixth or seventh time that day, proceeded to shave in record time without nicking himself, then logged onto his secret account and waited for the video call request. Once he received and opened the link, a portly New York Italian with salt and pepper hair, gold chains, gold watch, and a light blue polo shirt appeared on screen.
"Buonasera, Joey," greeted Salvatore respectfully.
"Buonasera," he answered while giving a 'close the door' gesture to someone off-screen. "I hear you needed a doc early this morning. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, for now. I got what I needed."
The Padrino nodded at his colleague's words. "Ice, too, I hear. Did the ragazza's fever come down any?"
Salvatore gave him a genuine smile. "Yeah, it did. Thank you."
Making a figurati gesture with his right hand, Joey-B spoke once more. "The shop's up and running, I hear. That's good – kid's gonna make us proud. We're gonna need it with our line to Italy getting shut down by those Washington cocksuckers. Fuckin' pricks gonna crash the economy. I've made a few calls to some friends in Virginia and Philly to help us out." He abruptly halted his tirade and let his brown eyes study the other mafioso's surroundings. "Sal ... Are you in a woman's john?"
With a perfectly straight face, the Sicilian shrugged a little. "Yeah. You know how it is; it's the only place where a man can get a little privacy."
A smile passed over the overweight man's normally stern façade, and he burst out laughing. "Fuckin' A, Sal! A former fucking priest talking to his fuckin' boss from a ragazza's Throne Room! That's why I like you – proper Sicilian coglioni!" Concluding his laughter, he went on, "Ah, fuck, anyway, I've got a few ideas on how to recover some of our losses. Truth be told, this is gonna be a fucking nightmare year, with everyone cancelling every fucking thing 'cause some muso giallo sneezed on some dumb Millennial Amerigun's prick in Beijing." Sal nodded, ignoring the ethnic slurs characteristic of American and Italian mafiosi. "Our friends in Los Angeles and Vegas are getting fucked in the ass like we are. The government's closing the casinos and the skin flick industry. Those bleeding-heart liberal cocksuckers are gonna shut everything down! Stupid fucks. Anyway, we'll talk business soon enough. But not tonight."
Frowning, the Administrator managed an inquisitive, albeit low-key, "Oh?"
Joey-B shook his head. "Nah. Vickie and I are taking the kids and going down to West Palm Beach. We're getting the fuck outta New York. Personally, I think this Chinese syphilis or whatever the fuck they call it is FBI-CIA-Cuomo manufactured bullshit. However, my wife doesn't want to chance it. I haven't gotten my prick wet from Cuban pussy in a while, so why not? Vickie takes our daughters to the Esplanade; I get some action. Fat Tony's coming along. You're welcome to join us; frankly, your Sicilian ass is getting pasty from cold-as-fuck Brooklyn. Sunshine, good seafood, and a good lay for every night that you're here."
Salvatore forced a grin to avoid insulting his boss's invitation. "Joey, thank you; that's very thoughtful, but ..."
"It's Luigi and the ragazza," finished the Padrino with a nod. "And her family ain't in New York?"
"No, they're in California."
"Fuck," he swore irritably. "Those motherfuckin' Jews – you'd think with all the money and connections they got, they could get their greedy asses on a plane to JFK! Or shit, they gotta have second, third fuckin' cousins in Crown Heights – they all fuckin' do." Making the figurati once more, Joey acquiesced, "Aight. I'll take a raincheck this time. But I'll make sure Leo and Markie are on standby for anything that youse need."
"I appreciate the offer ..."
"Nah," he interrupted, raising a finger, "I insist, Sal. Besides, tomorrow's an important day. It's your sessantesimo. Expect a few ... regali." Snickering, he appended, "I thought about buying you one of Markie's Kiev girls for the night, just to keep your priestly dick from falling off. However, I wouldn't want to scandalize your nephew or the bambino. I hear Mario's still AWOL."
"Yeah, he's being detailed by government assclowns in New Orleans," replied the Administrator.
The Padrino shrugged. "That's what he gets for willingly sucking alphabet cock like a fuckin' little fenucca." At Salvatore's unreadable expression, he quickly enjoined, "No offense, huh? The crazy Abruzzese motherfucker saved our asses a couple years back. I ain't forgotten it, but ... it was a dumb fuckin' move to go work for the Feds. They're lowlife pieces of shit." After his subordinate nodded his agreement, he continued, "Anyway, for your compleanno, I got you a little something."
"Grazie."
He waived off the man's thanks. "Prego. You've been a good guy. Loyal. Kept shit running smoothly. I honestly didn't think you would be, but Carlo ... I'll admit that he had one or two good fuckin' ideas at the end of his life. Just remember that." Wiping his nose with his fingers, Joey concluded, "That's it. I'll call you sometime in the next week." Before ending the call, the Padrino threw him a lascivious grin and whispered conspiratorially, "I've heard that the ragazza is a fine piece of ass. You know, she ain't off limits yet."
After he had logged off and closed the laptop, Salvatore wrinkled his nose in disgust and muttered underneath his breath that he was in dire need of a cigarette. Exiting the ensuite, he noticed with some alarm that a sleepy Daisy was sitting up in bed. As he was about to scold her, she began to wheeze and force out several dry coughs in a row. Immediately striding over to the bed, he was halted in place by a hand to indicate that she was handling it with a tissue. With a sigh of aversion, Sal waited until she had regained her breath. "It's okay," she rasped. "Besides, you haven't had time to yourself. I, uh, see you shaved."
Touching his face briefly, he replied, "Yeah, I got a quick one in. Don't worry about it."
A knock sounded at the bedroom door, followed by Luigi's fatigued voice, "Daisy, Sal? Are you awake?"
"Yeah, niputi, we're up," he called out.
"I have some vegetable pho here. One of our favorite Vietnamese places is still open, so I thought ..."
The woman's eyes lit up at the mention of pho. "Uh, yeah, I think Daisy could use the fluids. Just drop it outside the door; I'll bring it in," spoke his uncle.
They both heard a groan of disappointment and the rustling of a paper bag. Salvatore unlocked and opened the door just enough so he could bring in the meal. He briefly saw Luigi a few feet away, his haggard stare piercing him. Paper bag in hand, he closed it and distributed the contents: two cups of vegetable pho, her favorite mint tea, and a couple of spring rolls. Assured that his ward was eating unhurriedly, yet properly, the Sicilian dialed his maternal nephew's number for a Facetime call. When the plumber's worried face appeared within seconds, he simply announced, "A tavola." A bright grin spread across the former's face, and he descended the stairs to Josh and Miles, arranging his phone so that everyone could see and talk to the tired man and woman on screen.
A firm, hammer-like rat-a-tat woke the irritable Luigi, who muttered several Italian curses as to who in the fuck would be pounding on their door at, he checked his nearly drained iPhone, seven in the morning on a Sunday? Unlocking and unlatching the front doors, he found a large cardboard box, roughly two feet long, wide, and high, containing multiple, smaller packages expertly wrapped in gold paisley, silver and black, and blue and yellow paper. Dragging it inside and locking up as quietly as was possible, he inspected the items. Nothing was labeled; the intended recipient was somehow assumed. At the bottom of the box sat a family-sized cassata siciliana, topped with bright green marzipan and an assortment of red, orange, and yellow candied fruit. Luigi recognized the pastry as having originated from one of the best Italian bakeries in Bensonhurst. His eyes then widened in both shock and embarrassment. March 15. Uncle Sal's birthday. His sixtieth birthday. Letting out a loud fuck, causing the poor blond engineer to fly out of his sleeping bag, he ran into the kitchen, where Sasha and Fyodor watched him open and shut three cupboards in addition to the refrigerator.
A sleepy Miles walked in behind him, mumbling, "What's wrong, Lou? And what's the box for?"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, fuck!" the plumber chanted as he attempted to formulate some half-assed plan for his elder's birthday. When his friend repeated his name and the question, he snapped, "It's Sal's birthday today. His sixtieth birthday. And I completely forgot!"
Rubbing his eyes, the shorter man replied, "That's ... unfortunate. However, you've been understandably distracted. I would think that he'd ..."
Frustratedly, Luigi spun to face him. "The fucking Cosa Nostra remembered, Miles! Joey-B and his goon squad of thugs and murderers remembered, hence the box of God-knows-what in the living room! Meanwhile, he's been takin' care of Daisy upstairs, and I got nothing for him! Mario isn't here, and ... Joe ..."
As Miles attempted to soothe his friend and propose a solution in vain, upstairs on the master bedroom floor, the rumbling Sicilian rolled over onto his side so that he was facing the lower edge of the bed. Blinking awake, he was about to arrange himself on his knees to recite his routine morning prayer when he heard several rattles of insufficient respiration. Rising to his feet instead to investigate, his brown eyes rounded in panic at the sight of the woman's bluish lips. Within seconds, he launched onto the mattress and pulled her body to a sitting position. Now also awake, Daisy continued to gasp for air, vaguely aware of Salvatore's right ear against her chest to listen for pulmonary congestion. She then forced a hacking cough, though it produced no sputum.
"Can you breathe, miha?" he whispered desperately.
She nodded after several puffs of air. The few seconds of sitting upright reduced the labial tinge from blue to purple. Placing his hands on each cheek to support her head, his eyes traced a path to both his iPhone and burner phone. Daisy watched him stare at the devices for more than minute before he laid his forehead upon hers.
"What ... What should I do?"
Her amber spheres connected with the glassy brown of the frightened, semi-dressed middle-aged man who, up to that point, had projected the self-assured Palermitano paterfamilias expected by the Cosa Nostra.
He was asking her permission to call the paramedics.
Each deep breath yielded more oxygen, and she felt her racing heartbeat brake and constricted lungs relax. "Need ... inhaler. I ... had one when I was a child. I stopped ... using it when I was ... ten."
Giving her a single nod that he had understood, Salvatore gently rose from the bed to grab his burner phone. "Si," he said after pressing a single key, "tell him I need an order. Inhaler. Plus whatever else he thinks useful." Returning to the bed, he murmured to her inquisitive gaze, "It's coming. The doctor's licensed, so it'll be safe, legal. And he will not cross me."
"Salvatore, please, you s-smoke, you've ..."
The mafioso shook his head, stroking a few strands of her auburn hair. "Miha, today's my sixtieth birthday. I've seen and done more than some who've reached their eighties. But you haven't. I won't leave you alone to this thing. And I won't leave ... Luigi to suffer. Not again."
"Luigi ... suffers if we're both ill."
"Then as I said before, we've got no choice but to both make it out of these four walls, vale?" Enfolding her stunned, wheezing form, he added in a raspy voice, "I don't care what the Masciarellis say or do, Daisy. The miserly bastards have always undervalued God's gifts. And they got lucky twice. My sister ... and you." From over his shoulder, Daisy's lip trembled, yet she remained quiet. "You beat Bowser's sorry ass, stood up to my ... famiglia when very few street guys would have the ..." he laughed briefly prior to resuming his thoughts, "coglioni to do just that. Not to mention dealing with Mario and Joe at the same time, for years." The man pulled back to look at her evenly. "So you cannot let some damned virus win; it's so much less in comparison. This family needs you. Luigi ... needs you."
He swallowed while she allowed a few tears to fall. "Luigi's ... never seen me like this. And he's already lost so much. Am I ... Am I going to ...?"
"And yet, he's still here," interrupted Salvatore with a small grin. "If I didn't force him out, he'd be right here, where I'm sitting now."
She chuckled at the memory of him unscrewing the bathroom door handle. "I'm glad that you kept him out. Last thing I need right now is ..." Unsure of how precisely to express the thought, she trailed off, and a series of coughs emanated from her lungs.
Bursting out in a hearty snigger, the former priest nodded. "The Masciarelli man cold." At her raised eyebrow, he giggled again. "Back in, uh, November of '80, I think? Joe caught some nasty bug. Gabby was home with Mario and was starting to have ... health problems. Luigi's father was fighting three-alarms in the Bronx. So he couldn't really go to her, and his parents ... Well, his father believed that a man should only miss work when he was two breaths from dying. So after his finished his shift, Joe came to me." Looking down at her blanket-covered lower half, Sal grinned, "And then, well, let's say that a sick Joe Masciarelli is hell on Earth. Not even Purgatory. The actual Inferno."
Although Daisy cackled and wheezed at his remembrance, she argued, "Luigi's not that bad. If anything, he's afraid of bothering me. While I've been working, he ... hides his own ... worries, or at least, tries to." Closing her eyes, she added quietly, "And I feel so guilty."
As his lips parted to respond, they heard the high-pitched jingle of his iPhone. Reclaiming it from the night table next to hers, a suddenly blank Salvatore read the caller ID. He bit his lip in what seemed to Daisy like anger and put it back, unanswered, in its original place. "Wrong number," he offered lightly, though a faint hitch in his voice betrayed the lie.
"Was that ... Giuseppe?" she inquired between gasps.
With a sigh, the Sicilian guided her against the pillows, propping her upright so that he could control her respiration and blood pressure. "It's nothing you need to worry about, miha."
The iPhone started to ring again, which the older man ignored, only to be prompted a third time. Murmuring to his niece to relax and that he would return, he took the device inside the bathroom and, shutting the door, punched the call back key. "Yeah, what do you want this time, Joe?" he barked.
There was a pause on the other end, to which Salvatore immediately frowned. Not even the Almighty, Peter, all of the Angels and Saints in Heaven, and even Satan could make Giuseppe Masciarelli shut up. "Salvatore, this is Lucia."
He froze in place, and his breathing became instantly shallow. "Lucia ... H-H-Has something happened to Joe?!" he stammered while his mind manufactured a horrifying scenario involving Joe, the virus, and the nearest hospital to Eltingville.
"No," she answered in a shaky tone. "No, Joe's fine. He's being his usual stubborn pain in the ass, but he's fine. We're fine. But ... we can't get ahold of Mario or Luigi. Joe spoke with Miles and ... Please tell me what's happening."
Salvatore closed his eyes and let his body drop to the floor. Despite the difficult relationship that he had always had with the spouse of the love of his life, he could not find it in him to conjure a white lie, no matter how much more kind it might have been. "How much do you want to know? I-I-I won't lie to you. But only if you want it."
"I've never shrunk from the truth. I think you know that," she responded in her characteristically matter-of-fact attitude.
Nodding, he ran an olive-colored hand through his dark hair. "Alright. Mario's stuck in New Orleans; he's quarantined because someone gave him the coronavirus." At her gasp, he held up a hand in the empty space and quickly added, "He's alright. He'll be there for another week maybe. I mean, he's sick, but he's not dangerously so."
"What about Josh? Daisy? Luigi? And Miles is there?"
"Josh's fine. And Luigi's ... being a good ragazzo. He's running the shop. Miles is getting him and the guys equip..."
"Why the fuck is he even working?!" an irate Lucia demanded, cutting off his explanation. "Do you have something to do with that?! Huh?! You and your fucking Mafia thug friends?!" Salvatore raised his finger to argue back when she yelled, "Don't even try it, you snake fuck! If he gets sick, I swear to God, Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and all the fucking saints that I will end you myself! Capisci?!"
He thought he heard a man's self-satisfied harumph in the background.
Rolling his eyes, the Sicilian silently cursed his lover for having sent the Vecchia to say what he daren't. "Yeah, I got it, Lucia! Shall I continue?" he snapped sarcastically.
"Oh, per favore," she retorted in kind.
Using his free hand and arm to hold it against his stomach in the me stai qui, he hissed, "And tell that juvenile Abruzzese asshole that if he's got something to say to me, he can do it himself!" Once the couple had quietened in anticipation, he inhaled to keep control of his temper and spoke in a normal tone, "Luigi's doing what he has to – for all of us. Miles is getting him the equipment that they all need to remain safe. And ... as for Daisy, she's doing her best."
"What does that mean?" asked Joe's wife flatly, albeit without malice.
Salvatore sighed deeply. "It means ... she also has the virus. And it has not been kind to her." While he allowed them to digest the information, he inwardly felt a hint of satisfaction at the Masciarellis' collectively mumbled Jesus Christ.
"They're saying that only the, uh, elderly or severely compromised die," interjected Giuseppe finally. "So, she'll be aight with a little rest and soup. As long as she's quarantined."
He sneered, pinching his fingers in the che vuoi. "Yeah, well, I don't call a one-hundred-four-degree fever 'alright,' Joe. But please, let's test the media's theory on Maria or one of your other daughters. 'Cause they're young, you know."
Once again, there was silence on the other line, and for a moment, the Sicilian wondered if he had pushed them too far in his desire to turn the tables. "Salvatore, is ... Luigi taking care of Daisy?" queried Lucia, having taken the phone from her husband. "Because if he is, then ..."
"No, she's quarantined from everyone else, even Luigi and Josh. She's being looked after." Glancing toward the door, he clarified, "Twenty-four-seven."
"Do her parents know?"
Sighing once more, he nodded. "Yeah, Lucia, they know. I wouldn't keep something like that from them." Disinclined to speak further, Salvatore rose to his feet and enjoined tonelessly prior to ending the call, "I have to go now. Luigi and Mario will call you back when they can. Ciao."
After he turned the ringer off, Salvatore departed the bathroom where a dozing Daisy lay inclined against the pillows. Indifferent to his current state of partial undress – black pajama bottoms and a gray tank top – he tossed the iPhone to the farthest corner of the mattress. Easing himself next to her and grabbing the burner phone from the table, clutching it in his hand like a talisman, he watched for every tremble and every shade of reddish pink of the young woman's face and mouth.