Page 94 of The Deadly Candies

DeMarco leaned in.“Maybe it’s time we teach him a lesson, no? I hear he’s been…fraternizing with a negro girl.”The word dripped with venom.“Anothernegriin Harlem.”

Carmelo’s breath hitched. He stared into his father’s eyes that simmered with rage, and then his consigliere. Neither seems to register or even hint at the knowledge of Debbie’s pregnancy. But if they knew this information, how long before they learned the rest?

Cosimo waved a dismissive hand.“Let him play with the niggers. I stuck my dick in a few. Just like Carmelo,” he chuckled.

Carmelo’s hands clenched into fists.

“Every boy needs to test his teeth.Myfather taught me that.”He clapped Carmelo’s shoulder, grip tightening.“Besides, he’ll need to be strong—to stand atyourleft side when you take the throne.”

Carmelo didn’t blink.

“When I was a boy,”Cosimo continued,“my father threw me into the ring.Lotta libera—Sicilian freestyle wrestling. Thenpugilato—real fists, real pain. Hardened me. Turned my rage into somethinguseful.”His eyes gleamed.“That’s what I’ll do for you. While Matteo learns the price ofomertà, you’ll learn to channel that fire in your blood. With your brains and the anger, you will take down the Sicilians and put the Italians on top. Do you think Papa doesn’t see the anger in you? Papa has made you into a man.”

DeMarco’s chuckle was ice.“I’ll arrange the sparring partners.”

As they strode toward the door, Carmelo’s chest tightened. The moment they were gone, he was moving—taking the basement steps two at a time, testing his healing leg.Kathy was coming back.And this time, he wouldn’t fail. But it was time to do damage control.

The basement was cool, dimly lit by a single bulb dangling over a small altar to the Virgin Mary. Lucia knelt before it, rosary beads slipping through her fingers. Beside her,Nino—the oldest Ricci brother, broad-shouldered and devout—murmured prayers in unison.

“Melo!”Nino barked, breaking mid-Ave Maria.

Lucia crossed herself and rose, smoothing her dress. Carmelo approached, voice low.“Ma, mi dispiace. Non voglio farti del male.”I don’t want to hurt you.I won’t harm the family.”

Nino surged forward, lifting Carmelo clear off the ground in a bear hug.“Stai migliorando!”You’re getting stronger! He told his brother.

Carmelo laughed, patting his brother’s back until he was set down. Lucia studied him, then offered a fragile smile.“Come to Mass with us. We’ll pray on it.”

Relief flooded him.“Sì, Ma-ma.”

Her next words froze his blood.“Do you remember Rebecca Romero? She and her daughter Maria will join us.”

Carmelo’s smile died.Maria.The girl whose mother his father had taken into his office—the muffled sobs through the door, the way Rebecca had avoided his eyes for weeks after.

“I don’t think?—”

Lucia patted his jaw.“Maria è una brava ragazza. Dovreste essere amici.”Maria is a good girl. You should be friends.

He swallowed the protest. For his mother, who had spoon-fed him through broken teeth, who had held his hand as he relearned to walk, he would endure this. He would sit through Mass, suffer through dinner, and even smile at Maria Romero.

But he wouldnotgive up Kathy, not for any of them. He found the phone and called the fabric store. With Matteo on the phone he told him everything.

Mama Stewarts

The diner’s fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped fly as Matteo stepped into Mama Stewart’s office. The room smelled of old coffee grounds and cigarette smoke, the walls papered with yellowed receipts and a faded photo of Lucky Luciano shaking hands with a younger Mama Stewart, her curly hair haloed by the neon glare of a 1940s reopening of the diner. She didn’t look up from her ledger, her gold-hoop earrings catching the dim light as she scribbled numbers with a chewed pencil.

“You ain’t here to apologize, are you?”she said flatly, still writing.

Matteo hovered by the door, his leather jacket creaking as he shifted.“You said come back when I was ready to listen.”

“Mmhmm.”Mama snapped the ledger shut.“And you listenin’ now? Or you just here ’cause you’re scared?”

He flinched, the truth hitting like a slap. Debbie’s face flashed in his mind—the way she’d cupped her still-flat stomach that morning, her smile brittle as glass.

“I ain’t scared of my father,”he lied.

“Sit.”She gestured to the chair opposite her desk, its vinyl cracked like desert earth.“Your daddy’s consigliere ain’t just some bookkeeper, Matteo. DeMarco’s auomo d’onore—a man of honor. You know what that means?”

“Means he’d slit my throat if my father told him to.”

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