Page 83 of The Deadly Candies

He nodded.“In name only. She’s my wife. We’ll marry after I kill my father.”

"That’s either the craziest or stupidest thing ever to come out of Ricci’s mouth. You kill your daddy for her? Luciano’ll kill her and the baby!"

"Then here’s somethin’ crazier. You’re gonna help me,” he said.

Mama Stewart laughed bitter as burnt coffee.

Matteo ignored the anger simmering in his veins."The buildin’ next door. The empty one you never rent. I did my research. Its yours. I need it."

Something dark shifted behind her eyes."That place ain’t for sale. Not to you. Not to nobody."

"Why? What’s?—"

"It just IS!"Her shout rattled him. For one terrifying second, Matteo saw a wound in her face—old pain he’d stumbled on blind. Then she was Mama Stewart again, smoothing the tabletop with shaking hands."I got... a place in the Bronx. Needs work, but the walls are strong. Good heat. Walkin’ distance to the pharmacy. A clinic nearby for Negro pregnant girls. One of my safe houses.”

Matteo brushed her wrist."I want her close to you,"he whispered."When I can’t be there. When José’s pullin’ doubles. She needs… someone."His throat closed around the rest."She needs a mama like you. Who will let me near my baby. A place I can come to and not be seen, and she cannot be touched.”

Mama Stewart looked past him, a memory surfacing:Debbie by the jukebox, humming a silent tune, fingers tracing circles on the glass while she waited for Matteo on their Tuesday.The image faded, but the ache didn’t. Like her cousin, Debbie had carved a place in Mama Stewart’s heart.

"One month,"Mama Stewart finally said, swiping her sleeve across her face."I’ll have it ready. But there’s rules. That place was my first diner. Bought and built this one when my Emilio died, because he haunted me in that one. That man wouldn’t let me sleep, eased in bed with me every night.”

Matteo eyes stretched.

“I know you don’t believe me. But Emilio and I are connected. Even in death. Everything in that place reminds me of Emilio. Couldn’t step inside after. Mafia cleared the neighbors, built this diner for me instead. Now I own both."

"Mafia? Or Lucciano?"Matteo asked.

"Matter?"Her voice turned flint."Don’t care what family you come from—you know who I am. Cross me, boy, and it’s the last mistake you make. I got more days behind me than ahead. My protection’s all I got left, and I give it to folks worthier than you."

Matteo kissed her knuckles."I ain’t worthy. But with you, Mama, I’m learnin’ how to be."

She snatched her hand back."Ain’t personal. Just... you remind me of my Emilio. That’s why I warned Debbie to walk. Love burns hot, but the pain’s nearly unbearable. You got a path she cain’t walk with you. The world won’t change to let it happen. Folks, you leave behind’ll suffer ‘cause they believed in you Matteo, but you will always let them down.”

"I ain’t a bad man. Not Carmelo, but I’m good too,"Matteo said.

"Sugar, that ain’t it. You always do things your way. Makes you a fine leader, a finesoldato—but you won’t be that for them. I know the oaths you Sicilians and Italians take. She’s strong, but bein’ a mama’s a heavy load to carry alone. Especially when your lover likes to play with knives.”

Matteo lowered his gaze in shame.

"Then help her. Sell me the place. So if a bullet finds me, she’s safe. Please,"he begged.

Mama Stewart’s tears glimmered."Start slow. Let me get it ready—get my heart ready to let it go. Then we talk."

"Grazie,"Matteo said.

As he stood to leave, she caught his arm, grip tight enough to crush coal to diamonds."I ain’t goin’ against Lucciano for you. Your daddy’s your problem. Bring trouble here, the kind the mob don’t want, and I won’t fight your wars. Harlem’s suffered enough for the Ricci boys."She leaned in, coffee on her breath."Bury your father now, ‘fore it’s too late. Fore he bury you.”

The bell jingled as customers arrived. Mama Stewart wiped her eyes and nodded to them. Matteo left. He’d gotten what he came for.

He didn’t know what Mama Stewart’s warnings meant—didn’t care about the rumors of her and Don Emilio Cattaneo. That story wasn’t his business.

He had plans. A family. And he knew how to get it.

Queens, New York

The scent of simmeringpasta e fagiolifilled the Ricci kitchen as Carmelo sat at the worn oak table, carefully enunciating each word of the Sunday funnies to Nino. His oldest brother—a mountain of a man at twenty-five years old, yet with the wide-eyed wonder of a child—chuckled at the colorful strips, his thick fingers smearing sauce onDick Tracyas he shoved another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

"Melo?"

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