Page 19 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)

SEVEN MONTH’S EARLIER - NEW YORK

C armelo lay still in the predawn gloom, Kathy curled against his chest like a secret he’d stolen from the world. Her breath warmed his skin, a gentle contrast to the harsh memory of the night's violence.

After the fight, the Marcello crew had dragged the offending soldier—one of their own—into the alley's deeper shadows. Don Marcello’s command had been swift, delivered with the casual finality of his authority: Silenzio permanente.

An insult to a Ricci demanded a blood payment.

The man's strangled cry had disappeared into the darkness soon after the gunshot.

It was just another lost sound in a city built on secrets.

But Carmelo had buried that grim punctuation beneath borrowed moments of normalcy—Kathy's fingers intertwined with his own, cheap red wine softening his senses, Willa's wide-eyed laughter as Janey spun enchanting tales of Creole balls. They’d laughed louder than necessary, drank enough to blur reality's sharp edges, and stumbled back to the Boanno home in a joyous tangle. Too weary for passion, they’d shed their clothes and collapse into cool sheets, clinging to each other until sleep took hold.

Kathy had drifted off immediately, her body fitting against his with effortless trust, anchoring him until exhaustion finally claimed him too.

Now, in the gentle stillness before dawn, Kathy slept on. Pale light traced softly along her cheek, the sweep of her eyelashes, her lips slightly parted in peaceful repose. She seemed untouchable—an angel.

Carmelo stared at the ceiling, the heaviness in his chest surpassing any blow from any opponent he'd faced. Three days. That was all that remained left, separating this delicate dream from the violent storm awaiting him in the ring.

His gaze returned to her sleeping form. Her hair fanned darkly across the pillow, lips softly parted, impossibly delicate in slumber.

She was his compass, his sanctuary, his entire trembling world.

The terror of losing her was not merely a thought; it was an abyss opening beneath him, colder and darker than any grave.

More than death itself, he feared the moment her eyes would dim upon finally seeing the truth unmasked.

Brooklyn, New York (Months Earlier)

“Melo… Mama?”

Carmelo jolted awake. Nino loomed over his bed, a mountain of a man clutching a threadbare teddy bear—the one Mama had scrubbed stains from a hundred times. Moonlight bled through the curtains, painting Nino’s face in streaks of silver and shadow. His eyes were swollen, raw from crying.

“Melo… Mama?” he whimpered again, his voice breaking like a child’s.

Carmelo sat up, his heart aching like his brothers for their mother. “Go back to bed, Nino,” he whispered.

But Nino’s breath hitched. His fists clenched. Then?—

“Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!” he screamed. The desperate cry was a hammer blow to Carmelo’s heart. Nino began hitting himself in the temple, hard, the way he did when the world became too much. Carmelo got out of bed and grabbed his brother’s wrists. The teddy bear tumbled to the floor.

“Shhh…” Carmelo picked it up and pressed the bear back into Nino’s massive hands, his own voice cracking. “Mama’s coming. She’s coming.”

The lie tasted like ash.

Nino crumpled, his sobs muffled. Carmelo guided him back to his bed, tucking the covers around him like armor. He smoothed Nino’s sweat-damp hair—just as Mama used to—and hummed the old Sicilian hymn she’d sung at the stove, her voice warm with saffron and garlic. The sound scraped his throat raw.

It took forever for Nino’s breathing to even out. When sleep finally claimed him, Carmelo slid to the floor, his back against the bedframe. The house was too quiet. Too empty.

He reached under his bed, fingers brushing dust before closing around the shoebox. Inside, the iron hammer gleamed dully in the moonlight—the same one his father had swung into his ribs, his spine, his skull. Beneath it lay Kathy’s letters, their edges soft from being handled too much.

And then, the one thing he couldn’t bear to touch but couldn’t bear to burn:

Mama’s letter.

The paper whispered as he unfolded it. The scent of her rosewater perfume clung to the fibers, faint but unmistakable. Carmelo wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. Then, in the suffocating dark, he read her words again.

Each sentence.

Each word.

My Dearest Carmelo,

If you are reading this, the waters of the East River have taken me.

Forgive me,figlio mio, for the sin I commit this day.

Forgive me for leaving you, and for the burden this letter places upon your soul.

Know that I stand before God now, guilty of self-murder, my eternal soul condemned to toil in fire.

I accept this torment willingly. It is the price I pay for your future and the survival of our blood.

I have watched. I have judged. I have loved my three sons with a mother's heart. I have tried. The future ofthe famiglia rests on the shoulders that must bear the impossible. It cannot be Nino. My sweet firstborn, his mind forever trapped in innocence... the world would devour him whole. He needs protection. It cannot be Matteo. My second son burns with pride like his father, but his fire is brittle. When he learns of my death –howI died – that brittle pride will shatter. He will need healing, Carmelo. He will needyou, just as Nino will. He does not have the spine to lead. He does everything from his heart. Do not let Matteo’s toughness fool you.

It must be you, Carmelo. My youngest. My fiercest. My sacrifice.

I watched your father's hammer break your bones. I saw your eyes, figlio. There was nothing but defiance. You spat blood and threats instead of begging for mercy. You shielded me even as the blows fell, refusing to apologize or submit.

You have your father's strength, cunning, and ruthlessness—everything that makes him a Ricci. But unlike him, you still have a heart that fights for something, not just against. You fight for us.

But your heart, my brave son... it is also your vulnerability.

I know about the girl. Kathy. I see how she pulls you towards a life beyond what I had dreamed for you.

That life is a dream, Carmelo. A beautiful, deadly dream.

Cosimo knows. He will use her to break you, to destroy you before you can stop it.

The order is already whispered: the black death on her, on her family.

My death is the only message I could send to you and your father to stop this war between you.

To force you to see the truth. You need each other.

You will be the head of the family, the heir he wanted.

You will take your father’s place because it is the only way to protect those you love, including Kathy.

But to gain his trust, you will have to make a sacrifice.

You will marry Maria Romero. Hear me, Carmelo. This is my only request in death.

This marriage is your defense. It restores your father’s pride from the shame of your running away with a colored girl.

Use his pride. Negotiate with your father.

Tell him you will marry Maria, you will step into your birthright as he always demanded.

.. but only if the hit on Kathy and her family is lifted.

Permanently. He will agree. A son, finally, for him to mold would be his greatest temptation.

He will secure a powerful alliance, which is worth the life of one black girl to him.

It is the only way to save her life, Carmelo.

The only shield you can raise between her and Cosimo's vengeance.

I know what I ask will break your heart. It will break hers. This I know. Sometimes, figlio, the deepest love demands the cruelest sacrifice. To protect her, you have to let her go.

Do not let my soul burn in vain. Unite our broken family. And one day, when you are strong enough, finish what your father started with that hammer. Break him.

I loved you. I love you.

Mama

Carmelo wept until his chest ached and throat burned raw—silent, racking sobs of a man whose childhood had died with his mother. Tears fell onto the worn floorboards as grief consumed him completely.w

When no more tears would come, he wiped his face and made the sign of the cross.

He pressed his lips to his mother's letter, tasting salt and sorrow on the paper, then folded it carefully and placed it with Kathy's love letters—artifacts from another lifetime.

As he slid the box back under his bed, his fingers closed around the cold steel of the hammer.

The weight of it felt heavier than before, as if it had absorbed some essential piece of his soul.

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, held it until his lungs burned, then exhaled slowly through parted lips.

Each movement felt deliberate, ritualistic—a condemned man's final preparations.

The journey to his parents' bedroom felt both endless and too brief.

He hadn't crossed that threshold since the terrible morning when he'd collected his mother's burial clothes for the ceremony held at a funeral home instead of the Catholic church.

Now he paused before the heavy oak door, his hand hovering over the brass handle for a long moment before pushing it open into suffocating darkness.

The room reeked of stale cigarettes, unwashed sheets, and the bitter medicinal smell of a man slowly dying from his wounds. Heavy curtains blocked every trace of natural light, creating a tomb-like atmosphere that seemed fitting for what was about to unfold.

His father lay sprawled across the massive four-poster bed like a broken king on his deathbed, his once-powerful frame diminished by pain and grief.

The moment Carmelo's footsteps whispered across the carpet, Cosimo's eyes snapped open.

Without hesitation, he raised a chrome-plated pistol with his good arm—the left one, since Carmelo's bullet had rendered his right shoulder completely useless—and aimed it directly at his son's heart.

Carmelo stood perfectly still, the hammer hanging loose at his side like an executioner's tool. He felt no fear, only a strange sense of relief. Death would be infinitely preferable to fulfilling his mother's last request.

"Go ahead," Carmelo said quietly, his voice steady as stone. "It would be a mercy."

Father and son stared at each other across the chasm of mutual destruction they'd created—two Ricci men who'd lost everything that mattered, including each other.

After what felt like hours, Cosimo slowly lowered the weapon, his eyes studying his youngest son with an expression that bordered on recognition.

"I will take care of Nino," Carmelo began, his voice carrying the hollow tone of a man reciting his own death sentence. "I will find Matteo and bring him home." He paused, the next words sticking in his throat like broken glass. "And I will marry Maria Romero."

Cosimo's eyebrows drew together in confusion. Despite everything—the shooting, the months of recovery, the poisonous hatred between them—this was not what he was sure his father expected to hear.

"You will marry Maria Romero?" he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Who asked you to marry her?”

“Madre. She asked. I will marry her, Padre, under one condition.

" Carmelo's grip tightened on the hammer until his knuckles went white.

"You lift the black death order on the Freeman family. You inform Bumpy Johnson that a permanent truce has been established between our families. You do that, and I will fulfill Madre’s dying wish and whatever you demand of me. "

Cosimo struggled to push himself up to a sitting position, his damaged arm hanging useless at his side. He set the pistol aside on the nightstand with deliberate care, never taking his eyes off his son's face.

"Why?" The word came out as barely more than a whisper. "Why have you decided this now?"

Carmelo's laugh was bitter. "Mama is gone. Dead. You might as well have pulled the trigger yourself,” Carmelo said.

"You've already killed the boy in me. I don't care what happens to me as your son anymore. Mama’s gone. Her death has to mean something. So. You win. Because what she wanted was for you to win. To give you a daughter. To give you a family. To be the perfect wife. And you never allowed it. Now she wants me to do the same.”

Cosimo's gaze fell to the hammer in his son's hand—that terrible reminder of the night he'd lost control, the night he'd beaten his own child with the same tool.

And then, for the first time since Lucia's funeral with only two sons at his side, the great Don Cosimo Ricci broke completely.

“I loved Lucia. I loved her and I will burn in hell next to her for making her do what she did,” he said.

Don Cosimo wept with the raw anguish of a man who'd destroyed everything he'd ever loved.

For his wife, whose gentle spirit he'd crushed beneath his brutality.

For his sons, whom he'd made into weapons instead of men.

For the family legacy he'd poisoned with his own hands.

Every night in that tomb-like bedroom, he prayed to a God who'd stopped listening, begging for the impossible return of the woman who'd been his conscience, his redemption, his only humanity.

Carmelo watched his father's breakdown with empty eyes, feeling only distant satisfaction that justice had finally come. Without a word, he turned and walked out, leaving Cosimo to drown in his choices.

He returned the hammer beneath his bed with the reverence of laying flowers on a grave, then slipped under the covers beside Nino. His brother slept on, innocent and unaware that his world had just shifted on its axis.

Only then, in the darkness beside the one pure soul left in the Ricci family, did Carmelo cry—not for what he'd lost, but for what he'd just agreed to become. A liar. He wept for Kathy.