Page 27 of The Deadly Candies

Don Emilio “The Iron” Cattaneostood beneath the flickering streetlamp at five in the morning, his shadow stretching long and predatory across the snow-dusted sidewalk. His tailored wool coat clung to his broad shoulders, and his fedora was tilted just enough to cast his face in shadow—except for his eyes. Dark as midnight, sharp as a stiletto, they pinned her in place.

“You’re freezing,” he said, and he took the walk all the way to her with an easy stride. The scent of his cologne—bergamot and something darker, more dangerous—warmed the wintry air between them when he got closer.

Clara stiffened. “Why are you here, Don Emilio?”

He ignored the question, his gloved fingers brushing the paper on the door. “Che schifo,” he muttered, his Sicilian accent thick with disdain. “They call this progress? A woman like you, brought low byratswith badges?” He turned to her, his gaze piercing. “You deserve better,bambina. Any man could see that.”

“A woman like me?” She laughed, bitter and sharp. “ANegrowoman you mean?”

Emilio’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “A woman who doesn’t flinch,” he said, his voice softer now. “Angelo. A woman who looks at a man like me and doesn’t see a monster or a free ride.”

Clara’s breathing slowed. She’d seen this man’s duality—the way he’d kissed her hand like a courtier one moment, then snapped a rival’s finger like a twig the next. But the eviction notice crinkled her heart, and desperation made her reckless enough to think he could help.

He nodded to his driver, idling in a sleek black Packard flanked by two armored sedans. “Come. Dinner.”

“Dinner?” she echoed, her voice tinged with disbelief. “It’s five in the morning. You show up out of nowhere, and now you want dinner? With me?”

Don Emilio’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “I’ve been patient, Clara. But evenIhave my limits. I’ve always wanted breakfast, lunch, and dinner with you. And you always refuse.”

She hesitated, her thoughts racing. Sweet Ed’s face flashed in her mind—her lover, her friend. Don Emilio had seen them together weeks ago, and the way he glared at Ed before storming out of her restaurant had left her man uneasy.

“Clara why does that Sicilian come round here like this?”Ed asked.

“Huh? Emilo? He’s a kid, I saved him and he—”Clara tried to explain.

“Kid! He’s the head of the Castellammarese! No one fucks with him. And he comes here and sits and grins at you.”Ed said with concern.“I see it in his eyes.”

“Okay? Well? I mean, so? He doesn’t wantme. Look at me—I’m not his type, sugar, wrong color, wrong size,”she reasoned. She reached out to touch Ed’s face. He turned away.

“You are insane woman. You are beautiful. Every curve on you is what a man wants. Why don’t you see that? Because that Sicilian sewer rat does. And he’s not a fucking kid Clara. He’s only six or seven years younger than you.”Ed got up and stormed out of the diner.

Confused Clara stared at the door.

“Cara,let’s go,” Don Emilio said. She blinked at his intense stare and then back at the eviction notice. The diner was gone, and her options were dwindling. “Her money was tied up to give her brothers a better life. Both now in D.C. and thriving.”

“Fine,” she said, her voice clipped. “But this doesn’t mean anything. Right?”

Emilio’s smirk deepened. “Stai tranquilla, bella.Relax. It’s just dinner.”

11

Stewart’s Diner - Brooklyn 1923

The restaurant was a ghost of its former self, chairs upturned on tables and dust coating the bar. Emilio’s men moved like shadows, lighting gas lamps and igniting the stove with practiced efficiency. Clara stood frozen in the doorway, the warmth and the scent of simmering marinara enveloping her. Outside, the sun was rising. But inside, Emilio was right. It felt like night, intimate, and inviting.

“Sit,” Emilio said. He pulled out a chair with a flourish.

She didn’t move. “Why here? This place closed months ago. Right? I read about it in the Amsterdam. A family. They were forced out by the inspectors. The husband thrown in jail accused of poisoning a woman.”

A smile played on Emilio’s lips, sly and knowing. “Didn’t know that.”

He snapped his fingers, and one of his men scurried forward, handing him a folded piece of paper. Emilio extended to her. Clara’s legs moved. She walked over to him. She accepted the envelope and unfolded it.

OWNER: CLARA JOHNSON

“What… is this?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“A gift for myangelo,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “For the woman who saved my life.”

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