Page 66 of The Deadly Candies

The Puerto Rican gay-boy Debbie always talked about. The one she protected. The one she missed.

Matteo’s stomach twisted.Why the fuck was he here?

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Matteo asked, voice low, dangerous.

"Lo encontramos, boss.Found him sneaking around, watching you," Angelo said, delivering a swift kick to José’s ribs.

José grunted, folding slightly. He spat blood, glaring up at Angelo before turning his heated gaze to Matteo.

"Said he needed to talk to you. I think he’s lyin’, but we figured you should decide."

Matteo squatted down, face inches from José’s, his blade flicking open with a quiet click. The alley fell silent, save for the distant honk of a taxi and the muffled mambo music from a radio inside a bodega.

"Dónde está Debbie?" Matteo asked, voice like glass. Where is she?

José’s lip curled, but something behind his eyes—something like dread—made Matteo's stomach drop.

"I need to tell you something. It’s an emergency. You don’t want me to say it in front of them. He kicked me again and I will!” José snarled.

The hate in his voice made Matteo uneasy. This wasn’t a man delivering a message—this was a man delivering a burden.

Matteo snapped his knife shut and stood, then offered his hand.

José hesitated before taking it, pulling himself up. His body tensed at the contact, and Matteo felt the rigid fury rolling off him.

Across the alley, Caesar stepped away from the dice game, watching with knowing eyes. Matteo barely nodded, but Caesar understood. They’d been through enough together that they didn’t need words.

This wasn’t forpublic eyes.

"Come with me," Matteo said under his breath.

The TenementAbove the Fabric Shop

The tiny bell over the fabric shop jangled as Matteo pushed through the door, José close behind. The owner didn’t look up, didn’t care.

They moved swiftly past bolts of cloth and sewing supplies, slipping into the back, up a narrow wooden staircase, the floor creaking beneath them.

Matteo pushed open the door to his flat, stepping inside first. The air was thick with stale tobacco and the distant scent of garlic from the downstairs kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the half-open window, dust swirling in the humid air.

It was a small space—just a bed, a tiny kitchen, and a table littered with baseball comics and matchbooks. The radio sat on the sill, dialed to the Yankees game, though the sound was turned low. The place smelled of rust and sweat. It was a hideout, not a home.

Matteo turned quickly, eyes sharp. "Where is she? Where?!"

José stood by the door, his fists clenched. He was breathing heavily, but it wasn’t from exertion—it was from the sheer weight of his thoughts and how to turn them into words.

Matteo saw it before José even spoke.

Something was wrong.

"What happened to her?" Matteo demanded.

José’s face contorted. His throat worked, hands shaking. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse with betrayal.

"I am betraying her by coming here," José admitted. "But I have to save her life."

Matteo stilled.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

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