Page 46 of The Deadly Candies

“Fool has been skimming. And you fuckers didn’t catch it,” Junior said.

“Damn,” whistled Red.

Suddenly, bright headlights flood the alley, cutting his words off. A long black Cadillac creeps in from the street, its engine a low rumble that echoes off the alley walls. The twin beams of light are harsh and blinding; everyone squints and throws up an arm. The jovial mood is shattered in an instant, replaced by an electric fear.

"Oh, shit... Who is that?" Red whispers, already stepping away. They know who. Word on the street is you don't stick around when Italians roll up at midnight in a black Caddy.

In a split second, the alley explodes into motion. Leon tosses the bills to Junior and bolts with the rest. Only Red and Big-Tee stand side by side with their boss. They remove their guns.

Junior stands stock-still in the middle of the alley, the harsh headlights sparking embers in his dark eyes. His heart jackhammers in his chest, but he forces himself to remain steady. This is his turf, and he ain't about to run like no punk. Not even from the Butcher. Junior subtly slides the discarded Saturday Night Special Earl pulled on him and used his foot, kicking it into a shadow by the dumpster so the Italians could see he isn’t armed—no need to give Caesar any ideas.

The Cadillac’s passenger door opens with a thunk. Out steps Caesar — tall, broad, and mean as the devil. Caesar’s a well-dressed soldier who was The Butcher’s left hand. He had a thick neck bulging out of a cheap suit, the kind of cat who cracks jaws for a living. A nasty scar cuts across his neck like someone tried to slit his throat once but couldn’t finish the job. He sizes up the alley, man on the ground beaten half-dead. The men with the guns covering Junior. And Junior with bloody fists.

Junior's muscles tighten, adrenaline screaming for him to do something — run, fight, anything — but he tamps it down. He knows Caesar. And he sure as hell knows the man sitting in the back of that car.

Caesar steps forward one hand casually inside his jacket, fingers likely resting on his gun. He jerks his chin at Junior. “Get in the car Junior," he orders, voice low and gravelly, leaving no room for argument. It’s not a request. The way Caesar says his name carries a weight that prickles the hairs on the back of Junior’s neck.

Junior snorts, trying to hide his dread behind bravado. For a half-second, he considers talking back or making a break for it. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He can feel hot anger bubbling up — anger at being hunted down in his own neighborhood, anger at the man in the car, anger at his damn life. His eyes dart to Caesar's jacket, noticing the unmistakable bulge of a gun. Junior knows his boys could be bleeding out on the pavement with one wrong move.

He sucks his teeth. "Man, I ain't done nothin’ for this visit. You said to stop coming to the penthouse, and I did, Caesar,” Junior growls, voice tight. But his feet stay planted; defiance is only gonna get him killed tonight. Junior hated how small his voice sounded just then. These were his childhood friends, his brothers. It wasn’t above Caesar to make an example of them to get Junior to behave. He knew that. He hated feeling like a kid again, caught doing wrong. First, he had to put up with the Wolf reaching into his life, now this.

From inside the Cadillac, a shadowy figure shifts — The Butcher is watching. The glow of his cigar as he smokes it is all that could be seen. Junior can feel his father's eyes on him through the glare of the headlights. That old familiar presence makes Junior’s stomach knot up. He’d rather face Earl’s gun again than confront Matteo.

Caesar takes another step, impatience evident in the hard set of his jaw. "Don't make me say it twice, kid. Youknow what it is. He wants to speak.” He spits the words out like nails.

Junior finally nods, swallowing his pride like broken glass. He forces a smirk onto his face, trying to save a shred of dignity. "A'ight, a'ight... cool it. I'm comin'," he says, lifting his hands in surrender. The fight in his eyes dims to a sullen flicker. This battle ain't one he can win. Not here. Not tonight. “Y’all get Earl out of this alley. When he wakes, teach him a lesson for stealing from me.”

“Junior? We—” Red stammered

“Do it!” Junior commanded. “I got this.”

The men holstered their guns, tucking them into the backs of their pants. They all knew the drill. Out of respect, they picked up Earl and carried him into the pool hall, leaving Junior alone with the car.

Caesar kept his hard stare on Junior as he closed the distance. He searched him and removed his knife and piece. Junior moved with a slow swagger, masking the dread thumping in his chest. When he reached the car, Caesar roughly opened the back door the rest of the way. The interior light clicked on, revealing the silhouette of a man in an expensive suit, rings gleaming on thick fingers—The Butcher.

Junior slid into the back seat, sinking into the cold leather. The stench of his father’s cigar smoke immediately assaulted his nose. He didn’t look at the man next to him. Instead, he glared straight ahead, jaw clenched so tight it might crack a molar. Caesar slammed the door behind him, sealing Junior in.

For a moment, there was just the rumble of the idling engine. In the dark confines of the car, the Butcher’s face was illuminated in the glow of his cigar’s ember. He was meaner looking than his brother, the Wolf. His pitiless eyes and the tattoos crawling up his neck and hands gave him the appearance of a man carved from misery.

“You made your mama cry,” Matteo said, his voice low and gravelly, the accent thick but controlled.

“She’smymama?—”

Before Junior could finish, Matteo swung his hand out and struck him hard in the center of his chest. Junior gasped for air, feeling like his ribs had caved in. His eyes watered. He fought the urge to cry out, so he coughed instead. Matteo’s fist remained pressed against his chest, a silent warning.

“Look at me!Look at me son!” Matteo barked.

Junior turned his head, his breath ragged, and met his father’s gaze.

“No one makes her cry.Ever.Do you understand?” Matteo’s voice was like steel, but there was something else there—something lethal.

“What about you?” Junior’s voice cracked. “You make her cry all the time.”

Matteo’s glare softened just for a moment. He removed his fist, and Junior touched the burning ache in his chest, as he struggled to catch his breath.

“She’s your mother,caro.You respect her.Always,” Matteo said, his tone quieter now, almost pleading.

Junior sniffed, tears rolling down his cheeks. “How? Why should I? Because you say so? You got her coming to your penthouse. People talking, people see her and see you and they know. You think they respect her? I’m trying to protect her! From you!”

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