Author's notes: Wow, it's been a minute. My apologies for the very delayed chapter as well as not responding to every comment, though I have indeed read them. I had to delay this chapter twice due to work commitments. Thankfully, I work an eight to five job, but it's one that is busy and consists of rapid-fire changes. For those of you who are in college or not quite there yet, let me confirm that work sucks, LOL.

Anyway, I have NOT abandoned this story or universe; I'm having way too much fun writing. However, I probably won't have time to write every week or two weeks as I had in the past. But be assured that I will finish this story and the third that I had planned last year. It'll just take longer than anticipated due to real life.

Thanks for reading and continuing to support the story!

Chapter 8: Oubliette

Grabbing the phone, Luigi cried, "Zio, let me call youse right back. There's an incoming call from Italy." Before Salvatore was able to respond, he pressed the button and answered, "Pronto."

"Luigi," a familiar man's voice responded in English, "thank goodness. I was worried that the call might not go through."

The plumber frowned in a mixture of confusion and dread. "Rospo. I'd be more concerned about you and Peach. Jesus, what the hell is going on over there?! Is she okay?! Is she ...?"

Both he and Miles overheard Peach's aide-de-camp sigh raggedly. "Al-hamdu l'Allah, ya sahibni. Her father died, unfortunately. We think it was due to the coronavirus. Her mother's devastated, even though they had not lived as husband and wife for many years. Peach ... is working. Now that the border has closed, we're stuck – she and I. Even if she is now heiress to her father's fortune and thus could leave Italy if desired. I myself haven't seen her in a week." Letting out a huff, he added, "Perhaps that's a blessing in disguise."

The New Yorkers exchanged a look of disbelief and apprehension. "You didn't answer the question. Is Peach okay? I think ... I think she spoke with Mario at some point."

"Yes, Luigi. She spoke with Mario briefly. As for her mental state, I ..." They heard him let out another harsh exhale. "I can only hope. How is little Joshua?"

His name and the voice of his mother's confidant within earshot, he chortled, "Zio Rospo! Dov'è Mamma?"

"He's fine," the younger man interjected in Italian for his confused nephew, a hint of a smile passing over his worried face. "Typical four-year-old Masciarelli boy. But he misses his parents."

"I know I can speak for Peach on this, but she misses him, too. She will return; of that, I promise you. And what of Mario? Last I heard, he could not leave New Orleans."

Biting his lip while placing a hand on his young, uncomprehending kin, who was growing impatient at the lack of response in Italian from Rospo, he rasped, "Mario is still stuck. I haven't heard from him in a few days. He, uh, tested positive for the shit."

As Miles attempted to redirect the boy's oncoming temper tantrum, the Venetian muttered a few lamenting expressions in the local dialect. "No wonder why Peach's been punishing herself. First her father, now her husband! For all of our sakes, take care of Josh."

"I will."

"Bene. It's, uh, almost three in the morning, so I will sleep a little before contacting the hospital. Except for groceries and emergencies, we are restricted to our homes. I am caring for Peach's mother."

Luigi and Miles exchanged another look. "Jesus. Is she okay?"

"She is fine. Again, she is in shock and doesn't know what to make of the situation in Venezia. Like everyone else, I suppose. What about your family? Are your zii well? Daisy?"

He brought his fingers to pinch the bridge of his Roman nose and sighed. "Yeah, they're alright in Eltingville. Daisy ... she ... she's got it."

"Cazzo!" exclaimed the normally reticent man. "Forgive me, but I will not tell Peach that. I don't think ... No, I know she would not handle it well."

Nodding, he murmured, "I can't blame you. It's, uh, frightening for me, too."

"In sha Allah, we will be kept from this scourge. If Peach cannot come to the phone, I will be in touch as soon as I am able. Buonanotte."

"Grazie, Rospo. Buonanotte."

Despite the call having disconnected, Luigi let it sit on the table and slumped into his chair. While his mind raced through endless possibilities of what Peach had endured and what could have befallen her, he felt a warm body cuddle into his and blond hair briefly enter the lower edge of his line of sight. Folding his arms around the teary-eyed, frightened boy, he pressed his lips to the crown of his head. "Dov'è Mamma? E perché non vuole parlare con me?"

An empathetic Luigi laid his cheek upon the top of Josh's head and responded in a worn-out whisper, "Non fai nulla di male, nipote mio. Tua Mamma cerca di aiutare le persone di Venezia. Ti vuole bene."

"Come Babbo."

The older Italian's blue eyes shifted from a watery sapphire to a ghostly azure. "Yeah," he bit out, voice filled with emotion. "Come tuo babbo ... e tuo nonno."

Salvatore's brown eyes fluttered open against the dim light. Twisting against the dampened bed sheets, he glanced at the sleeping woman and cat on the other side of the mattress, then at the digital clock on the side table. 3:03 a.m. Inching off the bed and tiptoeing to the ensuite, he gently closed the door and seized a plain ivory washcloth from the shelf nearest the faucet. As he let the water run to the coldest temperature possible, he leaned over the sink, bracing himself against the granite countertop, while the waves of scorching nausea passed through his middle-aged body. Be thankful, he reminded himself; the last time that he had run a temperature beyond one hundred degrees was in his spartan, Asunción room where the occasional bell toll and wind draft kept him from succumbing to pitch silence.

If he grew sicker, would he simply pass into oblivion? asked his inner voice almost tauntingly.

He gazed into the wall mirror to view a whitish Sicilian whose brow was ornate with sweat, dark brown eyes hallow, and damp, nearly black hair clung to his scalp.

So much sacrifice.

Against Sicilian (and Mafia) custom, Luigi Rigassi did not name his firstborn son in honor of his paternal grandfather and paterfamilias, Vincenzo Rigassi, which had not only created a minor scandal but had moreover publicly insulted the proud Sicilian mafioso. To soothe his uncertain and bedridden wife, the engineer had explained, "Let them think our son will be given to the Mafia; he will be, instead, given to the Son of Man." This public insult, in addition to a perceived weak nature and several disagreements with his father and father-in-law, lead to his cold-blooded murder in a Palermo street almost three years later.

For years thereafter, Salvatore inwardly waged war with his idealist father's ghost, blaming him for leaving his mother to struggle alone and forcing him to provide for her and his eldest sister through whatever available means. In spite of her constant pleas for him not to join Tony DiScala's crew, he shouted at the ill Audenzia not to be so ungrateful when he, as the man of the family, could get her the best medical care in Brooklyn. Refusing to accept her son's blood money, the dignified Siciliana prepared for an inevitable, yet early return to her Lord and Savior.

Where is your money now, figghiu? her ethereal voice calmly queried.

Where your hopes and dreams now lie, he rejoined sarcastically. Where your hopes for a grandchild lie.

"Salvatore?" rasped a feminine alto from off to the side. After a moment, he realized that this voice was corporeal, and he turned to glimpse a tiredly blinking Daisy standing in the doorframe, her fingers loosely wrapped around its handle.

Hurriedly wetting the terrycloth, he growled, "Miha, go back to bed!"

"Jesus," she answered, though in an emotionless tone, walking inside to assist. A long arm intercepted her path toward him, obliging her to halt just shy of him while the other slapped the cloth on his neck.

The sick man, who was still bent over the faucet and sink, shut off the water and glared at the younger woman. "I'm fine. Go back to bed."

Daisy crossed her arms in disbelief. "Yeah, I can tell," she deadpanned.

His eyes darkened authoritatively. "Miha, I'm not asking."

Still unmoving, she stood in place, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. Standing to his full height, he reached out to snatch her upper arm and, with a firm grip, guided her out of the bathroom. As she grumbled and tried to swat at him, a thin-lipped grin crossed his face. He pushed the irritable lawyer down to the edge of the bed, then went to the bedroom door to allow the ever-impatient Russian Empress to leave. Cracking the door open a few inches, Salvatore watched Sasha jump over the slumped form of his youngest nephew who had, while he and Daisy slept, crammed himself into the corner nearest the bedroom. A final, faint smile and three seconds later, he quietly shut the entrance to avoid disturbing the man and returned to the bed. The Sicilian arranged himself on his side, tossing his medium-length legs in front of him and leaning back on the pillows. Daisy, however, did not move from her seated position at the front edge closest to the ensuite.

"You need rest," he rasped against the nighttime silence. Unable to relax at the presence of her tense, soundless energy, Salvatore propped himself forward and slid across the mattress so that he was sitting next to her. "Parli, niputi mia."

"I'm fine," she said without looking at him directly.

Glancing at the immobile woman, the former priest retorted, "Yeah, I can tell."

An alto snigger emanated from her throat at his familiar words, yet she continued not to speak.

Several minutes past in complete silence, the Sicilian waiting for the younger woman to talk; every so often, Daisy's lips quivered open, only for them to seal noiselessly. "A quiet woman – as we say in Sicily, that's like hell freezing over!" he finally opined with a laugh.

"Sexist," countered the woman, though without displaying true anger.

Still chuckling, he dabbed the lukewarm cloth upon his neck and brow. "But effective." He stared at her for a few additional moments, after which he resumed, "It's, uh, been a learning experience. In my entire life, the only ... women that I was really around were my mother, sister, and Zia Rosa. When I was younger, I, uh, ran a gentlemen's establishment." Daisy, in a mixture of astonishment and revulsion, faced him, waiting for further explanation. He persisted in staring at the drawer set in front of him. "Obviously, there were girls there, but ..." he trailed off with a small shrug, "I kept a professional distance. I wasn't interested in them at all. And then when you're a priest ... eventually, everyone's just a face in a crowd or a voice in a box." His dark brown eyes abruptly connected with her curious amber ones.

"Do you regret it? Being a priest?" she asked, breaking her muteness once more.

He shook his head. "No. I really did get the call. And I enjoyed it more than ... running a club where I profited off men's baser natures."

She merely nodded, falling into silence once more.

Sliding to the right so that the gap between them was a couple centimeters, he put his hand on her shoulder. "Do you regret being a lawyer, miha?"

A soft, bitter laugh escaped her lips. "I don't know. For the longest time, I equated ... 'lawyer' with ... justice. Now look at me: I'm going to be terminated from my very first job because I caught a previously unknown virus and dared to miss two business days." Letting her head droop toward her lap, she murmured, "Where's the justice in that?"

Unsure of what exactly to say, his theological training defaulted to the safe, stock response, "God works in mysterious ways." As he laced his slender, masculine fingers with her smaller ones, he added, "But perhaps He was trying to tell you something. My experience with lawyers hasn't been especially ... positive. I've never been to jail, but Uncle Carlo went when I was a kid. Seven years in Sing Sing. My rabbi, Tony DiScala, just got out of prison when I was ... initiated. Their lawyers either didn't give a damn or were just as crooked as they were. The current crop of lawyers is the same. They're legal gangsters, miha."

She directed a harsh gaze at him and snapped, "My father's not a gangster! Neither is my stepmother!"

He lifted his hand from her shoulder in surrender. "That's not what I meant. Of course, they're not." Taking a deep breath in part to distract himself from amber burning into him, he calmly appended, "Miha ... you have a strong sense of self. People who are weak ... can find that ... difficult to deal with. Once it's revealed that you're human, those same people will use it to score some senseless goal against you."

Reflecting upon the older man's words, Daisy looked away into the empty space of the room. "I feel so ... betrayed," she stated after a few tense moments.

"I know," his voice vibrated roughly. "But don't forget who loves you. Luigi's ... sleeping outside of this room. Right now."

Instead of his words brightening her face, the auburn-haired, still visibly ill woman closed her eyes in shame. "I feel ..." she swallowed over a growing lump in her throat, "I feel so ... ashamed."

"Why?"

"Because ... he's lost so much already."

His body now depleted of its remaining energy, Salvatore wrapped his arms around the slumped woman and tucked her head underneath the building coarseness on his chin. "Mettiti a dormire, bambina." Although she was not, at that moment, tired, Daisy gradually eased herself into the Sicilian's embrace and let her eyes flutter. Following what seemed like merely seconds later, she felt a series of subtle vibrations underneath her. Gently rustling in the man's constant embrace, her eyes fixed upon the night table's clock – 6:39 a.m. They widened at the time, and she tried to disentangle herself from Salvatore, whose skin color had become even more pallid and clammy. "Shit!" she exclaimed, racing to retrieve the thermometer and guide into the corner of his mouth. "Kerido, are you there?!" she cried.

Not even a half-second afterward, she heard a masculine rumble outside of the door, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "Sweetie, I'm right here. What's wrong?!"

"I'm ... okay," she huffed, air trying to penetrate her lungs. "It's Salvatore."

She heard Luigi mutter a few swear words in his native language, then race down the stairs, presumably to retrieve his mask and gloves. As she propped the Italian's body against the headboard and took the beeping thermometer, loud thumps up the stairs came closer, and the door opened to reveal a terrified, nevertheless masked plumber. Mutely, she handed him the device, which he accepted. His blue orbs quaked at the number – one hundred two point three.

Salvatore's brown eyes connected with his youngest nephew's. "Niputi, fuori di qui ... It's too dangerous for you to be here. You ... need to work."

"Seriously?" he scoffed in disbelief.

Despite the pain in his joints and chill in his bones, he managed to direct an intimidating gaze toward his angered kinsman. "I am not well! That leaves you at ... Joey's ... whims! Capisci?!"

Still irate, Luigi glanced at his uncertain Daisy, who remained uncharacteristically silent.

"Niputi," Sal began again, gasping against his emergent fever in a softer tone, "it doesn't matter what ... happens to me. You ... have people dependent upon you. Your shop." His orbs shifted to the right. "Daisy. I ... have ... two cats who take care of themselves."

He shook his head. "You're wrong, Zio!"

Blinking several times, he redirected his regard at the frightened young man. "Kid ... I appreciate ... the sentiment. But ... if you believe that, then ... respect what I did."

Luigi glared at him intently, balling his fists in an action reminiscent of his paternal uncle and older brother. Leaving both his maternal uncle and fiancée to face a lethal virus while he worked a sit-on-his-ass job made him queasy inside and out. He shook his head again, his gaze refusing to move from the laboring man in bed and the ailing woman next to him. "No, it's too dangerous. Your fever is increasing. Daisy's ..." He gave her a brief, terrified glance before resuming, "Daisy's unwell. Miles has to watch Josh. I can't just leave you here, Sal. It's not right."

The Sicilian blinked again while swallowing austerely. "You're right, niputi. But we ... don't live in a perfect world. You're a good picciottu. You believe in honor. They don't."

"Why do I have to sacrifice my own beliefs for theirs, then?" retorted the younger man, though not with an unkind tone. "If I'm supposed to have a choice, if I'm not supposed to be … one of them, then why do I need to act like one of them?"

Incredulous brown met resolute blue. Staring at his nephew for several seconds, Salvatore finally shut his eyes, muttering in his native language that, just this once, he wished Luigi would be like his father.

Ensuring that the man remained immobile, the plumber wordlessly gestured to his fiancée that he would return straightaway. Within a minute's time, during which Daisy had eased herself off the bed to dress for her meeting, he had returned, carrying one of the leftover bags of ice; a flick of his Swiss Army knife later, he filled several washcloths with ice and shoved them underneath his arms and knees and next to his neck and head. Satisfied that the man's feverish body was encased, he entered the bathroom so that he was behind the auburn-haired woman. Resisting the urge to drag his latex-covered fingertips down her bare back or to kiss the top of her shoulder, as was his habit in the mornings, he merely volunteered his assistance. Fatigued from her ordeal, she did not protest, much to his shock; she slowly worked a lacy ivory bra over her arms and brought the ends to her back, which he methodically clasped. Next, she wobbled into navy blue slacks, using her fiancé's gloved hand to steady herself.

As he watched her lean over the sink to rest, he glowered, "If ... they do fire you, then they can go fuck themselves. I really and genuinely hope they end up in Hell. I ... I've never hoped that such a place existed until now." Her blazing amber orbs met his; Luigi recoiled, believing that he had offended her, when they shifted into wet glass, and her lip trembled. He moved to close the distance, only for her to take two steps back. Letting out a growl, he forced himself to also step backward. "I fucking hate this!" he hissed a few seconds afterward. "I can't ... I can't even give you comfort, for fuck's sake!"

"Kerido," she called out woozily between three coughs, "you are giving me comfort. But ... Salvatore's right about one thing: you can't join us in ... solidarity." She inhaled as best as she could prior to standing upright to pick up a scrap of starched white cotton, appending, "As for ... David Nemirovsky, he can choose to do the right thing or not."

"Sweetie, just promise me that ..." At her arched eyebrow, Luigi enjoined, "Whatever you do, make sure it's your choice. I know ... you want to make your father proud. You want to keep that strong image in my eyes. But ... don't let ... guilt or obligation rule your life. I'm here ... for whatever you want."

She studied the royal blue spheres rotating just above the edge of his medical-grade mask. In them she observed a rawness that she had not seen in years – anxiety coupled with complete candor and territoriality. "But ... I can't let you bear the burden again," she said in a whisper.

"Daisy," he replied wearily, "you wouldn't be. This was not your fault. As for me, I ... I want something different, too." Her eyes widened, waiting for him to continue. "You heard what I said to Uncle Sal. I was supposed to be out. Only I'm not. You know it; I know it. This," he gestured behind him with his thumb, "isn't what we signed up for. I'm not leaving my family because some fat Bensonhurst paisani think I should for their benefit. You need me more." Her eyes followed his cautious two mini-steps toward her. "When I saw you ... in the tub, with the ice, all I could think about is ... that I'd only get six fucking years instead of sixty. Life's too fucking short. I think ..." he suddenly trailed off, his tenor hitching in his throat. She blinked a few tears away, still attentive to his forthcoming words. "I think ... Pops learned that too late."

"What are you thinking?" she heard herself ask uncertainly.

His eyes never leaving hers, Luigi rasped, "I think ... we should leave. New York. Plumbing. Brooklyn. The whole fucking thing."

She shook her head in disbelief. "What? Kerido, what about the shop, your family, Mario ...?"

Unable to embrace her, the plumber made a basta gesture instead. "Amore, listen to me – ascoltami!" She fell quiet and waited once more. "The shop was never mine! Maybe that was Carlo's intention, but he's been dead for almost four years. Joey-B's in charge, and it's his shop. The promise that was made to me, to my brother, to Uncle Joe ... it's never been honored. I've been working for almost nothing. Yeah, I got my education paid for, but that was it! And now ..." Despite the mask, she could hear his angry sniff. "Now, they're gonna take me from my wife. So to hell with the shop! Easy choice!" Relaxing his posture, he went on, "And as for my family? Mario has his family, cat-face. And Joe needs to get over himself. It's not his life! You and I ... We only have one life, and it's ours."

"Two problems." His facial expression copied hers from a few minutes' prior, his chocolate-brown eyebrow raising at her statement. "First, if neither of us has a job, then how do we leave? And second, where do we go?"

He nodded. "I-I-I got connections and a fancy engineering degree from Columbia. I can ... maybe use 'em? And second, we could go to California. San Francisco or Los Angeles. I've saved enough money for us to live there, as expensive as it is. Y-Y-You've passed the bar there. You could work for your father. Or ... you know ... work for another firm. Or ... you could do something else. Whatever you want." At her palpable skepticism, he dropped his timbre to an intimate level, "I want you ... my wife ... to be happy and healthy. Over the past year, I've watched you slowly give up your tennis, kung fu, and yoga classes – all for that rat-fucker David Nemirovsky, who barely knows you exist, save for his goddamn pastrami sandwich. I've watched those mischievous cat eyes go from feisty to ... sullen. Unhappy." His latter words caused her sniffle and let tears fall down her flushed cheeks, to which he swallowed in empathy. "I'm not saying this to make you feel bad or blame you, cat-face. I supported you because I didn't want you to feel like you were alone; that if it was worth it to you, then it would be worth it to me."

To his horror, Daisy burst into tears, sobbing and wheezing as she attempted to repress them. "I thought ... I loved the law. But it just took more and more, you know? I kept ... promising you, myself that ... it'd get better. Wh-wh-when I worked at the UN, I'd have to put in the odd hours, especially during the summer before law school." He nodded in the mutual recollection. "I could live. At this place, it's one ... bullshit case after another." Wiping her eyes furiously, she grunted, "I feel so goddamned weak. My father raised me while doing it. So why can't ...?"

"Basta," interjected Luigi. "You're not your father, sweetie. Whether you want to admit it, your father had your biological mother at home for your early years. He had help, as did my father with Mario and me. Yeah, she ... wasn't well at the end. But ... I think it's important to acknowledge her contribution. I'm not taking away from him; in her absence, as willful as it may have been, he raised a smart, beautiful woman. However, I don't intend on leaving you alone. Not ever. You're my team, my famiglia."

Sniffling once more and without looking at him directly, she mumbled in a raw tone, "Your family won't want you to leave New York, sweetie."

He sighed in frustration. "Daisy, look at me, please." A few seconds passed before she did so, her regard moist and pained. "I meant every word I said: you are my family. This was years in the making. Think about it: Mario spent years in Iraq and Afghanistan; you spent years in England, Brazil, Israel, Mali, and Rwanda." Even though it was obscured by his mask, she could see his smile through the precipitous sparkle in his blue eyes. "It's my turn. I want mild weather. Surfing when we want. A little house with a garden. A life ... with you." His eyes then became sullen. "You keep using 'you' and not 'us.' Have ... Have you changed your mind? A-A-About us?"

Daisy began sobbing again while shaking her head. "No! No, that's not ... I just ... I know how close you and Mario are. You and Uncle Joe. Uncle Sal. And don't get me wrong – I love Mario, too." She gave him a half-grin despite her tears. "Even if his comments about murdering vegetables get a little annoying."

"Mario can visit," he cut in once more, taking a step toward her. "He's done it before. Yeah, he'll bitch nonstop about it to Peach, to me, and everyone around him – he's New York Italian, after all. But he'll do it, cat-face. He'll do it because we're family."

"And Giuseppe?"

Shrugging a little, Luigi's voice faltered. "Y-Y-You're right that he won't be ... pleased." At her sardonic eyebrow raise, he chuckled and answered, "Okay, he'll be pissed off. Look at this way: he gets his wedding; we get our peace."

"Kerido, who's getting married? The courts are closed. And who knows when they'll open again. And do you really think Salvatore won't have anything to say about us ... leaving New York?"

He watched her body tremble a little, either due to speaking the unspoken or the virus advancing throughout her system. Unable to restrain himself further, he closed the distance between them. Before she could retreat or plead for him to maintain the gap, Luigi put a latex-covered hand to her cheek. "I can't ... kiss you. I can't ... touch you. Not yet. All I can do is tell you that nothing – not a virus, not my family, not the fucking Mafia – will keep me from you. Nothing. I made my choice in that bagel shop. And I have never regretted being that Italian cretino stammering an offer to buy you breakfast that February morning. Dancing with you on Valentine's Day, hoping that you wouldn't knee me in the balls."

Her liquid grin became a wolfish grin. "I did think about it. But ... then I couldn't get the images of riding you reverse cowgirl out of my head." In response, he raised his free hand to pinch his fingers in the che vuoi, causing her to snigger. A second later, her face fell into a serious frown. "I want you. I just don't want you to resent me because you're in California and not with your brother and family in New York. It's all you've really ever known."

Shaking his head while stroking her cheek with his thumb, he murmured again, "No. This is what I want. It's about commitment. My commitment to you." Luigi reached for the white blouse still in her hands and, pulling it through her fingertips, slipped it over each muscular arm to draw the gold buttons to their respective holes. Once she was fully dressed, her fiancé reluctantly took two steps back from her. "In the end, though, it's your choice, love. It always has been."

Daisy turned to face the mirror. She had probably lost ten pounds from her medium frame due to lack of appetite and fluid loss. Instead of an eggshell tan one to two shades lighter than Salvatore's olive complexion, her skin was whiter than even Luigi's. Her auburn strands encased her cheeks and head. Her amber eyes – a normal, if a bit playful agate – were sullen and almost defeated. Next to her stood a pencil-thin masked man whose hair had become a wet wave of sweat and worry. He too had lost weight, which was concerning, as he was beginning to corporeally resemble his unwell paternal uncle.

Save him. Save yourself.

Retrieving a thick plastic hair comb from one of silver containers in the corner, her pale, trembling hand uneasily dragged it through her sweat-slicked strands in an effort to fashion a professional appearance. After finishing her coiffure midway, her lungs seized, causing her to gasp and wheeze. Her fiancé started toward her again when she firmly put up her hand, stopping him. Gasping, she stood before the mirror and stubbornly drew the plastic teeth on the half to finish her impromptu groom. Having received mental approval that her hair was now correct, her body slackened from the exertion, and the comb and hand slapped atop the granite. Her heart thudded against her ribs like a heavy darbuka.

Speechless, the plumber could only lead her back to the bedroom and ease her against the pillows of the unoccupied side before disappearing downstairs. Her eyelids were getting heavier by the minute; the normal routine of getting dressed for work had somehow sapped her energy like an early-morning half-marathon run or two-hour kickboxing session. Out of confusion and frustration, Daisy let out a groan, her breath intermixed with coughs. She then felt a lukewarm hand cover hers; her natural curiosity compelling her eyes open a second time, they connected with the darker orbs of Salvatore. The woman froze, caught between the need both to inch away and slide toward him. "We'll make it," she heard herself say.

Though the Sicilian did not reply, his fingers glided into hers.

After a quarter of an hour, the tall Brooklynite returned with a tray containing two steaming cups of tea, toast with blood orange jam, and over-easy eggs. Noticing that Salvatore was holding his fiancée's hand, he tapped upon his uncle's wrist to get his attention. "Zio, can you drink a little? You got to fight this fever."

"Yeah, I can try, niputi," he managed in a faint voice.

Daisy's open eyes zeroed in on the food, to which he chuckled; handing her the halved toast to nibble on, he hauled his maternal uncle's weakened body to a semi-sitting position. Then arranging the ice packs to their previous vital spots, Luigi held the small teacup to the man's lips. Salvatore grudgingly let the liquid pass, wincing at the heat. Every so often, the plumber twisted to watch his fatigued cat-face eat and lap the tea.

"You ... okay now, niputi. Work ... now," spoke his maternal uncle.

The masked and gloved man shifted his blue eyes to stare at the equally serious Salvatore. "Like hell."

"S-Stubborn. Like your ... father."

Without missing a beat, the younger man snapped, "I'll take that as a compliment, Zio. Now shut the fuck up and drink."

His fiancée's eyes rounded in shock at both Luigi's abnormally disrespectful tone and the irritated Sicilian's wordless compliance. Watching her plumber's firm interaction with the obstinate former priest renewed a sliver of vitality through her body.

Fifteen minutes – that's all you need.

Imagining herself in the last mile of a triathlon, the lawyer shoveled the still tasteless and odorless food into her mouth, careful to avoid staining her blouse and pants. Placing the empty plate on the night table, she glimpsed the time – 7:50 a.m. "Kerido, it's time," she announced, attracting both men's attention. "I need ... my laptop and ... to get to my office."

"Sweetie, I'll bring the laptop, but I can't risk exposing Josh or Miles," responded her fiancé apologetically. Setting the fifth-filled cup in his uncle's unsteady hand, he rose to retrieve the device.

Moving to the edge of the bed away from him, Daisy spoke again, "Salvatore, I'll move into the bathroom to ... avoid disturbing you."

"No," she heard him gasp. "I ... I want to be here. If they do try ... something, then I'm ... with you. Coronavirus be damned, miha." Whipping her head around to give an alarmed look, he held up a hand. "It's ... your show, miha. I'm ... in no condition to do anything."

At that point, Luigi returned to the master bedroom, company PC and headphones in hand. Giving his maternal uncle a pointed glare, he put his gloved hand upon hers. "Ti amo, Daisy Abravanel. No matter what."

In spite of her growing fatigue and dizziness, she replied with a bright smile, "Te amo para sempre."

Tossing Sal another warning glower, he exited the room, pulling the door shut.

As she opened the laptop, the woman snorted a few words in Judeo-Spanish that, to the Sicilian's amused ears, sounded suspiciously like pigheaded Rigassi men. Wiping the increased perspiration from his forehead, he laid back against the pillows to pretend to sleep, nonetheless keeping an eye on the lawyer and her computer.

Headphones over her ears, she logged into her email account, clicked on the Microsoft Teams link, and waited for the other invitees to enter. Following two minutes of attempting to ignore her own pale reflection, a black woman in her fifties, dressed elegantly in a charcoal business suit and cranberry tunic, appeared on screen. Daisy recognized her as the firm's Director of Human Resources. "Ms. Mitchell," she greeted the elder woman in an even, respectful manner.

"Ms. Abravanel," she returned with a slight nod. "Thank you for joining me this morning. We are, of course, here to discuss your unauthorized absences. I am recording this meeting for our records." She abruptly paused, her nearly black eyes staring at the other woman's image. "Are you alright?"

"Wh-wh-what do you mean?" asked Daisy, her brows knitting together in confusion.

"Unless you're wearing purple lipstick, your lips are blue."

Brushing her fingertips across her lips and examining at her image for the first time since she had entered the Teams conference, the stunned woman did not answer.

"Your supervisor, David Nemirovsky, reported that you were absent without authorization, which created undue hardship for a VIP client. That being said, it is fairly apparent that you are unwell. You have used four of six sick days allotted to you. You also have two full weeks of PTO and have worked at Lander and Bardeau for just over a year. Should you need additional time to recover, you are entitled to FMLA upon presentation of medical documentation. The first thing that I need is any written proof that you notified him of your absences."

Tiredly, she nodded and forwarded her messages to the Director of HR's email box. "I just sent them to you."

In the background, Daisy could hear the chime of their arrival, to which the woman gave a bob of her head and let her eyes scan both the lawyer's precise text and time of original transmission. "Thank you. Were you able to visit a doctor?"

She hesitated, all of a sudden feeling torn between the Sicilian surreptitiously observing her and the woman who may or may not be covering the firm's ass. "Yes," she finally replied. "My fiancé's uncle called an acquaintance who's a physician. We ... tried to call a hospital directly but couldn't get through. He thought ... that I had the, uh, coronavirus. He prescribed an inhaler to help with ... my breathing."

"I would like a letter from him. But in the meantime, I don't see why you can't be on medical leave. You'll need to use your sick time and PTO. If you need more time, you will be allowed FMLA, provided that we have the letter from the physician. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes, I do," responded Daisy. "Where is Nemirovsky? Usually, when a supervisor has a complaint, he or she is in attendance."

Emotionlessly, Ms. Mitchell stated, "Mister Nemirovsky is currently with a client."

I'm sure he is, thought the auburn-haired woman sarcastically. "Alright," she said evenly. "Once I return, will I be subject to disciplinary action?"

Clicking on windows off-screen, the Director squared her shoulders. "Provided that we receive the letter in a timely manner, the short answer is no. You did in fact notify Mister Nemirovsky of your medical emergency and made a legitimate attempt to keep him apprised. Prior to March 11, your performance has been satisfactory and, under normal circumstances, you would not have missed those days. However, in order to continue to be employed by Lander and Bardeau, you are required to submit medical documentation at the physician's earliest convenience; furthermore, you will be asked to send an update on your recovery from fourteen days from March 11, which is Wednesday, March 25. This is the current quarantine guideline according to municipal and state law. By that point, you should have eleven PTO days remaining. If, after March 25, you require additional PTO, you will need to submit to me a second letter from the same physician. As you well know, while attorneys are salaried, open positions are justified at the firm via billable hours. Since you will have no billable hours from March 11 to 25, documentation will be necessary."

An unenthusiastic Daisy deadpanned, "Okay."

Nodding, the older woman repeated, "Do you have any other questions?"

"Not at this time."

Making a final note, presumably in her report, Ms. Mitchell concluded, "Please send me any questions or concerns via email. Your medical documentation should be sent to me directly. As for your update on March 25, please carbon copy Mister Nemirovsky. An email to us will be sufficient. I will send you a written summary of what was discussed this morning. That is all. Thank you." The woman then abruptly left the videoconference room, leaving Daisy to stare at her own pale form and blue lips.

Murmuring a sarcastic thanks much, HR Bitch, the lawyer slammed her laptop shut and yanked her earphones off. Placing them on the night table, she let her shoulders roll forward, hunching her posture until her head fell into her hands. A few seconds later, she felt a masculine hand pushing her upright, followed by warm arms enveloping her chest and shoulders. "Did they fire you?" she heard Salvatore inquire from somewhere above her head.

"Worse," her voice grated the air like sandpaper. "They're looking for a reason."

"Lawyers," he growled. "Right now, miha, your priority is recovering from this thing." In spite of her continued disinclination to speak and his growing physical weakness, he enfolded her into his medium frame.

Hours after the morning call with Human Resources, a reddened Daisy awoke to a drowsy Salvatore next to her, whose skin had regained some of its normal brownish color, and a masked and gloved Luigi peering down at her, his eyes betraying anxiety and a flicker of anticipatory anger at one David Nemirovsky. "Kerido," he greeted softly. "How are you feeling?"

Moaning as she attempted to sit up straight, with her plumber immediately rushing to help her, she groaned, "I feel ... tired. Like I just ran a half-marathon. Everything ... aches."

Salvatore stretched his limbs, one of his arms inching toward her and his nephew, who shot him a warning glare. "Miha, your immune system did the equivalent. It might give mine a few training tips 'cause I needed a smoke halfway through."

The younger Italian ignored his maternal uncle's characteristic black humor. "Do you want an aspirin? I-I could get you something. Your body's telling you to rest. You could also use some fluids."

Nodding, she mumbled a yeah as Luigi darted a glare to the impassive Sicilian before vowing to return with water and medicine. Subsequent to his departure, she turned to her bedmate. "What the hell was that about? You didn't ... tell him, did you?"

A soft, humorless chuckle rumbled inside the middle-aged man's throat. "Miha, he's a Rigassi. It's in our ... nature to be ... covetous. Maybe that's why we stayed in Our Thing for so long." His fatigued gaze connected with hers. "No, I didn't tell him."

"How do you know? By your own admission, you didn't know your father," challenged Daisy, though a sparkle in her amber rounds betrayed a slight facetiousness.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I know enough." Unconvinced of his terse reply, she turned away from him to glance at the door through which her fiancé would undoubtedly arrive, to which he slid gently to close the distance. "You forget that I was a priest and a psychologist. I presided over more than a few weddings. People are often ... attracted to those who match their energy. Audenzia and my father. Mario and Gabby. Mario and Cristina. You and Luigi."

"You and Giuseppe," she breathed, twisting her head toward him to observe his carefully impassive expression.

Her fiancé reappeared with an aspirin bottle and two glasses of cold water. Handing Daisy one glass, he insisted upon opening the container, and his covered fingers clutched two pills. Once she had swallowed the medicine, Luigi took two more pills and extended them as well as the second glass to his uncle. "La tua febbre è ancora troppo alta," he stated in a low, yet matter of fact tone.

Wordlessly, he accepted them and copied the woman's actions. "Grazie."

Once again ignoring his uncle, the plumber watched his cat-face emotionally withdraw into herself. Out of instinct and a primal need to connect with his other half, he used his latex-covered fingers to trace a line along the waves of dark auburn. A few seconds passed when he felt protective brown eyes follow the caresses. In front of him, though her lip tremored, his fiancée managed a faint smile. As unwilling as he was to share this intimate moment in the presence of a third party, he acquiesced to the greater need to communicate; clearing his throat, Luigi murmured, "Kerido, whatever the fuck happened earlier, just know that ... I love you. You matter."

No longer able to contain her tears, Daisy bit her lip and nodded.

Attempting to close the distance, he moved to embrace her, only for a muscular, middle-aged arm to block his path. "Niputi, sai che non puoi."

The angry Brooklyn Italian let his Masciarelli blue eyes direct their coruscation at the arm's owner; yet he recoiled at the dark, blazing reflection by obsidian orbs. Refusing to be intimidated by the Palermitano, he forced himself to meet his gaze which had incorporated ancient streams of magma from Etna and streaks of empathetic brown.

"Kerido, Salvatore, I'm ... going to the bathroom," they heard a faint woman's voice state, followed by equally soft footsteps and the click of the door shutting.

"The hell are you doing?" demanded Luigi, albeit without true hostility. "What the fuck happened this morning?"

Although his eyes tempered somewhat, the Sicilian continued to eyeball his nephew. "You worry about the shop, niputi. Daisy needs to rest. I'm feeling ... under the weather, but I'll live. Someone needs to be with her."

"Yeah, me!" he spat lowly. "And the shop isn't going under any time soon!"

Biting down on his lip, Salvatore grabbed the younger man's moss-colored shirt collar and used his residual strength to push him perpendicularly against the empty wall. Cornering the speechless and livid Luigi, he hissed, "Rimettiti al lavoro! Consider that an order, kid."

"You goddamned snake!" exclaimed the younger man into his mask, hoping that it sufficiently muffled his voice to avoid alarming Daisy. "Got to protect your investment at all fucking costs, huh? Never mind that your golden goose's happiness and well-being depends on the well-being of one Daisy Abravanel who's fighting both the virus and fancy-ass shysters who belong in hell! Well, here's a fucking thought: go ask one of those shiny suits to run it! Puoi prendere due piccioni con una fava!"

The Administrator tightened his grip on his nephew's shirt while stepping away from him. "I'm asking you, niputi, as my family."

Luigi rolled his eyes, scoffing, "And the Jewish girl? She's trash, I suppose?!"

His cheek exploded, his mask slipped to the side, and he heard a distant slap. "I'm not asking you again, Luigi Gabriele Isidoro Masciarelli," barked the mafioso.

"Go to hell!" he roared, despite the sting.

Abruptly, the door swung open. "What the fuck is this?!" commanded the woman who stared at them incredulously.

At the sudden interruption, Salvatore's hand relaxed his grip on Luigi's shirt, giving the latter enough slack to escape to approach his horrified fiancée, who, to both men's dismay, retreated by two steps. Turning toward her, holding up his hands, the Sicilian rasped, "Miha, it's okay. Por favor."

Shaking her head, Daisy growled, "No, what the fuck was this about?! Explain now!"

"Kerido, Don Salvatore thinks it would be preferable for me to leave you and go to work." Rotating behind him to glower at the similarly angry Italian, he added with a second scoff, "I guess the Famiglia really does stick to its own!"

Her amber eyes flashed dangerously at him and his uncle, causing the former to flinch in surprise. "Oh, yeah, the Italian Patriarchy decides what should happen to me like a good little ... poodle!"

Shaking his head in an attempt to placate her, Salvatore replied, "Miha, that's not ..."

"Shut up!" she skreiched, wheezing from the relapse of respiratory pain, which silenced the man and provoked another flinch from her fiancé. "I don't give a good goddamn about your little ... club of bandidos." Inhaling with increasing difficulty, she went on, "I'm ... already finished, so what the fuck do I care what you do to me? But you will not put hands on my fiancé again. Because then ..." Both men's eyes expanded as she took three menacing steps to stop just shy of the mafioso, "You'll have two choices: you can either suffer the ... humiliation of getting your ass kicked by a mujer enferma or go to prison for the rest your life."

Frozen in place, the former priest affixed an unreadable expression, while Luigi gaped at her in a mixture of admiration and fear. Satisfied that the former would do nothing more, she turned to her quivering fiancé. "I'm fine. Truly. You ... can't be in prison with the rest of us. I don't trust that his," she tilted her head toward the shorter man, "piece of shit friends won't hijack the shop for their own twisted ends. We have a plan, love."

"Cat-face, please, I don't want to leave you alone with him!" begged the taller Brooklynite in a high-pitched whisper, to which she put up a hand.

"No, Luigi. I need to have some fucking control over this!"

Their eyes connected once more, with the whitish Daisy soundlessly imploring him to heed her words. After a few poignant seconds, the plumber gave a single, hesitant nod and, throwing his uncle a nasty stare, left the room to report to work for a few hours. Once he had gone, the woman retreated to the side of the room opposite Salvatore and slid against the wall, letting her exhausted body sink to the ground. He tried to approach her but was halted by a hot agate scowl. "Miha, I would never harm you," he said simply.

"You once said that about your nephews," she countered angrily.

He nodded, not taking his dark brown eyes off her. "I did. I still stand by that statement. But ... in my world, I can't ... explain things rationally."

She rolled her eyes at him. "You're so full of shit. You and the Masciarellis. Is it any fucking wonder why I'm so hesitant to marry into this family?! Honestly, Mario, Luigi, and the majority of their Masciarelli cousins are the only ones who aren't complete bastards!" She watched with some jouissance at his visible shudder from her ireful words. "Normally, I try to respect one's culture, but it's a little much when the lies become more important than the ability to live!"

"Minchia, miha, I'm trying to keep you alive!" implored Salvatore, whose regard evolved into that of a dark, haunted figure from somewhere between the Renaissance and the ottocento. Sensing that this might be her only opportunity to eavesdrop into the underworld, Daisy fell perfectly still. Sal closed the distance, stopping to crouch mere inches in front of her. "I know that I'm a ... bandido, an asesino. I have to be in this world. It's the only way. Luigi ... is his brother's hope. He was ... Mario's hope. And he's his father's hope. His and mine." She continued to stare at him, refusing to betray the smallest hint of emotion. "He's always been special ... No one ever thought he'd exist. His brother was born in Gabby's fertile years, before the cancer got really bad. Luigi came nearly at the end. Hope ... is what ends the need for the Mafia. And you ... You are Luigi's hope. That is why ..." he clasped her hand and interlaced their fingers before she could move it away. "I will never let them come near you."

"You're saying that if Luigi doesn't keep the shop going, they'll use me to get to him," she concluded in a hoarse alto. "But I thought that they protect the family ..."

"Bambina mia," he interjected a second time, "omertà is a thing of the past. It's been replaced by money. The man of honor no longer exists. These men kill for two reasons. First, they kill to acquire their wealth. Second, they kill anyone who's a threat to that wealth. Right now, Luigi is keeping Joey-B afloat. If Joey-B can't earn, miha, then the capos will ... remove him and possibly me as well. Or rival gangs will move in on Italian territory. So he has ... an incentive to keep Luigi working through whatever means necessary." She closed her eyes to hide her fear for her fiancé. "And I couldn't ... go to Giuseppe Masciarelli and tell him that ..."

"Luigi's not an indentured servant, Salvatore!" she rasped in disbelief. "I thought you going to them was supposed to make sure ..."

A finger tilted her chin up, resulting in her previously shut eyes fluttering open. "That is the plan, cara. Sometimes, though, it's about the war, not the battle."

Daisy slapped it away. "No, I'm tired! Tired of the future! Because it's not fair to him or to me!" As she tried to rise to her feet, her unsteady gait propelled her forward, and her body slammed against the floor, leaving her gasping. Much to her rage and embarrassment, she felt masculine hands pull her off the ground in a reverse plank, then scoop her into bed. She rotated in the opposite direction in a vain endeavor to hide her fresh tears.

Her back to him, she nonetheless heard Salvatore flatly state, "I won't argue with you. I know you're angry. But more than that, I know you're scared." She felt a slight dip in the mattress somewhere behind her. "You're scared because you're no longer in control of your body or your destiny. Life Lesson 101 from an old Sicilian cattivo: that's going to happen ninety percent of the time. It's already happened ninety percent of the time; you either ignored it or refused to give in. See, that's the great thing about being young, miha; you keep going because anything's possible. But at some point, you won't be able to push yourself past your corporeal limits. You won't be able to outrun or outthink them. Keep going, and you'll be shit out of luck." Putting a hand on her shoulder, he added, "That's not weakness, Daisy. That's being human."

She turned her head into the pillow, allowing the sensation of shame and feebleness pass through her sapped form. The hand that had been on her shoulder began to stroke it softly. As her lungs began to constrict, two warm, gentle hands picked her up so that she was semi-sitting on the mattress and he was able to arrange himself next to her. Despite refusing to face him properly, Daisy whispered, "It's not fair."

Laying his head on the pillow next to hers while staring into space, his tenor ultimately rumbled, "I know."

The master plumber paced in his deserted office and shop, alternating between rage and helplessness. Subsequent to the Governor's and Mayor's executive orders closing New York City schools and ordering all non-essential personnel to work from home, his remaining staff halved, unable to find childcare on such short notice. It was just as well; for the first fifteen minutes of his 'half-day,' Luigi bellowed invectives against Joey-B and Salvatore, every so often hovering his thumb over Joe Masciarelli's name in his iPhone.

Let the badass fucking Mafioso deal with the fallout of that call.

Or better yet – Lucia Masciarelli, he amended nastily during his sixty-eighth length across his office.

Glancing at the smartphone in his hand, he redirected his curses to Mario. He had effectively disappeared within some containment hellhole in New Orleans and had forgotten both his suffering wife in Italy and him in Brooklyn. For the first time in almost two weeks, Luigi felt the acrid taste of resentment in his mouth at having little Josh in his custody. Had Mario opted to tell the corrupt government assholes to go to hell, he would have his son with him, and there would have been no need for one Salvatore Rigassi to take over his brownstone. Meanwhile, he could stay home with his ill fiancée and prepare to leave for California. His angry internal venting halted at the thought of San Francisco or San José.

Was he actually serious?

Luigi scanned his office once more. Although his computer and associated hardware had been updated three times since Sal Maldonado's departure in 2014, the office itself had the same 1980s-era white walls, no windows, and cheap wooden and metal paneling. As the manager, he was frequently alone, save the occasional visit from Ginsburg to confirm the schedule, the accountant to go over their usually comfortable margin, and union representative to verify that all paperwork and shifts were clean in case of surprise audits from the IRS and Immigration. For the first time in years, he noted that each visitor and his L-shaped desk stretching along the corner of the rightmost wall had effectively confined him for eight or more hours a day. Back in Giuseppe's and his nonno's days, being the shop manager embodied power, respectability, and a wage capable of supporting a medium-sized family. However in his time, management was a huis-clos of politics, long hours, and monotonous meetings. Sitting down in his semi-padded office chair and tossing his phone on the tabletop, his blue eyes then scrutinized the framed copy of his New York plumber's license that hung in a metal frame above his desk and in perfect view of any potential inspector or client. Given that he had a wallet-sized master plumber's license issued by the New York City Department of Buildings, the paper certificate was largely a superfluous hold-over from a seventy-odd-year tradition. Except for the other day, he had not been out on an actual job since 2016, when he had sold his HVAC device to a series of investors. Columbia and his shadow bosses were content to keep him in the office.

Inspecting the frame closely, he remarked on the layer of dust that had settled on its topmost part.

The Brooklynite bit his lip and swiped at an errant scrap of paper upon his desk, after which he reached into his wallet for a long-forgotten business card that he had nonetheless tucked into one of the top slots. A couple years back, a fellow client of Heimar-Grüner had taken an interest in him as an engineer and plumber. At a post-meeting lunch at the Ritz-Carlton, which he recalled had necessitated an extra helping of tandoori chicken and bourbon, the vice president of production, Aaron Matthews, surreptitiously offered him his business card with the words, "If you ever find yourself out in California, give me a call."

If he had only thought about this a few weeks ago, prior to the pandemic, he could have had a conversation with the Menlo Park-based man.

Daisy would never have left, argued his inner voice, much to his chagrin.

He flipped the small paper between his fingers and squinted at his phone. Rotating it between his left index and middle digits a few more times, Luigi moved toward the phone when the incoming call screen flashed – Mario. Business card still in hand, he grabbed the device and slammed his thumb against the green key. "Fratello, where the fuck have you been?"

"Ah, shit," answered a voice that was hoarse from coughing and spitting. "Yeah, sorry, fratellino. I was down for the count due to this fuckin' thing. After our last call, I spent the next couple days coughing, shitting, and sleeping. It's not even the fuckin' Army's shit, shower, shave, and optional screw."

The taller plumber closed his eyes in a mixture of anger, relief, and disappointment. "Yeah," he simply replied, unable to think of anything else at the moment.

"Josh doin' okay?"

"Yeah, he's doing alright," he answered simply to avoid his building bile escape. "He's taking this like a champ, but he misses you and Peach."

"Yeah, wait –" Mario's voice was muffled with a tissue, followed by sounds of hacking and spitting, to which the younger man wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Fuck a duck. Yeah, he's a bravo bambino, even at his age. Kid takes after Peaches." Abruptly, the man paused for several seconds, causing Luigi to worry whether his brother was having respiratory trouble, then added in a soft tone, "I haven't heard from her in a few days, Weegie."

"She-She's okay, fratello," he spoke, eager to assuage his fears. "I talked to Rospo last night. They're alright, you know?"

Scoffing a little, Mario replied in the same pitch, "Yeah. Rospo always covers for her, Weegie. I hate ... being away. Since they think I started showing symptoms on or around the sixth, I got another couple of days before I can get back to New York. They're deadass about the fourteen-day quarantine, and we may have to add a day or two in New York due to travel. Otherwise, I'd fuckin' be there already. I know ... I know Uncle Sal's there with youse." At Luigi's wordless sneer, he spoke again, "I ... I don't even wanna know just what the fuck he's doin'. Youse okay? I heard they cancelled basketball and March Madness. I can only imagine what that'll do to their bottom line."

"Yeah, we're okay," he responded quickly. "I don't know anything about that."

Coughing a bit, Mario quipped, "Weegie, ti voglio bene, but next to Miles, you're the worst liar I know. Don't give me bullshit."

Luigi rolled his eyes in irritation at his brother's pointed challenge. "Well, what do you want me to say, huh? I told you before that Daisy's ... got it. She's doing her best. And Sal's ... now got it, too." There was a brief hush on the line. Too irascible and fatigued to prod his brother to talk, he began revolving the business card from finger to finger.

"Jesus, fuck – why didn't you call me, Weege?!" yelled the older Italian. "Huh? You – you – you give me fuckin' shit about not callin' youse, but you fucking didn't bother to tell me what's been going down! You got two – due – cases of fuckin' COVID-19, with my fuckin' kid underneath your roof! Why not take him to ..."

"Because, you sanctimonious asshole, I've been a tad fucking busy!" Luigi screamed back into the phone, cutting off Mario who had tried to interrupt him. "Nah, nah, nah! You don't get it! Sal and his chickenshit buddies have been making me work to pad their wallets, all the while Daisy ..." Shaking his head, he touched his lips to the closed fist of his free hand.

"How bad?" demanded the portly plumber in a now flat voice.

"Bad enough."

"Fuck!" he exclaimed; his immediate words terminated by a series of coughs. Wheezing a little, he continued, "Today's the sixteenth. There's no fuckin' way that they'll let me go before the nineteenth. A guy on our team tried to break quarantine and was promptly arrested. I don't know where the fuck they stuck him. I'm perfectly fine with tellin' them to go fuck themselves, but it ain't gonna get me back to New York any quicker. Can you hold on for three more days? I promise you, on our parents' graves, that I'm coming."

"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, we can hold out for three more days."

"What about the Sfacciata? Can you get her to a hospital?"

Luigi shook his head in the empty office. "Nah, we tried that. Sal got one of his quack doctors to take a look at her. Basically, unless you're old and dying already, they're not takin' you. We got her temperature down, but like you, she's got a cough."

"Minchia ..." muttered the former Special Forces engineer, who was mentally creating a list of potential solutions. "Aight, just ... make sure she rests. Tall order, I know. However, the coughing seems to signal the end of it – that's what I've been told, anyway. It hangs there for a week, maybe two. What about Uncle Sal?"

Although unconvinced of Mario's attempts to downplay the gravity of Daisy's case, he nonetheless stated, "He's had a fever and is pretty tired. That's all I've noticed."

"Fuck ... You'd think a sixty-year-old Siciliano, who lives off a Mafia diet of ribeye and cream sauce and smokes like a goddamned chimney, would be a prime target for this thing." Loath to consider his fiancée's present situation, the master plumber fell silent once more at his elder brother's observation. "Aight. Hang in there for three days – I will be there, Luigi. D'you fuckin' hear me? Aight?"

"Yeah."

"Weegie, vi voglio bene – you, Josh, the Sfacciata, and Uncle Sal. I am on the next fuckin' plan outta here, once I get the bastards to sign off."

Managing a faint, albeit forced twitch of his lips, he mumbled, "I know, fratello. Anche ti vogliamo bene."

"Aight. I gotta go now. I'll call in two days with my flight information, okay? Aight?"

"Yeah, Mario. I'll be here."

As the line disconnected, Luigi brushed his thumb against Aaron Matthews's email address on the business card.