Page 17 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)

T he cigar smoke hung thick as swamp mist, catching the dim glow of candlelight.

Carmelo accepted the hand-rolled cigar, his smile a razor’s edge in the gloom.

“ Grazie, Don Marcello, for your hospitality,” he murmured, drawing deeply—smoke plumed from his lips—a dragon’s breath, a silent vow.

Carmine Boanno stood near the heavy velvet drapes, his stern gaze a physical weight.

Distrust radiated off him like heat. But the Marcello men?

They watched Carmelo with the cold appraisal of butchers sizing up a prize bull.

Don Stefano Marcello was a relic propped against crimson velvet.

Seventy or older, if Carmelo had to guess.

Skin like crumpled parchment stretched over brittle bones.

He had no sons. Caesar’s briefing echoed in Carmelo’s mind: Twelve daughters.

Husbands stripped of their birth names, reborn as Marcellos. Blood diluted, loyalty enforced.

Six of these adopted "sons" flanked the old Don now, crammed into the circular booth that dominated the speakeasy’s left wing. Their eyes, flat and reptilian, tracked Carmelo’s every flicker of expression.

“ Prego .” The Don’s voice was a dry rattle, the Sicilian dialect thick as tar. It wasn’t a question. It was a test.

Carmelo’s gaze slid to Carmine, then back to the ring of faces.

He exhaled a slow stream of smoke through his nostrils again.

Once upon a time, these men, natural-born killers like his father, would have frozen his blood with fear.

Before his mother’s suicide. Before the gunshot that tore through his father’s shoulder.

Before his big brother’s mental collapse.

Back when he was the baby of the family, he was protected and shielded from the harsh realities of the criminal world.

All of his innocence came and was taken before he understood that the snake-eyed evil festering beneath their tailored suits wasn't a perversion of tradition— it was tradition’s beating, rotten heart.

Necessary evils?

No.

These men were the architects of destiny. A destiny he could not escape. The balance in this country is to provide for the darkness in men like them and him.

The Don leaned sideways, lips brushing the ear of the man on his right—Lenny Marcello, the eldest son-in-law, face shriveled with meanness. Lenny nodded once. His eyes, the color of dirty ice, locked onto Carmelo.

"Saturday," Lenny’s voice scraped the air. "There will be no losses."

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the distant wail of a trumpet from the main floor seemed to choke itself off.

The other Marcello sons-in-law didn’t blink.

The Don stared through hooded lids, a vulture perched on a tombstone.

The unspoken threat hung heavier than the humidity: Lose, and you lose everything.

Your name. Your future. Maybe your breath.

Carmelo carefully set his cigar on the crystal ashtray. The ember glowed like a malevolent eye. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, invading the Marcello circle’s sacred space—a challenge.

"The Mississippi Mauler, Cotton King, whatever he calls himself, he bleeds like any man," Carmelo stated, his voice low, devoid of bravado.

Pure, chilling fact. "He fights with his height and muscle, not skill.

If this were a wrestling match, I would be concerned.

It is not. There will be no footwork from him.

No finesse to dodge, no skill to counter or escape.

I will use that to my advantage. I fight for the blood in my veins.

For the name Ricci ." Carmelo paused, letting the weight of his father’s shadow fill the booth.

"And for the men who understand that territory isn't won with a ballot box... but with shattered bones. I fight and win for these agreements, such as, La Cosa Nostra would give the Sicilians unchecked power in the French Quarter.”

Lenny’s jaw tightened. One of the younger sons-in-law shifted with a smile of acceptance. The Don’s papery hand twitched on the tablecloth.

"The Klan’s fighter isn’t just strong, he’s a butcher, kid," Lenny countered. A crack appeared in his steel composure. “He trains for these matches with pure hate. Hates the white men who put him in that ring to face you, and he takes it out on every white face he fights. The only negro I ever seen kill three white men in the ring and get a goddamn bonus for it. They ain’t sending him to box you. They’re sending him to bury you. You grasp that?"

Carmelo’s smile returned, arctic and sharp.

"Rage is a wildfire. Burns hot, burns fast, burns blind.

Read that once." He lifted the cigar, its ember pulsing like a tiny, furious heart in the gloom.

"I’m a scalpel, Signore Marcello. Precise.

Trained not just to win, but to slay any beast, white, Sicilian, or black.

Even the Devil bleeds. Find me where the Mauller does.

What is his weakness? Where is it? Give me the cut. "

Lenny sat back, a flicker of genuine surprise cutting through his disdain.

Even Carmine Boanno, a statue in the corner, shifted his weight, his stern gaze sharpened.

Carmelo saw it. The doubt etched on their faces.

Too young. Too pretty. Too arrogant to understand the meat-grinder waiting for him in that ring.

They didn't know.

He’d survived Cosimo Ricci’s hammer. Lessons disguised as beatings that cracked his jaw and his soul. He’d lost Kathy once, a wound that still seeped, making every moment with her feel stolen. Pain wasn’t his enemy; it was his life. He was learning the language, syllable by agonizing syllable.

"Let the Mauler choke on his rage. Let the Klan hide in their sheets. When that bell rings," Carmelo’s voice dropped, cold and absolute, "they’ll learn the difference between anger... and annihilation. Get me this boxer’s weakness. I’ll give you New Orleans."

One of the younger sons-in-law shot a questioning look at Lenny, the clear favorite of the Don.

A curt nod went between the men. The young man excused himself, disappeared into the smoky shadows to retrieve Carmelo’s demanded intelligence.

Carmelo held Lenny’s gaze, letting the predatory calculation in his own eyes reflect back – the cold fury of the Wolf taking shape.

Carmine Boanno dipped his chin. A fraction of an inch.

The Don stirred. A skeletal hand, liver-spotted and trembling slightly, lifted from his tailored sleeve, knuckles presented.

Carmelo stood. He leaned into the Marcello circle’s power, grasped the Don’s frail hand, and pressed his lips to the heavy gold ring – a gesture of respect that felt like a claim.

Only one thought crossed Carmelo’s mind.

The same thought that surfaced when his father returned home after Mama’s Stewarts’ mending and was handicapped to his bed.

Your time is ending old man. Mine is coming.

Caesar materialized beside him as they stepped away from the booth." Sangue freddo, Melo ," he murmured, a rare note of admiration in his voice. "Like ice."

Before Carmelo could respond as he turned away from the men, movement caught his eye – Kathy, weaving past the crowded bar, heading towards the other side of the room.

The tension in her shoulders was visible even across the room.

He needed to reach her, to anchor himself in something real before the uncertainty settled in.

"I need to talk to Kathy,” he started after her.

Carmine’s cane tapped the floor, and he swiftly blocked his path. The older man studied him, his expression unreadable.

"Impressive," he rasped.

Carmelo offered a tight smile. "You expected less?"

"Expected a boy facing lions," Carmine countered, a dry chuckle rattling in his chest. "Saw a man. You move like him, you know. Your father. Knew Cosimo back in the old country."

Carmelo’s smile vanished. “I am nothing like him.”

Carmine’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Not a fan of Papa? I see. Cosimo wasn’t a hero.

But fear? That wasn't in Cosimo's blood.

It isn't in yours either. That bravery you carry?

" He tapped his own temple with a finger.

"It's your inheritance, boy. Hard-earned.

Use it on Saturday. Or it'll bury you alongside the Mauler. Because if the Klan kills you, we kill him in your honor. Don Marcello has ordered it.”

Carmelo’s eyes stretched.

Carmine gave him a sly nod and moved away. Carmelo looked over to Caesar to see if he heard the message within the message.

“Am I in trouble here? You and Matteo have prepped me, but he’s a giant. He’s a killer.” Carmelo said, his bravado now wavering.

Caesar gave him the best smile he could. “You need to be careful and always alert in the ring. Not cocky. It’s not bravery that makes you a winner, Melo. It’s your heart. It’s made of something tough.”

Carmelo smiled. “That’s Caesar.”

“No problem. I have my orders. Before they can get to you, they have to go through me,” said Caesar.

Jazz bled through the walls, a frantic counterpoint to the sudden silence between Kathy and the man leaning against the peeling wallpaper. He was a slab of muscle in a cheap suit, fedora pulled low, shadowing eyes that tracked her like a predator sizing prey.

"Excuse me,"Kathy said, her voice steady despite the ice sliding down her spine. She moved forward, aiming for the faint outline of a door at the hall’s end—the promised exit to the courtyard bathrooms.

He didn’t move aside. Instead, he unfolded himself from the wall, planting his bulk squarely in her path. The dim light caught the sneer twisting his lips.

"You lost, sugar?" The drawl was thick, laced with a malice that had nothing to do with directions.

"No." Kathy kept her chin level, meeting his gaze. Harlem had taught her that much. "Just need to pass." She took another step.