Page 26 of The Deadly Candies

“He’ll live,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.”It wasn’t too deep.”

Big Cee stepped in, cauterizing the wound with a hot iron as Emilio screamed into the bit.

Clara cleaned her tools, her mind already shifting to the other patient with the bloody arm.

“Next!” she called, her voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel.

* * *

As dawn bledthrough the slats of the basement windows,Emiliostabilized, his breathing steady but shallow. His men—hulking shadows in bloodstained suits—hovered like vultures. The de facto leader, a brute with knuckles like sledgehammers, thrust a roll of cash at Clara. She stubbed out her cigarette in a chipped saucer and crossed her arms.

“You pay Goldstein upstairs,” she said, her voice flat. “He’ll make sure I get my cut.”

The Sicilian’s face twisted. “I payyou!” he barked, his accent thick as tar. “Do you know who he is?”

Clara didn’t react. She stared into the man’s bloodshot eyes—the same eyes that had watered like a child’s when she dug the bullet from his shoulder. Then she glanced atEmilio, asleep but restless, his olive skin sickly and pale under the stained sheets. “He’s Mafia. Asoldato,” she said.

The brute’s jaw dropped. “How you know…soldato?”

“A patient, long ago,” she lied, shrugging. “And the saint on the coin around his neck.” She nodded toward the gold medallion glinting on Emilio’s chest, which tells the rest of the story. “Look, you pay upstairs, and he stays. I need three days—maybe a week—to make sure infection don’t creep into his chest and poison his blood. Missy will sit with him during the day and tend to his needs while I get my ironing done, and then I’ll see him at night. Doc will tell you the added fee.”

The man shoved the money at her again. “I give toyou! Only you,negrowoman! You did the good deed.”

“Chenzo!” Emilio’s voice cracked like a whip, hoarse but commanding. Emilo spat something in Sicilian that made the brute freeze, then bow his head like a scolded dog.

Clara wasn’t impressed. She’d patched up enough Irish thugs, Sicilian gangsters, and Black mobsters to know their rules. Survival was her currency, not their theatrics. Goldstein paid her fair—enough to keep her people safe and her basement clinic running. That’s all she cared about.

“Grazie, angelo nero,” Emilio murmured, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “Thank you, black angel. Come closer to me.”

His voice shocked her. He was too young to speak so deeply and commanding. But in their lives most aged quick.

Clara sighed but obeyed, her worn-over shoes scuffing the concrete floor. She knew she was attractive. But she was very busty, and curvy. Her body wasn’t plump and round from overeating; she nearly starved to death when she first came to Harlem. It was just the way the women were in her family. And only certain men desired women like Clara. So, when Emilio’s hand shot out for hers, she didn’t think he wanted anything more than a lifeline. He gripped her wrist with surprising strength. Before she could pull away, he pulled her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. His men stiffened—some looked away.

“Where I come from,” he said, his voice low but firm, “we believe in honor.A life for a life. Usually, it’s to avenge a fallen soldier. But for you…” He tightened his grip. “My life for yours. No matter where I go or who I am, you will always be protected.”

Clara said nothing. She just waited for the speech to end so she could shoo these gangsters out of her clinic. Emilio must have read her thoughts in her blank expression because he smiled—a faint, pained twist of his lips.

“We pay double,” he said. “My men will go upstairs and pay your doctor. But you take this from me.” He nodded to the brute, who reluctantly handed her the cash. “I would be insulted if you refused.”

Clara’s brows furrowed. She glanced at the money, then back at Emilio. Reluctantly, she took it, her fingers brushing the crisp bills. Seven hundred dollars. More than she’d ever held at once. Enough to open that little restaurant she’d dreamed of. Enough to send her oldest to school in D.C., Enough to breathe, just for a moment, without the weight of survival crushing her chest. She quickly tucked the notes into her bra.

Emilio groaned, his bravado faltering as pain creased his face. Clara touched his hand, her voice softening despite herself. “I’ll give you something for the pain.”

Present –

Debbie stood still, riveted by the story she was hearing. She loved the biblical stories her mother told; she always made them relatable. Mama Stewart’s voice was soft but confident like her mother’s.

“While I cared for him, we became friendly. I was told his story. There is a place in Sicily just like Rollings Alabama. Except we weren’t near the water until it came for us and took most of our lives away. And you know, as much as we hate each other because of the color of our skin, our stories and pain that brought us to New York are always the same. Running from starvation, oppression, being orphaned because our parents were slaughtered by evil men, whether it be the south, or Mussolini taking over Italy and Sicily, an ocean away.”

Mama Stewart was tired as if telling the story was like carrying a boulder across the room. Debbie held her tongue and waited for the lesson, wanting to know more.

Harlem, New York – December 1923

The wind howled through the streets of Harlem, slicing through Clara’s threadbare coat like a blade. She stood frozen in front of her diner, staring at the eviction notice nailed to the door. The city’s seal bled red ink over the word“condemned.”They’d shut off the gas last week, and now this.Chicken and biscuits, she thought bitterly, her breath fogging in the cold air.All I wanted was to feed my people, chicken and biscuits.

“Ciao, bella.”

The voice was low, smooth, and carried the weight of command. Clara turned, her heart skipping a beat.

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