Page 95 of The Deadly Candies

“Means he’s got a code,”Mama corrected, leaning back in her creaking chair.“Same code my Emilio lived by. Same code, Lucianobreathed. You think this life’s about who’s got the biggest gun? Nah. It’s about who’s got the longest memory.”

Matteo’s jaw twitched.“My father’s got no code.”

“Your father’s astronzowith a temper,”Mama shot back, the Sicilian slur sharp on her tongue.“But DeMarco? He’s old country. Respects tradition. You wanna survive, you gotta speak his language.”She tapped her temple.“Sicilian.”

“And how the hell am I supposed to do that?”

“You ever learned about the President and how he stays in power in this America?” Mama Stewart asked.

Matteo shook his head no.

“He does it through his men, who ultimately keep him in power. The cosigliere isn’t a footstool. That role is for soldiers. He isn’t a counselor; that role is for the priests. He is the neck that turns the head. Your father is not turning his head on his own. He needs DeMarco to keep him in line with the Mafioso traditions, and to teach him how to turn when he needs to. Just like the President needs those men called the Congress. It is a unit. Do you understand?”

Matteo nodded.

Mama hesitated, then reached into her desk drawer. She pulled out a small, velvet box, its hinges rusted. Inside lay a silver medallion etched with a thorned rose—the symbol of the Castellammarese clan.“My Emilio gave this to me the night he took down Joe “The Boss” Masseria,”she said quietly.“Said it was a reminder—every rose grows from dirt. It is the secret and proof to the Mafioso that Emilio was the one to step over his body. The true killer. He gave me the power to destroy him if I ever wanted to. He gave me the power to prove that the Mafioso isn’t all loyal and traditional. Something Luciano has wanted from me since the day Emilio died. You think Luciano walked into that funeral for Masseria to stand before the men grieving their Don to kiss the ring of my Emilio ’cause he was brave? Nah. He went ’cause he knew Masseria’s own men were already bought by Emilio arranged by the consigliere.Patience, Matteo. That’s the dirt you grow in. Your father is only powerful because of DeMarco. Remove him and see what the head does?”

Matteo reached for the medallion, but Mama snapped the box shut.“Not yet. You ain’t earned this level of power. And you ain’t in your father’s chair. Because whoever takes the Castellammaese medallion before La Cosa Nostra will rule New York. And I ain’t passing it down to a kid who likes to play with knives.”

“What’s it gonna take?”he growled, frustration boiling over.“You want me to kiss DeMarco’s ring? Beg my father’s forgiveness?”

“I want you tothink,”Mama said, her voice rising.“You think I survived thirty years in this world ’cause I wastough? I survived ’cause I knew when to kneel and when to stand firm. I knew that the day I pass on the medallion, I need to do so in a man worthy of my Emilio’s legacy.”She stood abruptly, her chair scraping the floor.“Come here.”

She led him to a framed photo on the wall—Luciano and her, young and defiant, standing in front of a Harlem jazz club.“See that?”She pointed to Luciano’s hand, discreetly gripping her waist.“He didn’t touch me ’cause he loved me. He touched me ’cause I knew things, and I had that medallion. He knew I had power. I knew which cops took bribes, which judges liked bourbon. I was hisstrategia—his strategy. You wanna be more than a dead boy with a pretty girl?Be necessary. Be the neck. Make your brother the head. Turn the Mafia in the direction you want.”

Matteo stared at the photo, the weight of her words settling like stone.“Debbie’s carrying my kid, Mama. I can’t… I can’t just play games while they’re in danger. DeMarco is going to find out.”

“You think I don’t know what’s at stake?”Mama’s voice cracked, rare and raw. She turned to a smaller photo on her desk—a toddler with her eyes, laughing in the arms of a Sicilian man.“Salvatore,”she whispered.“My son. Your Nonno’s son. They took him when he was six. Said a Black woman don’t raise nomafioso. You know what Luciano did?”

Matteo shook his head, breath caught.

“Nothing.”Mama’s laugh was bitter.“Niente. ’Cause power’s a ladder, boy. You gotta climb it before you can pull anyone up.”She gripped his shoulder, her nails digging in.“I’m giving you the ladder. But you gotta climbslow. Make DeMarco trust you. Make thecaposneed you. Then, when your daddy falls…”She shrugged, eyes glinting.“You catch the crown.”

“And Debbie?”

Mama softened, thumb brushing the photo of Salvatore.“You protect her by becoming untouchable. Right now, you’re a spark. But sparks die. You wanna be astorm.”

Matteo exhaled, the fight draining out of him.“How do I start?”

“First?”Mama smirked, slipping the ledger into his hands.“You gain your father’s favor. Stop the family warring and become the son he wants. Whisper in his right ear, as his consigliere whispers in his left. Learn the loopholes of the business and prepare your brother. Start with the family. Luciano didn’t build his empire on blood—he built it onnumbers. Simple.”

She put the betting papers in his hands. As Matteo flipped through the pages, Mama walked back to her desk. Her hand lingered on the medallion box.Soon, she thought.But not yet, he’s not ready yet.

Outside, a train rattled past, its whistle echoing through Harlem like a warning.

Sandra’s Dream - Harlem 1978

Sandra shot upright in bed, the diary tumbling to the floor.

Something. Something felt familiar.A memory—no, afeeling—it rose like a soap bubble in her chest: She was small. So small the office ceiling yawned like a starless sky, the desk a mountain of dark wood, its edges sharp as grown-up voices.

A hand held hers.Warm. Rough.She liked the hand. It felt familiar and strong. It smelled like cigars and lemons. The man, the person, the big shadow above her, reached down and she began to lift. She swung her legs, feet dangling above carpet that swallowed her shoes as she was lifted higher and up into his arms.

Up-up-up!

The man’s laugh was low and rumbly, like distant thunder. He tickled her and she hugged his neck. She liked the man. She couldn’t see his face—only the glint of a gold chain at his throat, a chain, athingthat caught the light like Mama’s Sunday brooch.

“Bambina. My little one, my bambina,”he murmured, but the word melted, sticky-sweet, into the hum of the ceiling fan. The desk waited. They were at the desk; they sat at the desk. The drawer screeched (creeeak!), making her toes curl.

---