Author's notes: Hey there everyone! Apologies for the long delays in publishing the next chapter. Work, viruses, and hot weather all suck. Anyway, here it is, and a special thanks to those who played the game. As always, comments and likes are welcome.
Chapter 7: Sleep on the floor
Faint streams of light roused the auburn-haired woman from a dreamless sleep; her lungs had started to ache and burn due to reduced oxygen, and she let out several involuntary wheezes. A man grumbled next to her in Italian, though, after a moment, she realized that it was not Luigi's soft Abruzzese-lilted Italian, but a middle-aged man's Palermo dialect. Sitting up against the pillows, the latter ran a hand through his medium-length brunet hair, then regarded his niece with a questioning expression. Daisy attempted to inhale more deeply to increase her air, only to cough and gasp violently.
His dark brown eyes widening, Salvatore pulled her to a seated position and put his head to her lungs. "Easy, miha, easy," he encouraged while listening to the increased pulmonary congestion. When she failed to control the seizing, despite numerous deep breaths, the former priest snaked his arm underneath her legs and carried her inside the bathroom, slamming the door with his foot. Easing her onto the tile next to the glass shower stall, he turned on the hot water in the hope of building steam. He sank down next to her in his moistened black pajama bottoms. "The steam will help."
Between labored breaths, Daisy let out a few silent, frustrated tears. At her lover's uncle's concerned glance, she brushed at her eyes angrily, muttering, "I'm fine. It's just the condensation."
Inching toward her, Salvatore voiced, "It's alright. This isn't easy."
She let out a few joyless laughs intermingled with dry coughs. "Yeah. I can barely breathe, let alone work. My father just spent two hundred thousand on an education that I won't be able to use! And Luigi's ..."
"Basta!" he barked all of a sudden, halting her monologue. "Sobrinha, damn it, you're not dead! So stop this!" Soundlessly and in vain, the embarrassed woman faced forward to control herself, to which the older man enfolded her unreactive body into his. "It's my birthday. So you can't ... be like that." She remained silent, to which he questioned, "What has you so ... frightened? Your body's fighting it, so you'll recover."
To the Sicilian's visible shock, Daisy pushed him away, shifting with her knees to run out of the bathroom, yet he used his wiry strength to keep her in place, grousing at her in his native dialect to stop. The perplexed man froze as she let out a sound that resembled something between a moan and roar, followed by another round of wheezing. As she slammed her fist against the tile, his arms maintained a hold around her torso. Upon recognizing the futility of escape, Daisy relaxed a little; Salvatore moved his arms so that he could intertwine his thin fingers with hers. Nevertheless, she let more tears fall to create rain-like droplets on their pajama bottoms. Feeling the saltwater warm the dampened cotton, his chocolate brown eyes studied her gaze which was, at that moment, thousands of miles away from the Brooklyn ensuite.
"It's okay to be scared," he spoke again in a tone just above a whisper. "I, uh, well, it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience having dengue fever. Back when I lived in Asunción. I ... I couldn't get the vaccine until after I'd had it. High fever, worst migraine I'd ever experienced." He heard a sniffle and a dry cough in response. "I was left alone with a pitcher of lukewarm water, a bucket, and my rosary. Seven days."
"Why are you here?" she rasped crossly.
"I'm with my family," his even voice echoed.
"Josh and Luigi are your family. But why are you here?"
Sighing from a sense of either irritation or fatigue – Daisy was unsure of which – Salvatore tightened his embrace of her frail form. In spite of her attempt to bait him, he quietened, though remaining in place to guard against further tries at escape. Unable to enunciate what she was feeling, the woman let out another moan. While he continued to hold her and redirect his regard toward the bathtub, he said nothing to encourage or discourage her actions. For an unknown amount of time, neither stirred, having declared both a soundless détente and physical acceptance of one another's presence.
"I'm fine," she enjoined flatly. "I have myself under control."
"Col minchia," he stated in an equal tone.
An offended Daisy twisted in his grip to glare at him, only to find his nonjudgmental eyes meeting her burning amber orbs. Her anger dissipated as swiftly as it had arrived. Suddenly uncomfortable by his soft, yet multi-layered stare of chocolate, mahogany, and amber, she began to observe his tattooed arms. As a Brazilian who had lived for a short time in São Paulo, she recognized the design of the Paraguayan Ñandutí on his left bicep. On the inside of his right forearm was Greek lettering – τετελεσται – of which she did not know the meaning. She felt herself abruptly rise to her feet and watched a disembodied arm shut off the running shower. Then she saw him walk them both a bit away from the stall and puddles of water to a drier area next to the towel rack. Snatching an emerald-colored bath sheet, he brought their bodies to the tile and wrapped her in the Egyptian cotton to keep her warm. A coughing fit interrupted the taciturnity; Salvatore touched the green cloth to her lips.
"I'm sorry," rasped Daisy once she had regained control of her burning lungs, "I'm trying ... I'm ..."
"Daisy," he interjected, though not unkindly, "you have nothing to fear from me. Nothing." He sighed again, bringing her into his chest. "I was born into the life, miha. Every Rigassi male for generations. My hope ... is that Luigi and Mario can and have escaped my fate. That would have been their grandfather's hope, as well."
She shook her head. "That's not it, Salvatore. I know ... I have known ... some of your circumstances for ... years now." He looked down, puzzled, and waited for her to elaborate. She closed her eyes and took a couple shallow breaths to keep her lungs from seizing. "Luigi ... depends on me to be ... strong. I think that's what keeps him ... attracted to me. I lose that, and what do I really give him?"
The former priest gaped at her for several moments. "Is this really about Luigi or is it about you?" he questioned in a firm tone. When she did not answer, he continued, "He loves more than your strength. I may have been out of his life for longer than I had ever wanted, but I know my youngest nephew. I was his first teacher, his confidant." Adjusting her so that their eyes connected, he whispered, "Luigi ... is more Rigassi than either Mario or Joe would ever have willingly admitted. Yes, he's also Masciarelli, but when it comes to ... love, he's always been like me. And we ... don't ... love just anyone. I don't think you fully understand just how rare you are, Daisy Abravanel. Luigi could have gotten a mouthy, Brooklyn ragazza if that's what he really wanted. He could have followed his father's path. And no, I'm not talking about Lieutenant Mario Masciarelli." Although she stayed quiet, her eyes widened at the subtle meaning of Salvatore's words. He then shook his head. "He went after the road. You. Because he formed that connection with you, miha. I intentionally use the term, 'road,' not 'prize,' because ... road implies that he wants to go where you're going. He's not interested in some ... trivial finality where everyone lives happily ever after." Gulping back unexpected tears, Salvatore concluded, "Because it isn't real."
Daisy, who was crying openly, began to cough again, and the Sicilian uprighted her body to make respiration easier. "I'm sc-sc-scared. What if I can't ... be what I want?"
He frowned. "For Luigi, for your job ...?"
"All of it," she squeaked. "I ... don't know how a relationship is supposed to be. I had a relationship prior to Luigi. And while there's no comparison ..."
The middle-aged man nodded in comprehension. "You knew how to get out of a bad relationship, no doubt by your own intelligence and fortitude, but you don't know how yours with Luigi should go." She gave a slight nod. "And you followed the map that you had – your father' got married to a Jewish convert, divorced her, built a law practice, and married his current wife – a more ... acceptable candidate to his family. And during most of that, he was a single father. Well, speaking as a former Catholic priest, my response is that there is no map."
It was her turn to frown. "But don't you have to attend a special class before getting married? I think one of my high school friends ..."
"Yeah, miha, but it doesn't work," he cut in with a sly smile. "It's more of a half-hearted effort by the Church to make the prospective bride and groom figure out their individual baggage before entering marriage which is, for us, a sacrament. And you know the statistics as well as I do." Brushing a few strands of dark auburn from her cheeks, he went on, "There's no map ... except the one that you agree upon with your spouse. You're not your father, sobrinha, and I mean this with the utmost respect. I can't ... I don't know what will happen at your law firm. I can ... only pray that they'll do the right thing. But I can say this: if they choose to do the wrong thing, they will not only piss off the Almighty, but they'll also piss off His Daughter of Israel who, as I recall, has already made several stupid men pay dearly in her thirty-ish-year life." Through her drying tears, she gave him a wolfish grin, which he freely returned. "That's the strength Luigi loves – your essence. Not a pre-determined map."
"Probability," she mumbled, her eyes now fluttering against emergent fatigue.
Feeling her body go slack, Salvatore gently gathered her into his arms and, exiting the bathroom, carried her to the bed. Arranging her along the pillows at an angle to avoid breathing difficulties, he made a cocoon with the blankets to keep her comfortable and warm.
"Daisy? Zio?" called out Luigi from the other side of the bedroom door.
"Yeah, kid," he answered while moving the pillow to help her stay upright.
"H-H-How is she?" queried the younger Italian. "Is she ...?"
Sliding off the bed, Sal ambled to the door to talk with his nephew without disturbing his ward. "She's resting, niputi. I'll let you video-chat with her later. Did you receive a package of any sort?"
"Yeah, I did. A large box of, uh, birthday presents from, uh, your ... friends. Felice compleanno, Zio. Non mi sono dimenticato. I just ... I didn't have time ..."
Despite his simmering worry over his niece's health, the older man grinned. "Grazie, bambino mio. And I know you didn't, kid. We're, uh, not in a usual situation. I'm lucky – I'm spending my sixtieth with my nephew and great-nephew."
"Zio!" cried a young boy whose thumps across the hallway could be heard from the bedroom.
An adult groan and a buondi later, presumably to hoist the little Masciarelli into his arms, Luigi mumbled a few Italian words before continuing in English, "Mario will call. I know he will. But ... is there anything you want? I ... Miles and I could make pasta con le sarde. They sent a cassata for dessert."
Salvatore chuckled, still eyeing the half-asleep Daisy. "Does Miles even know how to boil water?"
Luigi returned his laughter. "Nah, but Nipotino and I'll teach him." His last words changed to address Josh, "È giusto?" A moment afterward, he added, "Josh agrees. I think he's tired and needs breakfast." Encouraging the little boy to join Miles downstairs, the plumber set him upon his feet and mumbled for him to go.
"Zia Daisy va di sotto a fare colazione?" asked Josh, hopeful that his favorite and only aunt would join them for breakfast.
The Sicilian heard his nephew sigh sadly. "No, nipote mio. Zia non si sente ancora bene. La vedremo a cena su FaceTime, okay?"
"Perché?" whined the youngest Masciarelli. "Perché non si sente meglio ?"
"Josh!" snapped Luigi, whose patience had diminished from worry over his fiancée's health, his brother's continued absence, and improvising his maternal uncle's sixtieth birthday. From the other side of the door, Salvatore winced at the child's tear-filled whimper and his nephew's apologetic sigh. "Nipote," began the plumber more gently, "mi dispiace di gridarti contro, okay? Io … Io sono preoccupato per tua zia. Come te, ho paura, nipote."
Moving back to the bed and his niece's sleeping form, Salvatore wiped at the increased condensation upon his brow and passively noted the sense of malaise that had settled into his upper body. He climbed into the open space next to his nephew's fiancée and arranged himself as comfortably as possible, in spite of the increased nicotine craving and the sensation of feeling overheated.
Mamuralia, he thought to himself as he watched the unconscious Daisy fight against the viral storm.
While Luigi prepared breakfast for the chattering felines and equally loquacious Josh, Miles retreated into his small corner of the living room for a little quiet time. Opening his computer and logging into his account tracking the number of cases throughout the tristate area as well as in China, where his brother was last seen. Expectedly, the Chinese government kept mum about the true number of cases in and outside of Wuhan, although there were rumors of looming, zero-tolerance lockdowns that would either kill the virus or Chinese citizens en masse. He shook his head in sadness and disgust. Next, he noted both the inevitable exponential growth of cases and various shortages throughout the United States.
A Skype ping from Yoshi distracted him from scanning the ProPublica's call-to-deaf-ears that the behavior of the novel coronavirus went beyond the flu. Activating the noise cancelling headphones that he had perfected six months prior in anticipation of the foreseeable phone call, he typed a hey. A moment later, he received the incoming video request; after accepting it, a tired-looking Yoshi, who was munching on a piece of youtiao, appeared on screen. "Yo," greeted the Japanese between bites, "how's the end of the world?"
Miles's thin lips turned upward ever so slightly at his best friend's usual smartass comments. "It's alright, I guess. Well, as alright as it can be with Luigi sent on the front lines, Mario still stuck in New Orleans, Peach somewhere in Venice, Daisy sick with the virus, and ... Salvatore, of all people, running the show."
Yoshi swallowed quickly to avoid choking on the fried bread. "What the fuck?!" he exclaimed. "What ... Woah, wait a sec. You told me that Luigi had this shit under control! The New York fuck's this about the fucking Mafia living with youse?!"
Looking quickly around him for eavesdroppers, Miles lowered his voice to reply, "Yeah, he does. But he didn't exactly ... plan for Salvatore to just join us. The guy's ... I don't know. I have no idea what he's up to. He even brought his cats."
"The fucker's got cats?" inquired the other man, whose words were somewhat muffled by his breakfast. Gulping the last of the youtiao, he took a sip of soy milk to clear his mouth. "Christ ... I knew Birdo and I should've gone up there last week! Have you noticed more, uh, cars outside?"
The blond frowned in confusion. "Cars?"
"Yeah, you know – unmarked vehicles. The, uh, three letters, dude. As a H-A-C-K-E-R, I would've thought you'd have known that!"
His brown eyes widened and, immediately rising to his feet, he went to the edge of the window to glance outside to the street.
No SUVs or unmarked cars, save for Salvatore's black monstrosity.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he sat down and glared at his laughing and snorting friend. "That's ... not funny, Yoshi!"
"Ah, shit ... Yeah, it is. Plus, given how fucked this whole thing is, I need serious entertainment. NYU wants us to finish out the semester online. Aight – it's doable ... except we got a couple hundred depressed or scared lowerclassmen who are, understandably, more worried about their grandmas or kid sisters than they are about Faraday's Law. And my dickhead chair's certain that they're all gonna cheat on the final, so he's pissing away our remaining budget on scammy exam proctoring software!"
Miles shrugged. "I don't know, Yosh, I think I'd have been in heaven. I wouldn't have had to leave Chelsea to deal with Brahmins and Massholes."
"Yeah, but your need for socialization is ... well ... not exactly the same as the average, keg-chugging freshman."
He shrugged again to conceded Yoshi's point. "True." Watching the physicist gulp more of the soy milk like a bitter pharmakon, the blond queried softly, "You got any cases in your class?"
It was Yoshi's turn to shrug. "Probably. I ... Well, several of us got the inkling that this shit was here much earlier than the beginning of March. We just thought that it was a really bad 'flu year,' you know? Like, half of my Phys II class was out sick in February – coughing this, stomach shit that. According to some of my buddies from grad school, it was the same thing in California, Colorado, and Mass. Fuck, who knows?" His nearly black eyes connected with his friend's lighter shade of brown. "How's Daisy? And no bullshit, Miles."
Miles chewed his lip, then answered, "Not great, Yosh. Yesterday morning ... She was running a fever of one hundred four." He observed Yoshi's eyes enlarge in shock and fear. "Salvatore ... used his, uh, connections to bring in enough ice to cool her body down. He's taking care of her; I don't know precisely why. Luigi's ... doing the best he can."
"Why the hell didn't youse take her to a hospital?!" demanded the Japanese. "I'm sure with the law firm's insurance, she could afford Lenox Hill!"
"We tried, man!" retorted the blond, his voice raising a little. "The fucking hotline was seven hours long!" Looking around briefly, he added, "And I think ... Salvatore got help."
Yoshi glanced away, crossing his arms in dismay. "Jesus ... Well, maybe in this case, Uncle Sal being a you-know-what may have been a good thing." He shook his head, murmuring, "Giuseppe's probably shitting a brick. Nah, he's shitting several lines of pipe." Several moments of silence passed between them, after which he rasped, "What about Mario? And Sonic?"
"Mario's still stuck in Louisiana; he's got the virus, though I don't think to the same degree as Daisy. He's under quarantine, probably for another ten days or so. And as for Sonic ..." His voice broke upon speaking his elder brother's nickname, "I don't know."
The other man mouthed a fuck, nodding. "We're stuck here, but Birdo and I will get our asses right there if need be. You hear me, man? I don't give a fuck about any quarantine."
"Yoshi, you should!" bit out the blond. "We – Luigi, Salvatore, and I – will eventually get it. Daisy's got it. It's math."
"Screw the math!" he yelled. "I'm not losing my oldest friends to some goddamned bug!"
At this point, Birdo entered the camera frame to calm her husband. Though he tried to waive her off, mumbling that he was in control, she took a seat next to him. "Miles," she started, "is there anything we can do? While I ... I don't think it's wise right now for us to travel to Luigi's house, there has to be something ..."
He sighed, steepling his hands. "Cathie, I'm not sure there's anything. I'm serious – stay home. The little that I have seen of this thing ... It's not like the flu that we know. Daisy was running a fever of one hundred four degrees. She's healthy. And it's a matter of time before Salvatore, Luigi, or ... I ... present symptoms. Salvatore ... is a chain smoker. I'm hoping that it doesn't affect little Josh."
She put her hand upon the now fidgeting and grumbling Yoshi. "We understand."
"Yosh ... Cathie ... Luigi would probably kill me for asking this without his knowledge, but ... if something happens to us, would you ... take Josh until Mario returns? I-I-It's a risk. He could carry the virus. However, I don't think we'd have a choice."
"Absolutely," she replied without hesitation. Her husband, whose body remained taut with fury and distress, provided a curt nod.
One hundred point five.
Hissing a few Sicilian invectives underneath his breath, Salvatore sterilized the thermometer with the hottest water that he could draw from the bathroom faucet and returned to the conscious, auburn-haired woman in the bed. While her body temperature had decreased to just under one hundred one degrees, his was slowly increasing. He flashed her a faint smile to her inquisitorial gaze and quietly eased himself onto his back next to her.
"You're sick, too," she stated, watching his yellowed fingers trembling for the ever-present cigarette. The middle-aged man wiped the thin layer of sweat at his temples in response. "You need to tell Luigi," she enjoined a moment later.
Turning his body ninety degrees to face her, he responded, "Sobrinha, Luigi knowing now won't help any of us. I'm running a small fever. I've been through worse." His solemnity straightaway shifted into impishness. "I haven't had a cigarette in a while – you should be more worried about that!"
Daisy glared at him meaningfully. "Salvatore, I'm ... serious."
"So am I, miha."
Crossing her arms, she snarled a goddamnit in exasperation at the Sicilian's cavalier attitude.
The playful grin forced across his visage, he retorted, "Taking the Almighty's name in vain won't change the situation, miha. It was my choice to be here. I knew the risks." Reaching out with a long right arm to take her hand and shifting his facial expression to a solemn gaze, he added, "Tu, Luigi, Mario, Cristina, Josh, anche quel cretino di merda Giuseppe siete il mondo per me. E questo non cambierà mai. Mai nella mia vita, bambina."
Although she did not move her hand, she scrutinized his extraordinarily clear brown orbs. "Ironic," she breathed after a moment. "You're ... searching for a family. F-Famiglia."
Inching toward her, he sat up so that he was roughly at the same eye level as his nephew's fiancée. "I have a family."
"Then why did you join them?" she asked in almost a whisper.
He turned away from her, chewing on his lip and his eyes conveying a multitude of unidentified emotions. Yet his hand remained interwoven with hers.
As Daisy waited for his response, they both heard insistent scratching against the other side of the bedroom door. Squeezing her hand briefly, Salvatore broke contact and left the mattress to let the cat inside. To their surprise, both cats hurriedly entered the room; the Empress ran in front of her brother, who voiced his objections with successive meows, and hopped on the bed to choose a spot near the auburn-haired woman and the scent of her human. Fyodor followed his sister, who narrowed her eyes at him as the latter waited at the edge of the mattress. Shutting the door, the Sicilian returned to the bed and tapped his stomach gently to summon the lynx-point.
"If you weren't here, what ... what would you have done for your birthday?"
Scratching the top of the now content Fyodor's head, Salvatore fixated blankly at the wall in front of them. "I don't know. Usually ... when I was in the priesthood, one of the priests or a couple of the nuns would take me out for a slice of tiramisu. I, uh, appreciated the gesture, but truth be told, I'm not a huge fan of tiramisu. In my current profession, the guys make a big to-do about it, just to show Joey-B how well they can kiss ass. In all honesty, I've ..." He sighed, glancing at the attentive woman. "I've come to hate my birthday."
Daisy watched him with a mixture of compassion and sadness. "That's too bad. No one should hate their birthday." When he did not respond except to continue absently petting Fyodor, she queried, "What's your favorite, if not tiramisu?"
The Sicilian's now twinkling brown eyes shifted to gaze at her and Sasha, who was arranging herself for a bath. "It's not very Italian, but ..." He let out a mirthless chuckle, "then again, I've spent more of my life in New York than in Sicily. Red velvet cake. And not with that crap that the South thinks is frosting. I was in Atlanta a year and a half ago; Joey-B and I had lunch at this very nice restaurant that claimed to have the 'best' red velvet cake in America." The man scoffed at the memory of taking a bite of the confection. "Not even close."
"Where's the 'real thing?' I ... didn't grow up with that. At home, sweets were brigadeiros, ma'amoul, halva, and baklava."
"Oh, that's easy, miha," he declared. "Well, two places. Waldorf-Astoria back in the day and the Carlyle Hotel. The latter ... Best cake that I'd ever had – perfect cream cheese frosting." At her confused look, he chuckled again. "You might know the Waldorf; the Carlyle was a little before your time. It was like the Four Seasons or the Peninsula back in the '70s and '80s. This was in '81. My twenty-first birthday. I got one of the suites for a weekend. It was actually pleasant weather for mid-March. But back then, Central Park and Manhattan weren't very safe, so I really couldn't just go for a stroll."
"So I've heard," she said with a nod. "My father ... told me stories about how ... dangerous the East Coast was. After he received ... his degree from Harvard, he left Boston for California. My ... grandparents left for ... Israel when they could. Why then did you ...?"
"Why did I choose Manhattan?" finished Salvatore, a hint of a conspiratorial grin accenting his tired, middle-aged face. "Two reasons. First, I could be called to ... work at a moment's notice, so I couldn't just take off to the Hamptons for a weekend. Second ..." Suddenly, he hesitated, dragging his eyes to the attentive amber orbs. Swallowing, he then rasped, "Joe ... His father only allowed Sundays off, which meant that he had to be back to Brooklyn by Monday. He, uh, switched shifts with one of the journeymen so that he could spend the weekend with me." Opening his left hand to reveal a decades-old scar across his palm, he went on, flashing a grin, "I got Joe in a suit. I couldn't believe it. He had that brutto denim suit that his mother made for him in high school. I wouldn't let him wear that ratty thing in such a nice place. His legs were longer, so he used the one set of black velvet pants that he owned and borrowed one of my jackets. The sleeves were a little short, but he looked like a yuppie fresh out of Columbia or Princeton. No one would've thought we were a couple of ragazzi from Bensonhurst."
Daisy matched his grin. "Yeah, Giuseppe doesn't really wear suits. The only time he does is if it's ... formal."
Without looking at her, he nodded. "He and his brother were a lot like their father. Mario – Luigi and Mario's nonno – never wore a suit. Ziu Carlo called him the 'Bum of Bensonhurst.'"
"You knew their father? I thought the Masciarellis never really spoke to the Rigassis."
The Sicilian nodded once more. "Both are true. Mamma and Gabby stayed clear of Mario's parents who never willingly spoke a single word to us. Me?" He gave her the familiar mischievous glint. "I used to walk through his store, just to piss him off. I even brought Cousin Petey once; he threw us out after I, uh, 'asked for the supervisor' and told him that his plumbing equipment was overpriced and flimsy compared to Gritti's in Flatbush."
Her amber eyes widened. "Fighting words."
Salvatore let out a laugh and wiped at his forehead, which she noticed had become increasingly damp. "I could be a real bastard as a kid. Even Mario and Mariella – Luigi's father and aunt – called me 'frigging saputello.' When I was in high school, I got thrown out of class several times for mouthing off. Being a smartass comes with teenage boys, I think."
"What about their mother? I only knew her as an old woman. And she didn't seem as ... stern," she replied.
"Oh, she was," he disputed while scratching the cat's chin, which he encouraged by leaning into his hand and letting out a soft purr. "I think, though, she wanted Mario, Joe, and Mariella to grow beyond plumbing and their father." Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the pillows, and Fyodor stretched atop his chest and sternum to follow his owner into a siesta. Daisy watched as he mumbled a few incomprehensible syllables prior to slipping into a feverish slumber.
When Sicilian and cats were still, she quietly left the bed and, snatching her phone from its charger, entered the ensuite to use the toilet and shower. Fishing through a hundred missed and forwarded emails and voicemails, she discovered an official letter of disciplinary action from Human Resources at Lander and Bardeau for "unauthorized absences" as well as a demand for a virtual meeting the following morning at nine o'clock sharp. Stunned and angered, the lawyer tossed off her days-old clothing into a pile and let out a litany of Hebrew cuss words at one David Nemirovsky. Letting the warm spray of the shower clean her body, Daisy slammed her hand against the thick glass, which triggered a barrage of coughs that she stifled with her other hand to avoid disturbing Salvatore and the Neva Masquerades. Quieting both the active virus in her lungs and the emotional reaction at that fucking bullshit email, she proceeded to consider her options while rubbing shampoo into her auburn hair. Unfortunately, she had neither official vitals nor a doctor's examination to prove that she had the coronavirus, even though the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming. Additionally, the very presence of one Salvatore Rigassi would invite questions that she and Luigi would prefer not to be asked. Making sure to scrub and rinse herself well, she flipped the handle in a half-turn to end the spray, and she exited the stall into cool air, grabbing a fluffy navy-blue towel to dry and warm her body. To keep generating heat from activity, she brushed her teeth and mouth with her electric toothbrush, discarding the contaminated brush head a minute or two later.
Wrapping her hair into a second, smaller towel, she pressed "1" on her iPhone for Luigi. "Kerido, are you okay?" cried the frightened man who had immediately answered.
"I'm okay, sweetie," she rasped, though her voice was audibly hoarse from her earlier coughs. "Better."
"Dio ..." he moaned. She then heard a little boy's voice in the background, followed by Luigi's gentler directive to lower it. "Sorry," he apologized a moment afterward, "Josh's being ... a normally energetic little boy. I'm ... I'm so glad I can speak to you. I was ... I am scared."
"I know," she acknowledged. "I feel ... tired and still sick, but ... I'm not ... like I was."
"Daisy, don't underestimate this thing. You were running a fever of a hundred and four for almost two days. And I can hear it in your voice. You need rest," warned the plumber softly, yet firmly. "Please? For me?"
Through fresh tears, she nodded and allowed her body to sink to the cooler tile. "I'm trying, Luigi. I ... I got a letter from Lander and Bardeau. A disciplinary letter. Th-th-they want to meet with me tomorrow morning at nine. I think they're going to fire me."
"What?!" he yelled, causing her to recoil from the irate sound waves hitting her eardrum. "That's fucking bullshit! They can't do that! And besides, you texted or emailed that fucking prick a couple days ago! Couldn't the motherfucker take a hint?!"
"Actually, they can," she sniffled. "While I did inform my supervisor, it is left to his and their discretion whether to accept it. I did have sick time accrued, and the eleventh through the thirteenth should have been noted as sick time. That said, all unplanned absences past three days must be justified by documentation."
"Then why the fuck did they write that letter, sweetie?" demanded Luigi. "New York's at will; I know that. They can fire you for wearing the wrong color shirt. However, this seems a little too convenient, especially when you haven't taken PTO or sick time ... at all!"
"I know," she gasped while wiping her cheeks with her free hand. "As I see it, I have two choices: be ready to work or ... accept termination."
"You're not in any condition to work!" Before she could try to convince him that maybe she was feeling better, and it wouldn't be so bad now, he barked, "Where's Uncle Sal? Where's his fucking doctor? If he brought him into this, then it's only right that he can get documentation and send it to that prick. Because I, as your fiancé and next-of-fucking-kin, forbid you to even think about working."
Now irritated at her lover's alpha male grandstanding, Daisy raised an eyebrow and retorted, "'Forbid'? I'm your fiancée, not your child!"
"Goddamnit, Daisy!" he hissed, matching her annoyance in volume and tone. "Yeah, I said 'forbid'! Not because of some chauvinistic code, but because I care! This shit is killing people! The Mayor's announced, I think, two deaths, though there are over a hundred confirmed cases. Twenty people are on fucking ventilators. And ... that's what they're admitting to in the news. My guys ... they're seeing ... really fucked up shit. I can tell you that it's spreading much faster than what we're being told. I'm OSHA and HazMat certified, and I couldn't even tell you or the guys what this shit does or how to handle it. But one thing's for sure: if it's spreading this fast and did a number on you, a beautiful, healthy woman in her twenties and thirties, then it's gonna kill a lot of people."
The woman, who had pulled her knees to her chest as her lover spoke, sat in stupefied silence. Luigi also remained quiet, allowing her to process his words. "What ... What did you see, kerido?"
He sighed. "I ... haven't seen anything. But one of the journeymen who didn't quit on the spot ... He went to a house in Elmhurst. Apparently, it was a multigenerational family – grandparents, single mom, kids ... The grandmother was blue in the face when he got there. Her husband was elderly – I think he may have had dementia. The mom had gone to work, leaving the little kids with 'em. He tried to call the paramedics, but, uh, the old woman just struggled for every last breath. The sound of death."
"Shit!" she cried, covering her mouth.
"When the paramedics finally got there, they just ... took the body. Said she died of pneumonia. I guess they tried to get in contact with the mother, but ... nothing. Neither my journeyman nor I know what happened after that. I guess ... at least, she didn't die alone. But how many will?" Daisy said nothing, too stunned to reply cogently, to which Luigi gave a heavy exhale. "Anyway, that's why you need to take this seriously. I would much rather support you than to watch you lose your health over a job whose bigshot 'leadership' doesn't value its employees."
"Kerido ... you supported me through law school and then when it took months before I got my first real job! I can't do that to you again!" she wheezed, bending over from the force and pain in her chest.
"Sweetie, you're not dogging it! Do you think that two hundred grand is going to be worth it when you're on a ventilator?! Do you ..." Her face fell upon hearing the hitch in her plumber's voice that signaled his impending loss of emotional control. "Do you think that ... I'll be happy with any insurance money from your ..." Following several breaths, he forced the rest of his thought, "Death? Because I won't, Daisy. No amount of money would ever be able to replace you in my life. You are worth more to me than anything in the entire world. Do you understand me? Per favore – non spezzarmi il cuore. Trust that I will do anything to make sure you recover. That's what a husband, a man, does. And if the role were reversed ... you'd do the same. In fact, you already have. Now let me do that for you."
The lawyer sniffled and wiped grateful, albeit angry tears from her eyes. "What about you? You're ... exposed every day. How's that better than me?"
"I know," he deadpanned. "And I don't like it, either. But ... if it means ... keeping you safe, then that's what I'll do." Hearing her mouth open, he interjected, "I won't accept anything less. We'll get through this. You and me."
Much to Luigi's surprise and her embarrassment, Daisy began to sob audibly. "I ... I love you. I'm sorry ... I want to be strong ... I'm better than this!"
Before he could calm her, they both heard a knock and a loud man's voice from the other side of the door. "Miha, are you alright?"
Breathing heavily, the mortified woman focused her attention on regaining her emotional control, provoking a pale, fearful Salvatore into pushing the door open. His eyes zeroing in on her curled position on the floor, he took three five large steps to cross the tile and crouch in front of her.
"Zio, I got this, really," insisted his maternal nephew from the phone speaker.
Ignoring him, he used the remnant of his physical strength to scoop up the distressed woman from the floor and haul her back to the bed. As he growled in Sicilian at both his kin and the situation, several rapid thumps echoed against the staircase, and a masked Luigi barreled inside. "Niputi, fuori di qui!" he yelled.
"These masks arrived early this morning, thanks to Miles," the plumber argued in English, gesturing to his face. Then his blue eyes examined his uncle, whose skin was two shades lighter than his normal southern Italian olive, and Daisy, who was still visibly ill, albeit with a hint of normal pink in her cheeks. "What's your temperature, Zio?"
"I don't ..." began Salvatore, but censored himself when Luigi applied a pair of medical-grade rubber gloves and moved toward the night table for the thermometer.
Retrieving the device, he shoved it at the other man. "Take it. Now."
He glanced at Daisy who begged him to obey with her whiskey-colored orbs. Slowly taking it from his nephew's gloved fingers, he slipped it past his lips like a cigarette. The familiar beep came a minute later, and Luigi snatched it from the man's mouth to read the number.
One hundred one degrees.
"You've got it, Zio. The virus."
The Sicilian did not reply; ambling to the empty part of the bed next to his nephew's fiancée, he eased himself into it, giving a few strokes of the waiting Sasha, who had readjusted her sleeping spot closer to his warmth.
As they all heard the excited chortling of a four-year-old's imminent arrival, the tall man immediately closed the door. All three adults inhaled in alarm at Miles's ranted pleas to the tantruming child, who screamed in Italian that it wasn't fair that Zio Weegie couldn't bring Zia or Zio out!
Glaring at his nephew, the older Italian bolted from the bed toward the door. "Josh," he spoke softly in their native language, "Zio's very sorry. So is Zia. You did nothing wrong. We are doing this to protect you, bambino. We are ... sick. And it's dangerous. You know how your Mamma keeps you away from the stove or really hot things?" Though he was still sobbing, Josh's wails were now intermixed with sniffles. "Well, niputinu, it's the same. We don't want you to be so sick without your Mamma or Babbo. We will come out soon. And ... you'll get cake later. How's that?"
"Cake?" the little boy managed.
"Yeah. It's my birthday. So we get cake after dinner."
Sniffling, he rasped, "Okay. But ... where are Mamma and Babbo?"
Salvatore sighed against the shivers of his rapidly chilling frame. "Ah, bambino, your Mamma's ... in Venezia. She's trying to come home soon. And your Babbo's ... in New Orleans."
"When is soon, Zio? You and Zio Weegie keep saying 'soon!'"
His brown eyes connected uncertainly with Luigi's irritated Masciarelli blue orbs. "I ... I hope in a few days for your Babbo."
"He's sick, too, isn't he?"
The adults regarded each other in horror and amazement at the boy's correct conclusion. Soundlessly beseeching the others as to how to answer Josh's question-statement, they heard Miles approach the door. "I'm, uh, starting to recognize certain words in Italian," he said in a soft tone, "and it seems like I can understand Salvatore whenever he speaks. So, uh, I'm going to hazard a guess based on my perceived comprehension. Yeah, Josh, your father's sick. But he is getting better. And he will be here."
Disregarding the engineer's words for the moment, Josh continued in Italian, "Mamma always says Babbo's not careful."
Luigi's eyes sparkled while Daisy let out a simultaneous wheeze and a laugh. "It's true," affirmed the Sicilian with a chuckle. "Even when your father was a bambino, he used to drive his mother crazy. And your Nonno Mario was the same way."
Miles watched Josh nod a little, after which the latter turned to face him and uttered in perfect New York English, "Let's play Kart."
Following a stern phone call from her parents, whose worry over her health was intertwined with their anger at Mister Cannoli for inviting that bandito into their brownstone, as well as confirming with Human Resources her 'participation' in the next morning's meeting, Daisy attempted to relax on the bed next to an unconscious Salvatore and two balled-up cats next to or on him. She managed to shoo a reluctant Luigi out of the bedroom, both to limit his exposure and to give her time to think. As the infected man had done with her, she wet two washcloths with cold water and applied them atop his forehead and behind his neck. Sipping some water to regain lost fluids, Daisy did not know whether to scream in fury or cry in powerlessness.
With the loss of my income – our primary source of income – how can we get married now?
Attempting to hold back fresh tears, she also feared her father's inevitable disappointment. Couldn't she have fought harder? Maybe she should have insisted that they contact a real doctor. Maybe he or she could have reduced her fever faster and returned her to work.
At the sound of masculine groans, she timidly approached his slumbering body. Aside from his tattoos, she noticed two gold chains around his neck – a saint's medallion similar to Luigi's and a simple crucifix. Next, her eyes scanned the unscarred skin of his upper body, which his undershirt had made visible; given his past and potential current status as a Mafia hitman and administrator, the fact that he had been able to avoid serious injury shocked her. Was it shrewdness or mere luck?
Dark brown suddenly met amber, and a hand wrapped itself around her wrist; the free fingers of the Sicilian's hand touched the cool cloth across his head. "Bambina, it's not your job to care for an old man," he murmured lightly, relaxing his grip. "You need to rest."
"I had some things to take care of. It's fine," she answered as neutrally as possible.
Salvatore's gaze bore into her. "Gabby did the same thing." When she frowned in puzzlement, he elaborated, "My mother, too. In my culture, miha, women don't ... 'bother' the men. They keep the home, mind the kids. They learn ... not to ask questions, not to make a fuss." Swallowing the lump that had begun to build in his throat, his voice cracked, "I wish ... she would've ... bothered me."
Daisy closed her eyes. "There's nothing you can do, Salvatore."
His gaze had not shifted. "Your law firm."
She exhaled and bobbed her head. "I have a meeting with HR tomorrow at nine. I've been ... censured. It's presumably to discuss ... termination."
"To my knowledge, you haven't used up your sick time," he half-questioned, his eyes still fixated upon her.
"No. I ... haven't used any," the lawyer replied. "However, the, uh, employee handbook states that 'unauthorized absences' beyond three days must be justified, either by a physician's statement or ... hospitalization of some sort."
He nodded. "Don't worry, sobrinha; after dinner, I'll get that letter faxed to your law office. It won't be a problem."
Regarding him evenly, she countered, "He's not my doctor. These are some of the very best attorneys in the world. They're going to wonder just how I found some quack to diagnose me via videoconference and then ..." She hesitated, to which the middle-aged man raised an eyebrow, silently beckoning her to go on. "Then they'll find out ... about you."
The hand that was gripping her wrist loosened to interlace their fingers. "I would never bring you to a quack. That doctor ... is a specialist. Board certified in New York. His decision will be enough for any law firm," his eyes stared into hers, "no matter how ritzy it is. And ... you are entitled to FMLA, aren't you?"
Daisy leaned back, befuddled at having forgotten a basic right under American employment law. "Yeah," she breathed while brushing a few strands of her hair nervously. "Why ... Why didn't I recall ...?"
"Because you're still not well. Not even a day ago, your temperature was dangerously high, and I'm willing to bet that," he gestured at the thermometer that Luigi had sterilized and placed next to him on the table, "you're still running a slight fever. We will deal with your firm tomorrow. Right now, you don't do anything but rest."
As she was about to argue, he yanked her down next to him, jostling the sleeping Fyodor who blinked, glanced at the woman, and then went back to his nap. The less tolerant Sasha gave them both a dirty look. "Sometimes, miha, the Sicilians had it right; stop worrying about what you can't control," he whispered into her hairline.
Despite her racing mind, her body relaxed in his embrace, and her eyes closed until, at some point, she perceived scratching at the door. Eyelids fluttering awake, she glimpsed Sasha stretching up toward the knob, indicating that she wanted to leave. With a grumble, Daisy glided backward so that her feet met the floor; attempting to reach the impatient feline, she triggered a vibration in the mattress which caused Salvatore to groan awake. Opening the door, the woman winced at her failed endeavor. Sasha continued to stand at the open threshold. Daisy, now irritated, was about to give the Empress a piece of her mind when she heard chuckling from behind her.
"Ah, the Tsarina wants her chicken. It must be six o'clock," he mumbled lowly.
Unapologetically, Sasha stretched along her spine and, tossing her head at the exasperated woman, strutted toward the stairs. Fyodor's head popped up at his sister's subtle signal for dinner, and he dashed across the bed and floor after her. As Salvatore sat up, they both heard a pitiful meow and Luigi barking at Sasha that she was nearly schiacciata because she didn't look; a second later, they heard a series of angry chirps in response.
Moving toward the exposed space, Sal put his hand on her upper shoulder. "Where the hell are you going?" she wheezed.
"Miha, I am in dire need of a cigarette," he merely stated while exiting. She chewed her lip, considering whether to follow him, when the protests of both Luigi and Miles reverberated throughout the brownstone, to which the Sicilian growled loudly, "Niputi, Miles, no one's going to get coronavirus from me having a five-minute cicca in the damned backyard!"
Still standing at the edge of the bedroom to the hallway, Daisy spotted her masked and gloved fiancé, whose blue eyes became molten at the sight of her. "Amore, dinner's ready. I'm going to bring up the, uh, box of gifts as well as some food for youse. Can you eat a little?"
She nodded. "Yeah, kerido."
Bringing his covered fingers to his equally covered lips, he blew a kiss to her prior to returning to the kitchen. Smiling, she settled onto the bed and listened to the clatters of dining ware, Miles's mutterings about Lysol, Josh's excited Italian, the creaking of the backyard access, and heavy footsteps toward her. Salvatore's form reappeared; his fingers no longer trembling, he closed the door and walked to his side of the mattress. Trying not to wrinkle her nose, Daisy could smell the Marlboro on his breath and clothes.
"Sorry, sobrinha," he spoke sheepishly. "It's a habit that I picked up in my teenage years."
"How old?"
He stared ahead in thought, folding his hands and stretching his legs in front of him. "Seventeen, maybe. That was about when I switched out the candy cigarettes for the real ones. Back in the day, it was cool to smoke. I, uh, quit for a while. Back in the '90s. I started smoking again in San Francisco."
"Luigi started when he was fifteen or sixteen, I think. He told me that he'd hide them from Joe and Lucia, though I think they knew. The girls seemed to know, though," said Daisy.
"Sounds about right," he affirmed with a nod. "Apparently, my father also smoked. He started ... during the War. Rigassi habit, I guess. My mother found out a couple months before she ... But she was too weak to admonish me. Gabby knew."
A knock at the door interrupted their conversation, and Salvatore called out to his nephew in Italian. The knob turning and the wood swinging open wildly, Luigi entered with a large box of wrapped presents, which he heaved to the side. Twisting behind him, they saw a figure dressed in Tyvek coveralls, mask, and gloves hand over a set of plates, silverware, wine glasses, and dining trays. Over the course of two return trips, they arranged a traditional Sicilian meal of grilled zucchini, panelle, spaghetti con le sarde, and, for the vegetarian woman, pasta puttanesca without the anchovies. Finally, Luigi popped open a bottle of 2013 Conterno Monfortino. "I kinda lied; the four of us – Mario, Peach, Daisy, and I – saved up to give you this."
Salvatore gave him a grin, accepting the bottle to inspect the label. "A good year, too. Grazie – truly." Then he set it on the night table to let it breathe. "Do you want ...?"
"Zio, normally, I would, but due to the virus, you know," replied the masked Italian, to which the older man sadly nodded.
Having been left in the makeshift quarantine, he divided the zucchini and panelle between himself and his tired looking, yet hungry niece. "If you eat enough, miha, then maybe you can have a little of the good stuff, huh? Mangia." After stroking a few strands of her hair, he rose gently to set up his phone so that they could video-call the downstairs diners. A moment afterward, Luigi, Miles, and Josh appeared on screen at the kitchen table, the meal identical to theirs with exception of the expensive red wine. Throughout the meal, Daisy forced a smile for Luigi and Miles's sake, chewing on seasoned vegetables and rich, salty pasta that she could neither smell nor taste. Likewise, Salvatore paced himself in a vain attempt to enjoy his birthday dinner and overlook the throbbing at his temples. Conversation was sparse; each man and woman were concerned with eating enough to avoid the inevitable questioning and mangia, mangia, mangia. About a half-hour into the solemn birthday party, the masked Luigi and hazmat-suited Miles came to collect their dishes. Setting the partly empty plates into a wash bin, the blond engineer nattered that they should use boiling water on them prior to putting them in the dishwasher. The Brooklynite hummed at his friend, noting that the dishwasher temperatures should kill the virus at one hundred forty degrees; as the elder Italian excused himself to the bathroom, and Miles carefully transported the contaminated dishes downstairs, he examined his semi-pale fiancée and took her temperature.
One hundred point five degrees.
On one hand, he was relieved that Daisy's fever was now classified as 'low grade,' and her color was returning to normal; on the other hand, he noticed that she had eaten much less than he would have liked. Although Salvatore's favorite meal was the Sicilian spaghetti con le sarde, he had intentionally made her favorite shit in a pan, which she usually consumed with relish. However, she managed to finish a little less than half of her plate. Luigi's frustration was palpable, yet drawing attention to it might have a deleterious and enraging effect upon his cat-face.
Staring at him enquiringly, the plumber murmured, "Oh, cat-face mia ... Ti amo."
Her gaze softening, she leaned into his gloved hand.
While he pondered ways to make food more palatable for his ill fiancée, a clean-shaven Salvatore exited the bathroom and, eyeing his nephew, stepped to take a seat on the bed next to the woman. The younger man's blue eyes narrowed slightly and, making a low growl, retreated downstairs to bring dessert. In his absence, Daisy glowered at the older man who carefully crafted an oblivious look across his features. The irritated younger man came back with two plates of cassata, a cup of espresso, and a coffee with condensed milk which the auburn-haired lioness eyed ravenously. With a satisfied smirk to his maternal uncle, he watched her take a sip, only for his face to fall when her amber eyes saddened in disappointment.
"What's wrong, principessa?!" he cried. "Did I not get it right?"
"No, you did, kerido," she moaned. "I just ... I can't taste anything!"
"What do you mean, miha?" interjected Salvatore, his face contorting itself into a deep frown.
Crossing her arms in a childlike manner, Daisy barked, "Just what I said! This ... fucking thing! I can't taste coffee, sugar, salt, or shit in a pan!"
Momentarily forgetting his previous anger, Luigi looked at his senior, who was equally perplexed and shook his head. "I've never heard of this before. Being stuffed up, yeah, but never actually losing your sense of taste." He reached over to stroke her cheek again, he gently uttered, "Don't worry, amore; we'll figure it out, alright?" Mutely, she nodded. The two Italians exchanged a look of dread – ageusia and anosmia, two of Italy's Four Horsemen drawing nigh. Then he handed her the plate of cassata, susurrating, "Mangia, love. I'm going downstairs, but ... I'll be here." Blowing her a covered kiss, he eyeballed his uncle and departed.
As Daisy poked at the ricotta and marzipan confection with her fork, Salvatore sighed empathetically. "I'm sorry, miha. But you need to eat to rebuild your strength; pretend that you can taste it."
"And I'm sorry that it's not ... red velvet cake."
He laughed and set a warm hand upon her shoulder. "It's not the end of the world. I'm here with Luigi, you, Josh, and Miles – that's what I value most. Although Miles's, uh, suit was a little ridiculous."
Their eyes connecting, both began to giggle uncontrollably, which gradually resulted in a coughing session for the young woman. It was cut short by Luigi's curt clearing of his throat on camera. Ensuring that she was alright, they resumed the birthday celebration with the cassata provided by Joey-B and his crew; halfway through cake and coffee, Josh and his uncle prompted the man of the hour to unwrap the presents in the large box. Reluctantly, the mafioso did so, fearful of the contents within the enveloped boxes that the antisocial group of men could have chosen. Mouthing a prayer to the Almighty that they did not contain guns, X-rated materials, or drug paraphernalia, he removed the gold paisley paper for the first few gifts to reveal Luxury Black Expensive and Treasurer Aluminum Gold cigarettes with an accompanying silver case and gold-plated lighter. Next, he unwrapped the silver and black paper from three, medium-sized hat boxes; detaching the lids from each, he showed his audience a linen and cotton flat cap, a handmade Panama, and a black wool fedora – all made in Italy. Selecting the cream-colored Panama, Salvatore gleefully placed it on his head while Luigi and Daisy raised an eyebrow and Miles gaped in shock, texting in hex code to his friend about the live viewing of the Godfather Trilogy.
Josh merely continued to chomp on his cassata.
The blue and yellow were left. All attendees holding their breath, Sal calmly opened the packages to reveal a pair of black leather Stefano Riccis, a red and gold patterned silk tie, and a framed color photograph from the 1970s. The middle-aged man stopped mid-breath, and he brought his hand to his mouth. "Dio!" he exclaimed. "I'd ... I'd forgotten about this!"
"What is it?" asked Luigi.
Wordlessly, he held up the picture to Daisy and the camera. Amongst various dancing couples and groups stood three men in the flared pants and wide-lapeled blouses of the late 1970s; the leftmost man was curly-haired, wearing coke-bottle glasses, blue jeans, and a cream-colored dress shirt; the rightmost's black suit and striped shirt were bursting at the seams from too many calzones; in the center, a young Salvatore posed in a flashy black leisure suit, white shirt, gold chains, and a wide-brimmed hat with a narrow, foot-long feather sticking out from its side. Though they did not recognize their location, Luigi, Miles, and Daisy gasped at the sight of the three men.
"This was in the spring of '78, I think," Salvatore said, answering their unspoken question. "Yeah – that's right. They were playing 'Every 1's a Winner' and it went to the top of the billboard soon after. Like most kids, I wanted to party and screw around more than work. I, uh, traded a few favors to get on the list for Studio 54. Uncle Carlo ... frowned upon disco clubs and especially that one because it was known to be 'wild.' But for a kid of the '60s and '70s, Studio 54 was the place to be. So, to avoid pissing off Carlo and the older guys, Jackie agreed to chaperone us. Pete had come into town on break from college, and I of course invited Joe, who was just about to graduate high school. We," he suddenly chuckled at the memory, "we had to bullshit Luigi's nonno about a school function because it was on a night that Joe was supposed to work. One of Jackie's guys even pretended to be the principal. Anyway, it somehow worked, and the four of us got in and had the time of our lives. Pete took this picture."
"Bullshit!" shouted Luigi, albeit not angrily. "Youse went to Studio 54?!"
With a smile, Salvatore replied, "We did. I swear to the Lord Jesus Christ that we did."
Still stunned, the plumber leaned into the camera as if to reach for the framed photograph. "Joe never said anything about Studio 54."
His grin dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. "No, I don't suppose he would've."
"I saw a documentary on Studio 54," commented Daisy, who looked down at the image. "Did you run into any, uh, celebrities?"
He reclined a little, briefly looking up to the ceiling to search his memory of that night. "Yeah. Liz Taylor, President Ford's kid, Michael Jackson, and Alice Cooper. I think we'd missed Mick Jagger by a few weeks." His cheeks unexpectedly became red. "I was, uh, distracted by the mere experience of being there, so I didn't really get a good look."
"How, uh, wild was it?" queried Miles. "I'd heard, you know, r-rumors of ..."
The middle-aged man chuckled again. "Studio 54 definitely lived up to its reputation. That was part of the thrill. The night that we were there, though, was fairly tame, comparatively speaking. Neither Joe nor I did drugs or anything like that. Jackie, on the other hand ..." He trailed off, raising his dark eyebrows in an unspoken admission.
Before either Luigi or Miles could question him further, a knock sounded at the front door. While Salvatore continued to gaze at the picture, the mustachioed man excused himself, promising to return shortly.
Daisy watched the older man sit with his thoughts which were indecipherable, except for a flicker of mist in his brown eyes and a few fingers brushing the forty-year-old likeness of a teenage, curly-haired Brooklyn boy.
Her fiancé's voice cut short her quiet observations. "Kerido, did you order medicine? There was a kid at the door; said his uncle told him to make a delivery."
The Sicilian blinked an end to his reverie and asked, "Is it an inhaler?"
"Yeah," affirmed a now suspicious Luigi. "Where the hell did you get this? I won't give this shit to her if it's ..."
He held his hand up to end his nephew's tirade. "Niputi, check the name."
Grudgingly breaking the seal of the brown paper bag with his long, slender thumb, he reached inside to retrieve an albuterol inhaler from a nearby pharmacy on Atlantic Avenue. He turned it in his hand, studying its physical presentation to ensure its reputability, then read the label taped around its middle: Daisy Abravanel, albuterol sulfate, 90 mcg, prescr. B. Grayson. "Who the fuck's 'B. Grayson?'" he demanded angrily, holding the label up to the screen. "That's not Daisy's doctor! Hell, she doesn't have a PCP in New York!"
Salvatore put the photograph onto the mattress and made a basta gesture to Luigi and an uneasy Miles who had grabbed his laptop to investigate the mystery doctor. "Doctor Grayson's a doctor that I know. He's legitimate – a specialist. The inhaler is going to help Daisy breathe a little easier."
As the younger Italian raised his finger to argue, the mafioso's live video was interrupted by an incoming call. He and Miles tremored in dread at the unfamiliar number, yet recognizable international country code of thirty-nine.
Italy.