Page 62 of The Deadly Candies

Queens, New York – 1949

Matteo paced the garden behind the family home. He crushed a cigarette under his heel, the ash smearing into the dirt. Debbie had missed their meetups for three weeks now.

“Che succede?”he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his slicked-back hair. He’d warned her not to quit working for the Espositos cold turkey, but stubborn as she was, she must’ve done it anyway.

When he went to the diner, Mama Stewart handed him a letter. Her eyes were soft with pity. “Baby, sometimes good things don’t last.”

Confused by her words, his hands had shaken as he took it, hoping for an explanation for why Debbie had vanished. But it was just another of Kathy’s letters from Mississippi to be given to Carmelo. Apparently, Debbie had delivered it and nothing else. He had given it to his brother all the while; it felt like someone was twisting a knife in an open wound.

Now, the garden felt too small, the air too thick to breathe. Matteo lit another cigarette, the smoke curling out of his nostrils. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him.

“Matteo!”

The punch came out of nowhere—a right hook to the jaw as he turned, sent him sprawling into the hydrangeas. Pain exploded across his face, and he tasted blood.“Madonna!”he spat, staring up at Carmelo, who stood over him, fists clenched, his bad leg trembling without the crutch.

“Get up!”Carmelo roared, tears streaming down his face.“Faccia a faccia, fratello!Fight me like a man!”

Matteo scrambled to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.“What the hell’s wrong with you? You lost your mind or somethin’?”

Carmelo’s laugh was bitter, broken.“You and Debbie. Sneakin’ around to Mama Stewart’s. You’re having sex with Kathy’s cousin. And you—”He jabbed a finger at Matteo’s chest, his voice cracking.“You had the nerve to callmea disgrace?”

Matteo’s stomach dropped.“Lower your voice, damn it. Ma’s in the house?—”

“Why, Matteo?!”Carmelo shoved him, his hands shaking with rage.“For months, I begged you—please, Matteo, help me—when Kathy and I…” he paused. “I wanted to be with her. I wanted to marry her. But you said I was crazy. I told you that there was nothing wrong with loving a negro girl. You laughed. Said I’d get her killed. Now she’s gone, butyou—” His voice broke again on the ball of emotion lodged in his throat. He turned away, shoulders heaving.

Matteo reached for him, but Carmelo jerked back.“You hypocrite. Punched me in the chest. Told me to get over it. That it could never happen, now Kathy’s gone, but you are with Debbie? You think this is a game? You use her, throw her away, and her family ends up in the river—you fuckin racist!”

“Basta!”Matteo grabbed his brother’s collar, shaking him.“You think I’d risk Debbie’s life just to spite you? I swear on Ma’s life, I love her.”

Carmelo froze, his eyes searching Matteo’s face.“Love?”he whispered, the word in a brittle manner.“You don’t know what that means. I do. I found love in a bakery. Kathy’sgone, Matteo. I’m dead inside. I lost her. You don’t know this pain. And you…”He gestured to the house, where their father’s shadow loomed behind the lace curtains.“When he finds out? You’ll let him break her? Like he broke me? Because you’re like him. Fuck you.”

Matteo’s grip slackened.“I ain’t him, Melo. I saved Kathy’s life. I did my best for you both.”

“You’re a racist, a prick, a selfish jerk to every girl I’ve ever seen you use and throw away. You’re using her for sex!”

“That’s not true! I’m not a racist, and I’m not Pa! I don’t do that to women. Debbie was my first and only. I talk shit. I make shit up. I never… never… I love her and am entitled to love someone of my own. So, fuck ya!”

“Oh, yea?”Carmelo smirked, limping backward.“Then prove it. Suffer for her. Like I do. Give her up and suffer. Leave her alone. Before it’s too late.”

“I can’t. No, that’s not true. I can do it, because I’m no pussy like ya! But I won’t! Cause I’m not you, you little ungrateful shit! I’m me. Matteo Ricci! And she’s mine.”

Carmelo stared at him, his face hollow, like a man sentenced to death.“Then you’re worse than Pa.”He turned, his bad leg dragging as he walked away. “At least he doesn’t pretend to be a good guy.”

“Wait!”Matteo reached for him, but his brother moved faster and returned inside. Alone, Matteo sank to the dirt, his fists pressed to his eyes.

South Street Seaport, Manhattan – August 1949

The humidity was the worst. The smell of saltwater, fish, and sweat lingered in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of gasoline from docked ships. Seagulls circled overhead, their cries lost in the noise of men shouting orders, crates slamming onto wooden planks, and the deep, guttural blasts of ship horns as vessels prepared to depart.

José wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm, rolling his aching shoulders. He had been working since four in the morning, hauling cargo, stacking crates, and dodging the sharp tongues of overseers who didn’t like seeing a Puerto Rican with any kind of authority.

“¡Oye, José!”

He turned at the sound of Javier’s voice. His father’s friend, a man who had taken him under his wing since he started at the docks, nodded toward the edge of the loading area.

“Tienes visita, chamaco.Take a break,” Javier said, motioning toward the side of the dock. “You been workin’ like a damn mule. Go see who it is.”

José exhaled. A break was well-earned. He nodded. “¿Quién?”

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