Author's notes: Hey everyone! A special thanks to those who have left kudos and comments. Be assured that I have read every one, and I will respond ASAP. Apologies; work has been a particular pain in the ass for the past two months.
That being said, as always, let me know what you think. Thanks!
Chapter 3: The Brooklynite's Ark
Having dropped Josh off at Luigi's shop and assuring him that he would return in one hour due to a sudden and urgent errand, Salvatore made a discrete exit to his apartment twenty minutes away via subway. On route, he sent a quick text message to a scrambled number from his burner phone. Though limited on time, he nonetheless circled several blocks to ensure that no FBI or NYPD followed him before parking in front of and rushing inside the empty brownstone. The two cats woke up and stretched, their inquisitive looks quickly morphing into glares as he brought out the two cat carriers and his two packed suitcases. Sasha let out a loud, plaintive meow while Fyodor attempted to hide underneath the couch. He ignored his pets' protests in favor of bundling essentials from the refrigerator and kitchen – their boiled chicken and vegetables, a jar of blood orange marmalade, a fresh loaf of bread, coffee, and tea – into a farmer's market sack and placing their toys and cat trees into a corner near the door. The cats' ears flattened at the sound of him cleaning and setting their litterboxes next to their trees. Once organized, Sal moved the couch slightly to entrap the frightened Fyodor, who mewed at his owner's attempts to calm him. Locking him into the carrier with a bit of chicken, he reluctantly chased the cagier Sasha; after five minutes of hide-and-seek throughout the apartment, the offended Tsarina gave up and submitted to her temporary prison.
Salvatore checked his watch impatiently, glancing from the parlor window into the street until two large black SUVs pulled up in a line. The driver of the lead car, a burly man with dark hair, sunglasses, and a gray suit, popped the trunk and, leaving the keys inside, advanced from the vehicle toward the front door; the Sicilian opened it and, greeting the man with an embrace, directed him to the suitcases, cats, bags of food, and small pieces of furniture. Nodding, he picked up the cat trees and bags and placed them in the back of the SUV. Salvatore soon followed with the second batch of items – the suitcases – which he placed securely next to the trees. A second and third man, equally burly, yet more casually dressed in leather jackets and jeans, carried out the howling cats and, opening the rear passenger doors, gently slid them on the car seat. After one final trip inside for their litterboxes, which he set on the floor of the passenger compartment, the administrator locked the brownstone and handed the keys to a man in the suit. A final grazie and embrace later, Sal climbed into the driver's side, shut the door, buckled his seatbelt, adjusted the mirrors and seat to his comfort, and sped down the semi-congested avenues of DeKalb and Flatbush, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel at every red light.
Arriving fifteen minutes late, he curb-parked near the shop. Murmuring to the irritated felines that he would come back in a minute, he left the vehicle running and jogged to the entrance, where a concerned Luigi and confused Josh stood waiting. In the plumber's hand was a medium-sized, white pizza box.
"Sorry," announced Sal, who steepled his hands, "I got caught in lunchtime traffic."
"Zio, you took the subway," retorted Luigi incredulously. "How could you have been stuck in traffic?"
The Sicilian sheepishly held up car keys for his nephew's inspection. "I drove back. I'll, uh, explain later. Anyway, I'll take Josh home. We'll meet you there tonight for dinner."
Too stunned to do anything other than nod, the plumber handed the curious Josh the pizza box. "Aight. We saved you a few slices."
"Grazie," he answered with a genuine smile. As his nephew waived goodbye to him and the blond boy, Sal put a hand on the latter's back and escorted him to the black SUV. First opening the front passenger door, he set the pizza box on the seat, then moved to the rear passenger door. Tenderly readjusting the cat carriers to make room for his great-nephew, he hoisted the boy into the free seat, secured him with the safety belt, and shut both doors.
Climbing into the driver's side, he heard Josh exclaim, "Hai dei micini!"
As he pulled away from the curb, Sal chuckled in Italian, "Yes, that's true. They're called Sasha and Fyodor. Do you like cats, niputi?"
"Yeah," the boy answered. "I like cats and dogs. But Babbo says I'm too little."
He nodded sympathetically. "My mother didn't let us have animals, either. When I was a kid, where I'm from, they were kept outside."
"In Italy? Like Mamma?"
Driving southward to Carroll Gardens at a leisurely pace, he gave a slight nod. "Well, your Mamma's from Venice. I'm from Sicily. Palermo. It's a completely different area."
"Why do your cats have strange names?" inquired Josh, abruptly changing the subject.
As he came to a soft stop at the red light, Sal let out a full laugh. "They're Russian names. The cats were given to me as a present from a Russian friend who named them."
"And you didn't give them new names?"
Putting pressure on the gas pedal a few seconds later, he glanced at the curious little boy in the rearview mirror. "No! Their names are their names. Would you like to be renamed something other than Joshua?"
Josh frowned in thought. "Sometimes," he admitted. "Mamma's Cristina. Babbo's Mario. Zio's Weegie. Zia's Daisy ... Margherita. My other Zio's Giuseppe."
Salvatore nodded, giving a somewhat amused look at his junior. "And what would you like to be called, niputi?"
"Topolino!" he exclaimed, causing the Sicilian to laugh loudly again and one of the cats to yowl in response.
"Okay, Topolino, it is," proclaimed the driver, much to the blond boy's excitement who, for the remainder of the ten-minute ride, launched into his favorite story about the aforementioned character and Minnie Mouse. Wedging the large black SUV alongside his nephew's brownstone in the sole legal space, Salvatore shut off the engine and, with a final glance in the rearview mirror to see if anyone had followed him, departed the vehicle to open Josh's door, unbuckle the little one from the rear seat, and lift him to the sidewalk. After he had handed him the key and requested in Italian that he unlock the front door, he softly grabbed the top handles of the two cat carriers and chattered reassuringly to the angry fluffs chirping their displeasure. Josh, who was waiting at the threshold, stared in anticipation at the animals – he could teach them tricks and perhaps get them to jump. The older man, however, shook his head at him and gestured for both of them to enter. Josh pouted for a second, then reluctantly went inside the brownstone. A few steps behind and a cat carrier in each hand, Sal kept a watchful eye on his keen great-nephew as he passed into the sitting room. Like a cartoon mummy, Josh held out his hands to push his fingers at the irritable Neva Masquerades; the taller adult simply lifted the carriers out of his reach, causing the blond to let out a plaintive whine, brought them upstairs to the master bedroom, and set them atop the wall shelf. Murmuring to the micini that he would return shortly, he walked through the living room where, like his father was prone to do, the little boy had balled his fists in frustration.
"Why can't we play?!" he demanded.
Watery blue met serious brown. "Because, niputinu, they are tired and hungry. Would you want to play when you don't know where you are and you're hungry?"
Josh huffed and slammed his arms together, reluctant to acknowledge his elder's valid point. Unwilling to debate the issue further, Salvatore left the sullen child to bring in the rest of his and the cats' belongings. Having finished the move roughly fifteen minutes later, he shut the door, still ignoring the tantruming Josh, placed the pizza box on the kitchen table, and arranged the litter boxes and cat trees on the first floor. Once he was satisfied, the olive-skinned man retreated to the bathroom to wash his hands and proceeded upstairs to fetch the meowing cats. Now within his sight, the blond calmed his tears to observe the animals. Making sure that his great-nephew was relaxed and quiet, the mafioso entreated Josh to sit down on the floor. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he handed the boy a small trickle of pungent chicken treats.
"Watch," Sal ordered him quietly. His blue eyes focused on the olive-skinned hand which unzipped the carriers to free the frightened Sasha and Fyodor and presented each a few cat treats. The latter sniffed, licked, and finally chewed the food; the Tsarina pointed her nose upward, demanding a more significant tribute from her insolent human. Sniggering and shaking his head, Salvatore gestured at the boy to present the chicken treats to her. Her fiery blue eyes narrowed at the small fingers, and she lifted her lip to display her canine. Fyodor slowly trotted out of the carrier to track the treats, at whom Sasha let out a deep growl and hiss. The lynx-point cat's ears flattened on his head, and he turned away from his irate sister to beg for more treats. "Let's give Her Majesty some space," said Sal to his somewhat disappointed nephew. "She'll come out when she's ready." Extending his hand to Josh, which the latter took, he escorted him to the kitchen where each helped himself to a half-slice of lukewarm pizza. Fyodor leisurely strutted across the vinyl flooring, pausing every few steps to sniff and look around the smaller cuisine; he inched closer to the humans, hopeful that a crumb or piece of chicken might fall into his path. A second chuckle came from Salvatore and, taking pity on the cream-colored fluff, rose from his seat to fix a plate of leftover boiled chicken.
Finding a quiet desk where a first- or second-year associate would not be interrupted was a bit like winning the lottery; usually, the third- and fourth-year associates would, if necessary, sleep in the office building so as to score the first available space away from the senior associates and partners on the prowl for assistance for an excitingly boring report-cum-project. Among the junior associates, it was known as "Partner Palimony" or, even more colorfully, "Bait and Bend Over." Desirous to achieve billable hours and return to her plumber in time for dinner, the unenthusiastic Daisy had slipped from their bed, showered, dressed in a dark gray suit, poured coffee into her mug, and forewent breakfast to arrive at Lander and Bardeau at a little after five in the morning to secure the last remaining desk in the library stacks. There, she put on her Linkin Park and P!nk iPhone playlist through her Bose headphones and worked uninterrupted until a little before noon when she had no choice but to attend the seventh fucking pointless meeting of the week. Frustrated at having achieved perhaps twenty percent of what she had wanted to accomplish, Daisy cleared the workspace and headed to the elevators where she went up to the fifty-second floor and main conference room. Although she inwardly rolled her eyes at the aforementioned fucking meeting, the inner voice of her father firmly ordered her to seize upon the associates were never invited to the partner conference room prior to their fifth or sixth year – if they stayed for that long.
She needed a second cup of coffee and a couple of aspirin.
Two floors below her destination, the elevators doors parted to allow a flock of black-suited senior lawyers inside, eclipsing her. As the doors began to close, a slender masculine hand stopped them, and an equally dark-suited, taller man entered. Absolutely not in the mood, Daisy held her gaze away from the man, silently thankful that they were in an elevator and thus conversation was considered a faux pas. The lanky lawyer in his late thirties inched closer to the woman and remained there until the doors opened a final time. Setting a brisk pace toward the hallowed room, she secretly groaned when larger, Italian leather-covered footsteps caught up and eventually flanked her.
"Good afternoon, Daisy Abravanel," he greeted her in a jovial, albeit self-assured voice.
Summoning all of her professionalism and goodwill, she countered while keeping her eyes on the conference room door, "Afternoon, David." First, Mario and Peach; second, not being home with Luigi; now, this?!
He flashed a bright grin, jogging to intercept her at the door. Two steps shy, he guided her off to a corner, hand firmly planted in the middle of her back. "Ah, my favorite associate! Despite the last-minute notice, I think it's going to be an interesting meeting. A big, juicy case."
She gave him a polite, though brief smile. "You mean, a potentially juicy case for you?"
David nodded and shrugged a little. "That, too. We'll see what the senior partners decide. Steve hasn't said one way or another."
"Well, you never know," she responded noncommittally.
The six-foot-two man frowned. "Aren't you curious? You know, Daisy, if you're going to make it to the Big Time, you have to be a little shark in the water. Tuna is kosher; with just a bit of mayo, it makes a tasty sandwich." Leaning vaguely into her personal space, he chortled, "So what will it be? Blood in the water or make tuna sandwiches?" Daisy impassively raised an eyebrow at him, to which he shrugged. "Your call. Be sure to take down detailed notes, please. I'll review them before I leave." Starting to walk into the conference room, he suddenly halted in his tracks. "Oh, yeah, can you get me a legal pad and a cup of coffee? Thanks."
Behind his back, she mouthed a few choice invectives in Judeo-Spanish and Portuguese. David Nemirovsky, whom she called 'David the Nimrod,' was a constant pain in her ass. Having been named partner about four months prior, he was one of the firm's rising attorneys in intellectual property and data protection law. To clients and opposing counsel, Nemirovsky was a known attack dog who gleefully eviscerated arguments point by point; to his fellow partners, he was a backslapper who pretended to enjoy bourbon and golf as much as the law; to paralegals and associates, he was a lazy, puerile assclown who treated them as secretaries and personal assistants. Most quit; a handful, via shady favors and ass-kissing to fellow partners, were able to escape David the Nimrod. Daisy, however, became his 'special support animal;' aside from bringing him coffee, fetching lunch from the deli down the street – which he could trust her to do because she understood kashrut – and doing his inventory, she also, like in some screwed-up Jane Austen novel, served as his amanuensis. At home and to her parents, she rarely spoke of these compelled activities, under which she and her early-career colleagues meekly classified as the dreaded other duties as assigned. Her father, a managing partner of the titular Abravanel, Aronson, and Porter, LLP in San Francisco, would no doubt tell her to grin, bear, and advance her budding career under the Nimrod's guidance. Conversely, and in spite of his keen understanding of 'paying one's dues' as the manager of a union shop, Luigi loathed the man to the extraordinary degree that it provoked the rare, genuine argument between the two. His antipathy had begun at the annual holiday party, to which Daisy and her 'plus one' had been invited. The handsome Italian American in the Armani tuxedo had attracted attention from both associate and partner; believing him to be a wealthy businessman or engineer, which had not been inaccurate, they welcomed him with a bourbon and a cigar. Soon afterward, however, they discovered that his main profession was plumbing, albeit with an industrial engineering focus, and he was a first-generation New Yorker whose parents and grandparents hailed from Sicily and Abruzzo. A self-professed snob, the Italian Catholic plumber earned the ire of the firm's newest partner, and he made relentless wisecracks about the state of Manhattan's pipes as well as Luigi's love of the Mets. The insulted plumber excused himself shortly thereafter, and for the rest of the evening, kept within a foot of his lover's proximity.
Spinning on her heel toward, then away from the small storage room, Daisy remembered that she – unlike that bumbling Ashkenazi fuck – came prepared and often carried five fresh yellow pads at any given point. Furthermore, if the senior and junior partners would be present, coffee and tea would likely be served. Taking another calming breath, she put on her professionally dispassionate demeanor and entered the room where fifteen professionals in thousand-dollar suits sat in plush black leather executive chairs around a colossal, cherry-wood oval table, legal volumes lining the matching wood-paneled walls. Her amber-colored eyes zeroed in two notable particulars: first, two coffee pots, various creamers, and sugar packets were placed strategically on the table so that any caffeine-starved attorney could serve himself; second, all the chairs were inexplicably taken, despite the conference room being able to seat twenty or more people.
"Oh, Miss Abravanel," called out the sixties-something man at the head of the table, "you can grab a chair from outside. We're about to start."
The woman nodded respectfully at the senior partner, Steven Cochrane, she quickly left the room and, searching all around for a chair that she could lift, saw none. Thinking fast, she ran down the hall to the nearest closed-yet-unlocked office door, which contained a wobbly swivel chair. With no time to locate a better option, she began pushing it to the conference room, marveling at just how, in a new office and new building, there happened to be enough chairs for them only. Re-entering as unobtrusively as possible, she pushed the chair to a spot behind David along the wall.
"Good," concluded Cochrane, "we can start."
Daisy started to unpack her computer to take notes when David reached behind him with an open hand. Biting her lip to refrain from jabbing his palm with her pen, she handed him a new legal pad.
Throughout the senior partner's opening remarks about business related matters and the new case, the young attorney tried to diligently write down essential points as requested, although her eyelids closed every so often, her body abruptly struck by fatigue. Sometimes, she hated this particular job; aside from rising before the sun and going home well after her plumber had fallen asleep in their bed, she had no time for personal interests, including the multitude of sports in which she had been active over the course of her college and law school days. Although she had noticed that she had become less fit in recent months and weeks, running across the hall had drained her. Making a mental note to schedule a half-hour in the law office gym at lunch or before dinner, she forced herself to refocus.
"About two weeks ago, AXD Corporation detected a previously unknown intrusion in their systems. Their security department is still collecting evidence, but they assert that the date of the break-in could have been as early as three months prior. Not only were their employees' nonpublic information stolen and possibly placed on the dark web, but also that of their clients. They have a robust system security plan and associated policies in line with PCI and NIST compliance. Normally, this is open and shut; notify the users and mitigate damages according to their risk and disaster policies. Hope to Christ that cybercriminals don't use their financial data." Cochrane paused to allow David and the other senior lawyers to nod and make notes. "However, there is an added dimension which would ... interest this firm. AXD was not the first victim; from what the IT Director claims, the back door is traceable to Whitaker and Branson HQ."
At this point, whereas three lawyers let out a long, impressed whistle, others leaned back in their chairs, muttering goddamn and shit. Whitaker and Branson was one of the largest and oldest financing services in North America, whose assets were worth trillions; in addition to the millions of patrons nationwide, its VIP bankers managed the investment and retirement portfolios of roughly two-thirds of the senior partnership.
Clearing his throat, the managing partner went on, "David, since you're our resident data security expert, you'll be taking this case. AXD's CEO, Bob Seidel, the COO, Vijay Bhagavatula, and the IT Director, John Aslanyan, are available for consultation. Let's find out how deep the rabbit hole goes."
Nemirovsky, who was finishing a summary of points, responded, "Understood, Steve. Well, the good news is that I don't bank there." A few audible groans and sparsely mumbled insults of fucking asshole and prick were heard in the room, much to Daisy's concealed amusement.
"Excellent. Keep us informed." With those concluding remarks, the senior partnership rose from their chairs. Eager to retrieve her aspirin bottle and a cup of hot tea, the only woman also stood from her old swivel chair along the cherry-paneled wall and, gathering her laptop and messenger bag, moved to leave when she felt a firm masculine hand on her shoulder.
"I'll be in my office in ten; we'll meet there," commanded the junior partner.
Groaning for the third or fourth time, she gave him a curt nod and proceeded to the elevator where the doors nearly shut in her face. After one of the senior partners placed a large hand to allow her passage inside, she nestled herself at the front down to her colleague's medium-sized corner office on the forty-ninth floor. She checked her watch and decided to give him twenty minutes; in the meantime, she ambled into the central break room, took two aspirin for her budding headache, and made herself a cup of cheap Earl Grey.
She had finished the first cup and was preparing a second by the time David the Nimrod finally arrived at his office. "Hey, can you get me a coffee? Thanks," he asked-ordered while unlocking his office. A minute and a half and two full-fledged fantasies of murdering the New York lawyer afterward, she returned with his light roast – two sugars and a splash of soy milk – which he absently accepted. "Okay, let's review your notes."
Daisy's amber orbs widened. "Uh, you told me end of business day. I haven't had time to organize and ..."
David raised a dark brown eyebrow as he was reading an email. "I didn't think it would take that long to type up a few notes on a twenty-minute meeting."
She bit her lip angrily and rubbed her aching head. "Okay, I apologize. If you'll excuse me, I'll do it now ..."
He shrugged without looking at her. "No need. I already know what it's about. The question is, do you?"
"As you said, it was a twenty-minute meeting, of which seven minutes dealt with AXD's discovery of a back door that Whitaker and Branson somehow 'forgot' to report, thus violating New York's Shield Law. At the very least. If they have government contracts, then their lawyers will find work well into the next two or three decades," deadpanned the woman, crossing her arms.
Chuckling, Nemirovsky began a "reply-to" message. "You bank with Whitaker and Branson, Daisy?"
"No. Luigi and I use a credit union in Brooklyn."
He hummed noncommittally. Once he had concluded and sent the message, he closed his Outlook. "Now, I would've thought Mr. Bensonhurst Plumber would want to build his portfolio. I mean, I've heard the retirement pension can be ridiculously sweet in unions, but New York gets more and more expensive every year. High yield is where it's at." Refocusing his brown eyes on his junior colleague, David added, "The CEO and COO are available for interview at their office tomorrow morning at 9 am sharp. We'll also interview the IT guy. Wear a nice skirt suit; let's give these guys something to look at."
Daisy tried to keep her eyes from narrowing into cat-like slits. Fucking pig. "Okay," she managed.
"And it's nearly one o'clock. I'd kill for a pastrami on rye. Salt and vinegar chips. Tell Moe to put it on my tab."
Tiredly, she nodded, opting to consider the personal errand as a brief respite for air and a bagel. The brightly lit hallway led her to the elevators where, luckily, there were fewer people riding the lift between the forty-odd levels to the tall, glass windows of the ground floor. Pushing the heavy revolving door to the wide sidewalk running alongside West 34th Street, a blast of cool March air strangely felt good against her burning face and throbbing temples. The lawyer adjusted the messenger bag across her body, then started the ten-minute walk to Moe's Deli off 7th Avenue. Despite the decent early-spring sunshine and fifty-degree weather, the stream of glass and concrete, blooming trees, and brick-red bus lanes seemed to stay at a standstill, the normally brisk pace slowing unacceptably for the woman. She impelled herself faster – or at least tried to – toward the semi-distant Empire State Building until she was forced to stop for air.
Was she really that out of shape?
Following a couple badly needed puffs of exhaust-flavored oxygen, Daisy continued down 34th Street and eventually made a left onto 7th Avenue. The journey to Moe's took fifteen minutes. Wobbling inside, she went up to the counter where a sixties-something, balding, overweight man wearing a red logoed shirt of the restaurant was working on three orders simultaneously. "Yo, David wants his usual?" he asked in a booming voice.
"Yeah, Moe," she answered.
He nodded, momentarily glancing up at her. "What about you? You're not lookin' too good. I'd suggest some matzah ball soup, but you're one of those Millennials who don't eat even kosher meat. So how's about some pea soup? Nothin' with legs were harmed."
She managed a gracious smile. "Okay."
"You got it, honey. Give me five minutes. Have a seat." Too tired to argue, she dragged her body to the nearest booth and sat down to rest and zone out until the owner had prepared Nemirovsky's pastrami sandwich combo and her pea soup. It only felt like seconds had passed when Moe called her up for the order; as the auburn-haired woman reached into the front pocket of her bag for her wallet, he waived her off with a large hand. "It's on the house this time. So's the cookie and orange juice. Dave can be such a yutz."
"Thank you," replied the grateful Daisy, who accepted the paper bags of food. "Have a good one."
"You too. Take care, honey."
Easing out of the deli, she took her time, step by step, to return to Lander and Bardeau. At each crosswalk, the lawyer ingested a little of the ice-cold orange juice and reminded herself that, with a little bit of fresh air, exercise, extra fluids, and sleep, she would be right as rain. Perhaps in order to make up for the loss on the way to the deli, time moved faster this time, and she arrived at the familiar glass revolving door in nine minutes. Still in a hurry, she spied the elevator doors opening and closing; her legs somehow propelled her forward so that she would stop the last departing lift. Food bags and her orange juice in each hand, she skidded inside the crowded interior and requested those nearest to the buttons to press "49." Her mind fled the enclosed space, instead picturing her soft bed in Carroll Gardens and the comfort of a certain mustachioed plumber who would no doubt fret over his unwell fiancée and feed her anything she desired – Szechuan noodles or a vegetable curry sounded divine.
"Hey, I think this is your floor," spoke a somewhat impatient male voice coming from behind her.
Daisy blinked in disbelief. "Oh, yeah. Thanks." Allowing her body to travel to David's office on autopilot, Daisy felt her hand knock on his door. "Here's your lunch." Dickhead, she added internally.
Prior to her return, David had removed his black suit coat and draped it over the back of his chair, leaving his gray pattered tie and white dress shirt visible. He tilted his head to the corner of his desk, his brown eyes continuing to focus on the laptop screen. "Yeah, just set it there. Have your observations on today's meeting typed up by end of today. Also, there are a couple of partners that want to go to the Flute for drinks at five. I realize that caviar isn't exactly vegetarian, and I too may pass on it, but the champagnes are an experience. And I do think they have a cheese tasting plate."
"Uh, David, can I take a raincheck? I'll have those notes typed up, but I'm ... uh ... feeling under the weather. I think I just need a few extra hours of sleep before tomorrow's meeting," she murmured sheepishly.
Upon hearing her request, the junior partner's eyes darted from the computer to her rose-and-white-colored face. "Are you sure that you can't take some echinacea or Alka Seltzer? Showing your pretty face to the partners is important if you want to move beyond your second and third years. And besides, we'll need to work late during the next few weeks; free time won't be in abundance."
She nodded. "That's precisely why I'm asking. I'd rather get ahead of it now."
Exhaling in exasperation, Nemirovsky leaned back and swiveled in his chair for a full minute. "Alright," he relented. "Finish your work and notes by five o'clock. Then be ready to go at AXD HQ in the morning. Nine sharp."
Daisy mumbled a thanks and excused herself to spend the rest of the afternoon completing her tasks in a nearby associate cubicle. Eager to go home and rest, she left the pea soup and cookie untouched until three-thirty when they were just below a lukewarm temperature. Satisfied at having finished her observations and two motions, both of which she sent to Nemirovsky and another senior colleague for further review, she packed up her belongings, rode the elevator forty-nine floors to ground, and prepared to tread the couple hundred feet to the subway. Yet the throbbing in her head obliged her to reconsider; averse to endure the usual three-quarters of an hour of MTA-sponsored standing, pushing, and shoving to Brooklyn, she used her iPhone to call for an Uber to take her to Carroll Gardens. Throughout the forty-minute drive along the Hudson and western edge of Manhattan, she dozed off twice, which was, even on two hours of sleep, uncharacteristic for her. Each time she caught herself after ten minutes, amber eyes flying open at the realization of what had occurred. The driver, an Arab man in his fifties, said nothing except, "You work much?"
She smiled a little. "Yeah, I'm a lawyer."
Mumbling a mumtaz, he responded, "You almost home. Husband waiting."
The red Uber car finally pulled up behind a large black SUV which Daisy did not recognize. After thanking the driver and bidding him a good evening, she left the vehicle and, moving slowly alongside, examined it. Luigi's going to be pissed that someone's parked in his spot. At the thought of her kerido's inevitable rant, she checked her phone for the time: 5:31 p.m. That was odd; he had not yet returned from work. Creating a mental note to call him in thirty, she fished out her keys and stepped up the brownstone staircase, only to find the door unlocked. Although an intruder, even in that part of New York, was unlikely in the early evening, Daisy nonetheless proceeded with caution, quietly creeping past the front door and into the hallway, until she saw a longhaired seal point cat standing before her, its tail tapping against the vinyl. Then a set of footsteps echoed from the kitchen, and an olive-skinned figure emerged in her line of sight.
"Shalom, sobrinha. It's been a while," greeted Salvatore in the bright grin reserved for his immediate family.
"S-Salvatore? What are you doing here? Where's Luigi?" she managed, being both a little stunned and frightened at his sudden presence.
He put up his hands. "It's okay. I'm watching Josh. He's upstairs taking a pisolino before dinner. And," he looked downward to the fluffy animal who had not shifted, "you've met Sasha. I'm sure her brother, Fyodor, is sleeping on the couch. As for Luigi, I'd have thought he'd have been home by now. Must have gotten stuck at the shop."
She nodded deliberately, trying to digest the appearance of her fiancé's mafioso uncle and Luigi's delay in returning home. Yet the more that she tried to think about them, the more her head sent lightning bolts to her temples.
Salvatore's amiable expression changed into a deep frown. "Sobrinha, are you alright?"
"Yeah," Daisy answered a little too quickly. "Yeah, I just ... I've had a headache all day. It's probably work. I think I'm going to go upstairs for a bit. If Luigi doesn't come home in thirty, I'll give him a call." She turned toward the stairs and weakly crept upward. After staggering into the master bedroom, she realized that she had failed to remove her coat and messenger bag to the hallway hooks, and she was carrying the unfinished orange juice and pea soup. Sinking onto the mattress, she tossed off her coat, messenger bag, and dress shoes to the floor and set the food on the night table. Then she lay her throbbing head and sweaty skin upon the pillows of her side of the bed.
It had felt like mere seconds when she felt a firm hand shake her awake. "Cat-face?" rasped an anxious voice in the dim light of the evening.
Daisy tried to roll in the direction of Luigi's voice, yet all she could do was faintly twist. "Hmm?"
The plumber slowly sat at the bed's edge, creating a small depression next to her legs. "Hey, sweetie. Uncle Sal told me that you weren't feeling well. We've got some dinner downstairs. You should try to eat something."
She winced a little. "Oh, I ... I think I'm just tired. I've been working sixty hours or more for the past couple months. I'll be fine; I just need a little rest." Swallowing harshly, she queried, "Why ... is Sal here? Cats?"
In the shadows, Luigi scoffed. "He's the, uh, mouthpiece of the You-Know-Who. They thought it was best for me to go back to work and to send Josh to Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucia's. He watched Josh for the day. Next thing I know, he's basically moved in and wants to keep Josh here." In spite of the lack of visual focus from her aching head, she recognized her fiancé's signs of an imminent panic attack – lip-biting, hand fidgeting, and glassy blue eyes. "Cat-face, I don't ... Something doesn't feel right. I think Sal senses it, too."
"What do you mean, kerido?"
"This ... thing. This virus. The news said there are more cases, and the WHO's said this is now a pandemic. Mario's ... Mario's never gone this long without contacting me. Not even after ... Pops died. I don't like this." Shaking his head vehemently, he exclaimed, "Let's take Josh and get the fuck out of New York. Tomorrow first thing. It's being spread via air travel, so it's probably ..."
In an attempt to prop herself up to speak to him at eye level, Daisy winced, her head and upper part of the body aching. She heard Luigi rush to help her lean against the headboard while she interjected, "What ...? Kerido, have you lost it? You've got the shop and I ... We just got a big case, and I have to interview the client tomorrow morning. Plus, where would we go? It's in California, too."
Even in near dark, she could feel his heated stare. "Cat-face, I'm serious! I really don't like this. The shop doesn't matter nearly as much as your and Josh's safety! And we could rent somewhere near the Bay Area. Or go upstate where are fewer people."
"I can't," Daisy groused, eyes downcast. "If I leave now, I may never find another job in New York. Your family is here, and I couldn't ..."
Luigi, who vibrated with unspoken anxiety and anger, rubbed his hand over his face and mustache. "Then we'd go to California where you could!" Seizing her hand in his, he pleaded, "I'm marrying you, Daisy Abravanel. I love you! You are my family – first and foremost. Mario gets it! Peach gets it!"
"But Giuseppe and ..."
"To fucking hell with them!" he hissed crossly. "To hell with them all!"
Before she could respond, the hallway light switched on behind the plumber's now visible frame, and they both turned toward the approaching eclipsed silhouette.
"Is everything alright?" inquired the man's calm tenor.
"Yeah," he growled, whose back continued to face the former priest.
As the dark figure came closer, Daisy noticed that a smaller figure trembled just behind him. "I wanted to see if Daisy wanted to eat." Salvatore's apprehensive face became visible following a few more steps. When he halted just behind the quivering Luigi, Josh zoomed around them to jump on the vacant side of the bed and next to his beloved aunt. The plumber opened his mouth to reprimand his nephew for not requesting permission, only to shut it upon seeing identically blue, frightened eyes staring at the ill woman and the two older men.
"Guys, I appreciate the concern. Really. I'm just under the weather. I'll be okay in the morning. You'll see," she insisted in Italian for Josh's benefit.
Luigi turned hotly to his fiancée, retorting in English, "Goddamnit! Is your presence at this fucking meeting really that important?"
Daisy, now irritated at her lover's tone and reluctance to accept her decision, snarled, "Yes! Jesus! You were late coming home to work tonight, yet I didn't question it. I never question it! Why? Because it's your job! Well, this is my job, too!"
In a Marioesque toss of his right hand, he leaped from the bed, shook his head, and, storming out, yelled, "Fuck!"
Following his departure, Salvatore steepled his hands to the quiet woman in bed and the teary-eyed Josh, who had become frightened at his uncle's rare loss of temper, and murmured in Italian, "It's okay, niputinu. Adults fight sometimes. It's not your fault. Why don't you go to your room for a minute? I'll be there in five minutes, and we'll go downstairs to watch television. Your choice, huh?"
Josh, who was wiping his tears with the back of his hand, nodded. His aunt reached over to caress his blond hair, adding in a soft voice, "I'm sorry, nipote. Uncle Luigi's sorry, too. We didn't mean to frighten you." He nodded again to her, satisfied with the apology, and tottered to his room to wait for his great uncle.
Now left alone, Sal moved to sit on the edge of the bed. "Sobrinha, what's this meeting? Luigi could've handled it better, but he's not wrong. Things are really bad in Italy. And ... there are more cases here in New York. We don't know where Mario or Cristina are."
She exhaled sharply and closed her eyes against the renewed pulsing in her temples. "We just got a case this afternoon. My supervisor wants me there to interview the clients. We'll need that information to put together a list for deposition. It's a case that could make my career. Plus, they're my clients, and the judicial system doesn't wait on one lawyer who's not feeling well."
He gave a single, curt nod, though his gaze moved to somewhere to the left of her. "Alright. You rest; I'll handle Luigi. I'll be back in an hour or so but call if you need anything."
Watching him rise to leave, she called out, "Salvatore?" He halted, waiting for her to continue. "Why did you ... W-Why are you staying with us?"
His eyes shifted for a moment, as if reflecting upon all potential answers, then replied, "Because things aren't right, sobrinha. Rest now." Too weak to protest, she sank against the pillows and closed her eyes. Satisfied that she would not try to move, Salvatore quietly withdrew from the bedroom, shutting the door behind him, and headed to the upstairs guest room, where an anxious Josh sat atop the bed. "Josh, vieni!" he whispered with a smile. Content that the older man had kept his promise, he grinned and ran to him. Sal took the little boy by the hand and led him downstairs to an empty living room. The latter immediately seized the remote control, turned on the television, and began to flip through the channels. Murmuring in Italian that he would be right back, the olive-skinned man walked into the vacant kitchen to find that the backyard door was unlocked; he pushed it open a crack to reveal a slumped Luigi clutching a lit cigarette between his right middle and index fingers. Sal shut the door unobtrusively to give the younger man time to regroup.
He could use a cigarette himself.
On the way back to the living room, he felt the burner phone buzz in the back of his jeans pocket. With an irritated growl, he took out the phone and responded, "Pronto." Although the phone call only lasted eight seconds, his dark brown eyes widened with each coded word spoken to him. Hanging up, he rushed into the living room, narrowly missing Josh's prone body a few feet away from the television, to grab his laptop, log in, and access Twitter. Typing a short query in the search box, the mafioso, speechless at the result, ambled backward until his thin calves collided with the sofa, the vibration in turn disturbed the sleeping, coiled Fyodor on the left-most cushion.
"NBA To Suspend Season Following Tonight's Games.
New York, March 11, 2020 – The NBA announced that a player for the Utah Jazz has preliminarily tested positive for COVID-19. The test result was reported shortly prior to the tip-off of tonight's game between the Jazz and Oklahoma City Thunder at Chesapeake Energy Arena. At that time, tonight's game was canceled. The affected player was not in the arena.
The NBA is suspending game play following the conclusion of tonight's schedule of games until further notice. The NBA will use this hiatus to determine next steps for moving forward in regard to the coronavirus pandemic."
Salvatore tried to swallow over the growing lump in his throat. In the springtime, the biggest moneymakers for people in his profession were the NBA Cup and March Madness – more specifically, illegal online betting. If the NBA suspended the rest of the season, the NCAA would follow suit, and the Moranos would lose millions in annual profit. It also meant that their usual rackets in the travel industry – skimming tax from vacation packages to and from major American and Italian cities – would grind to a halt. Loss of profit meant that gluttonous caporegimes and their lieutenants would soon be on the hunt for suitable 'alternatives,' even at the expense of their fellow mafiosi and of captains in other gangs.
Forcing a smile for his great-nephew's benefit, he nevertheless bit his lip in a fretful realization that the foreign pandemic had invaded America.
Although Luigi and Salvatore had put on a brave face and relaxedly bid a good night to the unassuming Josh, neither of them would sleep well. Whereas the latter, who had taken the couch bed downstairs, stared at the city lights and shadows dancing across the ceiling, the former kept vigil on his slumbering fiancée as well as his still silent iPhone. For the ninth time that evening and early morning, he scrolled through the four missed calls from Uncle Joe and Yoshi. Luckily, the plumber had been too busy to receive Giuseppe and had left a message on his phone to skip their usual Wednesday lunch; he could not have handled his adoptive father's political conspiracy theories or rants about him and Daisy postponing their wedding plans again for the fourth time. With deep blue, glassy eyes, he gazed at the sleeping beauty next to him. No doubt it was that fucking David Nemirovsky's idea for an ill Daisy Abravanel to interview these super-special clients, as if the world would end if she needed to miss a day or two. Luigi normally kept his pointed opinions on her senior colleague to himself; he knew that Daisy disliked him as much as he. Yet the deeply primal part of him, the masculine animal which he prided himself on suppressing in favor of a more civilized, twenty-first-century approach to relationships, hated the other male's influence upon his future wife; it feared that Nemirovsky's interest in her went a tad further than mere professional courtesy. As the plumber felt his free hand curl into a fist, his more rational inner voice, which sounded suspiciously like that of his therapist, Rosalina Czernin, reminded him that he earned his princess's love, loyalty, and affection.
He still wanted to kill the prick. When Mario returned, they could take care of him together.
Mario.
The reason why he bought his first pack of Marlboros in nearly four years.
What was so goddamned important that he could not, in six days, email or leave a brief message after the beep? Did something happen in New Orleans? Did he get on a plane to locate Peach?
Running through every conceivable scenario, Luigi soon lost track of time, only becoming aware of the impending New York City sunrise with the echo of a few insistent chirps from downstairs and a few footsteps to signal that his maternal uncle had gone to the kitchen to feed his hungry cats. About three minutes later, he heard the door to the backyard creak ajar. His fingers began to tremble; looking to the motionless feminine form, the plumber privately repeated like a mantra how disappointed she would be to find him smoking again. To calm his craving, he visualized a morning Oahu beach wedding: a stocky Hawaiian officiant presiding over a quick marriage ceremony between he and Daisy, both dressed in white beachwear with multicolored leis hanging around his neck and around her head. The concluding kiss between him and his new wife against the backdrop of the pale blue Pacific was interrupted by a faint moan; Luigi pivoted his head to the semi-conscious Daisy, whose eyes had started to flutter open. A quick glance to his iPhone rekindled his dismay and worry – 5:02 a.m. Before he could greet her, she slowly rolled to a sitting position, ran a hand through her matted, sweaty auburn strands, and wrinkled her nose at the gray pants suit ensemble in which she had fallen asleep. She pushed the blankets off her body to enter the bathroom, shower, and change into fresh clothes.
"Sweetie, it's only five o'clock," pleaded Luigi in a soft voice so as not to disturb the child in the room next door. "Come back to bed."
Daisy flashed him a faint smile. "Bom día, kerido. I'm okay; really." Yet upon entering the ensuite, she felt her blood vessels begin to pommel her skull, and she suddenly felt ice-cold. With the removal of each layer and item of soiled clothing, her body shivered more and more violently until she wobbled from the vibration. Reaching into the glass shower stall, she pulled the handle as far as possible toward her, then stomped in place to wait for the release of steam from the heated water. A moment later, she hopped into the stall, closed the heavy door, and positioned herself under the fullest part of the spray. Although she continued to tremble, Daisy regained some of her strength from the sauna-like environment. Now suitably warm, she picked up her favorite lavender shampoo from one of the corner shelves, poured a half-palm-sized amount into her hand, and massaged it into her titian strands and scalp. She moved slightly to the side to let it moisturize her medium length hair while keeping within a half-inch away from the direct warmth of the water.
The shivers renewed vigorously at the glass door shifting ajar.
"Jesus Christ!" shouted a voice to the rear of her. "This water's fucking boiling!"
Quickly rinsing shampoo from her hair and face, she looked diagonally behind, where a nude Luigi tried to step inside, albeit away from the superhot stream. Even though he had shouted in surprise, his blue eyes were far more alarmed than angry. "It's freezing, kerido," she whispered. "Did you turn off the heat last night? Did Sal? Maybe he turned down the temperature when you went to bed?"
He gaped at her, squinting through the hot mist. "Sweetie ... you know I keep it at seventy on the dot. I could check the thermostat, but I felt warm. You know that I don't sleep well above seventy."
Giving him an uncertain nod, Daisy rotated to the shelves a second time to apply body wash. Luigi, unmoving like a statue of the Italian Renaissance, watched his fiancée bathe. On a normal day, he would enjoy the loofah sliding across her mounds, flat stomach, and shapely legs until he could no longer remain a mere spectator; however, instead of budding arousal, he felt the crashing of his heart against his ribcage.
"Not going to join me, plumber?" she snickered in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Luigi made a half step forward and chewed on his lip. "Cat-face ... Daisy, I ... I think you should stay home."
Turning around to face him, she kept the hot water on her back and cupped some of the errant spray to wash the lather from her skin. "Sweetie, I can't. I had to bargain with David to let me go home at a normal hour to rest." At the blue flame that ignited in his orbs, she took his hand and intertwined their fingers. "I know how you feel about him. I don't disagree. But I've worked so hard to remain in my second year. And you said it yourself: I have to pay my dues. This new case ... it's what I went to NYU for. If I get ... asked to leave, I may not get another associate's position here, not even at the mid-size law firms. And despite what you say about going to California, I know how much Mario, Peach, Josh, and even," she sniggered playfully, "as uptight and invasive as he can be, Giuseppe, mean to you. To say nothing of Salvatore, Yoshi, Birdo, and Miles. Plus, I like it here. I want to be here." During her rejoinder, the dubious master plumber had transferred his gaze away from her to the shower glass. She shuffled so that they were within an inch or two of each other and untangled their hands to run her fingertips along his sparce chest hair. The blue flame in his eyes darkened. "Besides, my dear plumber, I have a few days of vacation coming up. Hawaii, remember? I'm still holding you to that."
He closed his eyes in resignation. "Alright. On one condition." She raised her eyebrow and waited for him to speak. "I drive you to wherever you need to go. You're not riding the subway or using Uber in your condition. When you're done, you call me. Not text, not email – a call.I don't give a flying Manhattan goose-fuck what that assclown David Nemirovsky thinks, says, or does. Just ..." he trailed off, blinking against the beads of hot water dripping down his eyelids and lashes. "Give me that piece of mind, please."
She nodded. "That's not unreasonable, sweetie. I'll do as you ask."
"Grazie," he murmured, taking her hand to bring it to his lips. Thoroughly cleaned, a hesitant Daisy pushed open the glass door, moaning at the blast of cold air that encircled her body. As Luigi moved to reduce the water temperature for his shower, the shivering woman seized two large plum-colored towels, wrapped herself in one, and proceeded to dry herself with the other. From inside the stall, the plumberkept an observant eye; he grew more distressed when she took a third towel to cover the first one and left the ensuite. He hurriedly finished soaping himself, sprayed off the lather, and turned off the lever. Exiting, he snatched the remaining green terrycloth, toweled his soaked form, and wrapping it around his waist, darted out of the bathroom to find an unsteady Daisy putting on a thick bathrobe. The faint sway soon became a full loss of balance, and he immediately launched forward to support the Brazilian Leaning Tower. His arms then snaked around her torso to pull her back against him. "Jesus Christ," he panted into her neck, kissing it.
"I'm okay," she answered, though her voice sounded more uncertain than a few minutes ago.
"Like hell you are," deadpanned Luigi.
They stayed in that embrace until Daisy's shaking stopped. Grudgingly, he released her to resume dressing. Since he had no major meetings or important visitors that day, he set out a more relaxed wardrobe: undergarments, a pair of blue jeans, a button-down sea-green shirt, and socks. Putting on elastic black boxers and a white tee-shirt, he sat on the bed while she started from the bottom up in an attempt to keep warm, eventually relinquishing the towels to secure a lacy ivory bra and fasten an extremely long, high-necked, white button-down suitable for January in New York. Next, she held a pair of navy-blue slacks in one hand and a knee-length skirt of the same color in the other hand. The Brooklynite's eyes narrowed in a wordless censure of her senior colleague. Tossing the skirt to the side, causing him to chuckle in approval, she pulled the blue pants over her nylons. Once she had buttoned and zipped them, the semi-dressed man stood up from the bed, walked over to help his fiancée slip into a simple navy-blue suitcoat, and enfolded her in a knit yellow blanket – a Hannukah gift from Birdo. In record time, he threw on the rest of his clothes and proceeded downstairs to bring her a small breakfast. As he tiptoed into the kitchen, he encountered a haggard Salvatore, who smelled of cigarette smoke and was slumped at the table, his eyes unable to focus on anywhere but his laptop screen. Over his shoulder, Luigi read the headlines:
Over ninety cases of COVID-19 have been reported in New York City. Resulting from increased cases in New York, Los Angeles, Seattle, Denver, and other major cities, President Trump has suspended all travel to and from the Schengen Zone in Europe for the next thirty days.
His eyes widened. The Schengen economic zone included Italy. Peach would be stuck in Venice for another thirty days.
"How is Daisy, niputi?" asked his elder softly, interposing on his disturbing insight.
Unwilling to verbalize his rekindled fears, he redirected his attention to preparing a toasted half bagel with a thin layer of cream cheese and hot tea for his ill cat-face. When Luigi did not respond to his question, the Sicilian moved to flank him at the counter next to the stove. The younger man twisted to face the inquisitory Uncle Sal, yet he continued to remain silent.
Salvatore rubbed his unshaven face, visibly concerned by his nephew's soundless answer. "Niputi, we need to keep her home. If she's already not well, and this virus is out there, then this could easily become worse. Much worse."
Luigi exhaled dramatically, leaning against the countertop. "She can't, Zio. Like you said yesterday, she's only been at the firm for a year. They just got a big case for which she's eminently qualified. If she gives it up now, she ..." His swirling blue eyes connected with the chocolate brown one of his elder, and he swallowed. "She may not get another chance."
The pop of the toaster signaled that the bagel was ready. Moving past the shorter man, he went to the refrigerator to grab the small container of cream cheese. After shutting the refrigerator door, he applied a thin smear on the top of the bagel and waited for the microwave to beep. Carefully removing a mug with heated water, he placed a bag of orange spice tea inside it, and arranged the plated bagel, mug, and cloth napkin onto a bamboo serving tray. Muttering a scusi, he trod past Salvatore, tray in his hands, and, as quietly as he could, made his way upstairs to the huddled Daisy. While he served her breakfast, they were stunned to hear the creaking of someone climbing the stairs and the smaller, yet rapid thump-thump-thump just ahead of each step. One of the cats, which Luigi had internally dubbed 'The Fluffy Siamese' to distinguish one from the other, entered their bedroom and began to sniff and examine the discarded towels and day-old clothing on the floor. He rubbed his fiancée's back, then went to collect the laundry before his maternal uncle could arrive. Roughly a minute afterward, an olive-colored fist rapped against the door.
Arms filled with damp and sweat-perfumed clothes, he answered, "Yeah, do you need something, Zio?"
From the other side of the threshold, Salvatore appeared. Between nibbles of the bagel, Daisy noticed that the bewhiskered man was dressed in forest green pajama bottoms and a black tee-shirt that highlighted both the gold crucifix that hung around his neck and the partially discernible, decade-old Ñandutí tattoo on his slender, but well-defined bicep. "Buenos días, sobrinha. ¿Komo estash esta mañana?" he inquired in Mexican-accented Judeo-Spanish.
"Estoy bien, gracias. Y tú, ¿Salvatore?" she replied, observing her fiancé's sudden need to organize the laundry into the basket.
He shrugged. "Estoy bien." Coughing to announce a change of both language and subject, Sal walked inside the room so that he was within a few feet of Daisy and said, "I hear you're going to work today. There's ..." His brown eyes shifted to his nervous nephew who was attempting in vain to distract himself with housework while shuffling around the wandering cat. "I think there's going to be a shutdown. It's up to ninety cases alone in New York City. That's doubled in the last couple of days. And ... the, uh, President has closed entry to and from Europe for thirty days."
The little color that had highlighted her pale face instantly vanished. "Peach."
Salvatore nodded gravely. "Yeah. So until Mario returns, we have to watch Josh. Be vigilant. Not take any unnecessary risks."
Daisy's amber orbs darted to her fiancé, who seemed surprised and unnerved by his uncle's words. Reassured that Luigi had not solicited him for a little favor, she set her bagel down on the plate. "Salvatore, I appreciate what you're saying. Truly. But neither the Governor nor the Federal Judiciary have closed the courts. Thus, I am obliged to do my duty."
Chewing his lip, the older man gave a curt bob of his head. His opinion had not changed since the previous evening.
"Zio, listen," interrupted Luigi, at whom the ostensibly upset man stared in anticipation. "If you're right that there's going to be some sort of shutdown of New Rochelle or the Bronx, Daisy and her colleagues are probably going to be isolated by the firm. And I'm driving her today so that she won't have to use the subway. I doubt she'll run into the coronavirus."
Before Salvatore could argue with Luigi and Daisy about the escalating severity of the situation, a loud series of rings drew their collective attention. Afraid that it was his burner phone, he patted the noiseless device in his pocket. The lawyer took note of her charging iPhone on the night table; there were no incoming calls. Both their heads pivoted to Luigi who stared darkly at the active device in his hand.
A picture of a smiling Mario Masciarelli and his caller ID displayed on the home screen.