Page 39 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)
T wo Years Later. The Greyhound station was loud with the thrum of idling diesel engines.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly pallor over the cracked linoleum and vinyl seats.
Janey perched beside Carmine, absently flipping the pages of a dog-eared McCall’s .
He slept beside her, head tilted back against the hard plastic, mouth slightly open, exhaustion etching deep lines around his eyes.
Two years of relentless road trips – ferrying Kathy to clandestine meetings with Carmelo – had taken their toll.
Janey checked her wristwatch for the third time in ten minutes. Its gold face winked accusingly in the harsh light.
“Carmine,” she murmured, nudging his shoulder. His breathing hitched, but he didn’t stir. “What time did the ticket man say? She should’ve been here.”
Only the distant hiss of air brakes answered her.
Memphis at midnight felt worlds away from the electric buzz of Carmelo’s fight camp.
She studied Carmine’s profile – the familiar stubborn set of his jaw even in sleep, the new threads of silver at his temples.
Her fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, the gesture tender, almost unconscious.
These past years had changed them in a good way.
She had become the wife he needed as his illness took hold of him.
And for a reward, he did everything in his power to make her happy.
Whisking Kathy across state lines, outmaneuvering Big Mama and the watchful Brenda, had become their strange, shared purpose.
North Carolina’s pines, Texas dust, Chicago’s biting wind…
they’d traced Carmelo’s rise in boxing together with Kathy in tow.
Now Memphis. Next, whispers said, California – a state that still sent an old, cold shiver down Janey’s spine since the execution of Marianne Temple for her crimes.
Carmine had returned from New York two weeks ago, tight-lipped and shadowed.
The upcoming Memphis bout wasn’t just another fight; it was history.
The Wolf of Brooklyn is defending his belt, mob factions from Jersey to New Orleans circling like sharks, and even Sinatra is lending his Rat Pack glamour to the pre-fight gala.
Solidarity, they called it. To Janey, it smelled like pressure for Carmine.
She’d tried to pierce Carmine’s gloom. “He wins this,”she’d said brightly just yesterday, packing Kathy’s gift in her suitcase,“nothing stops them from marrying this year. Vegas. That’s a good place for us all to go to, you said. A place for my baby niece can be happy and make me babies.”
His response had been a grunt, averted eyes, and a sudden intense focus on polishing his cane’s silver head.
Sulking. Muttering under his breath like a man carrying a stone in his shoe.
It wasn’t fatigue. Janey knew the rhythm of her husband’s moods – the rare volcanic temper, the icy calculation, the sun-warmed affection he showered her with after returning from one of his trips.
This… this was different. This was the silence of a secret kept.
The roar of a big engine announced another bus’s arrival, its headlights cutting through the station’s gloom like twin blades. Janey’s gaze snapped to the disembarking passengers, heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her rib cage.
Where are you, Kathy?
The Birmingham bus groaned to a halt, air brakes hissing like a tired serpent. "She’s here!" She jabbed Carmine’s ribs with her elbow.
He jolted awake with a gravelly curse, blinking against the station’s harsh fluorescents.
In the backseat, Deion—Carmine’s sixteen-year-old apprentice, his dark skin nearly swallowed by the shadows—was already unfolding his lanky frame from the car and out of it.
The teen headed to Kathy. Deion, who looked five years older than his age, was their shield against Jim Crow’s jagged edges: the one who booked "colored" motels, handled gas station attendants, and smoothed their path to help them avoid hostile territory.
"Carmelo should be waiting at the Prichards', right?" Janey's voice rang with excitement. She thrived on these clandestine Southern movements, feeding on chaos disguised as calm. When silence met her question, she studied Carmine's profile in the dashboard's glow.
His jaw tightened, knuckles white on the wheel. "What's eating you? Spit it out."
"The plan's shot." He turned to face her, expression grim. "The Prichard farmhouse burned down. I told Deion to get Kathy checked into the colored hotel."
"You're telling me this now?" Janey's shock quickly turned to fury. She pointed at Deion and Kathy embracing beside the pumps, exposed under the harsh lights. "The Prichard place was supposed to keep them safe. Now what?"
Carmine exploded. "I ain't their fucking guardian angel, Janey! I got real business! How long did you think this circus could roll on?"He slammed his palm against the horn, drawing attention to them.
Deion met Kathy at the bus steps and took her worn suitcase. Despite her exhaustion, she smiled, relief brightening her face.
"We're heading to the Prichards', right? Is Carmelo already there?"
"Change of plans, Miss Kathy." Deion kept his voice low.
"The farmhouse burned down. Klan got word about white men and black women meeting there.
The Prichards made it out safe to Carolina, but there's no sanctuary now.
" He shifted her bag. "I got you a room at the Douglass Hotel. Our driver Snake will take us."
A horn blast cut through the night. Kathy spun to see Carmine's car already speeding away, Aunt Janey's silhouette visible through the rear window: no wave goodbye, no acknowledgment.
Something was wrong
They had parked. And Janey worked on calming her temper. Outside, cigarillo smoke coiled around Carmine’s head like a phantom crown. He’d gotten out of the car to escape her wrath.
He’s hiding something.
And this time, she’d tear the truth from him with her bare hands.
She got out of the car. Carmine glanced her way, and she shot him a threatening glare.
Husband and wife stared at each other. Whoever crossed the line first would probably be the victor, because neither truly wanted to hurt the other.
After a long pause, Janey heard a car arrive.
She turned and looked to see Kathy exit the car last, with Deion following her with her bag, walking her to the front of the hotel.
“Go be with her, deal with me later,” Carmine said with no fear, just exhaustion and exhaled smoke through his nostrils. He dropped the cigarillo and stomped it out with his shoe, then went back in the car to wait.
Janey softened a bit. She rolled her eyes and walked on toward the motel.
Two Months Earlier. New York City
Carmine Boanno crossed the room, offering the customary embrace.
A careful, one-armed affair. Don Cosimo Ricci, Capo di tutti capi since Luciano’s exile, returned it stiffly.
The bullet Carmelo put in his shoulder two years prior had left its mark: the limb hung useless, hand arthritic, nerves deadened.
A constant, painful reminder of betrayal beneath the fine silk threads of his suit.
“Don Ricci. Too long,” Carmine said, the familiar cadence of Sicily warming his voice despite the tension. He kissed both cheeks, noting the Don’s pallor beneath the tan. “You look… solid.”
Cosimo grunted, easing himself behind the vast mahogany desk like a king reclaiming his throne. “Still breathing. Can’t say my sons deserve credit. A humorless flicker in his dark eyes. Boanno’s men remained outside the heavy oak door—a command of respect to the Ricci position among the families.
Carmine took the offered seat.“I hear Matteo handles more territory. Making a name for himself. Harlem remains your jewel?”
“Harlemwill be mine,” Cosimo corrected, the words a soft rasp that carried steel.
“Bumpy Johnson’s time in the sun ends soon.
The pig-pen awaits him. It’s all arranged.
Luciano’s pet Negro falls, the dominoes tumble…
exactly as I placed them.” He steepled his good hand against the bad one, the gesture predatory.
“And your sons? Matteo… Carmelo? Are they positioned for this… transition?”Carmine kept his tone neutral, probing the rumors of fractures within the Ricci family.
Cosimo’s gaze sharpened, becoming flinty.
“I hear whispers, Carmine. Marcello’s winding up?
Carmelo wears our name in the boxing ring, the world champion, but he is Ricci, not Marcello.
I think our little arrangement is set to expire.
I can manage my sons’ career going forward without the old Don’s support.
” Cosimo leaned forward slightly to drive home his decision.
“Don Marcello is ill. Very. He may not make it to the New Year. He sends only respect, Cosimo,”Carmine demurred smoothly, the lie practiced. The old man was too honery to die, but Carmine knew these families waited like vultures to sweep in to New Orleans.
He expertly changed the subject. “I knew DeMarco, back when the earth was younger, even before we met. His passing left questions. Forgive Don Marcello’s concern for you and your sons.
We understand that this is a family matter that has been well taken care of.
In two years, your boys have risen to the top. That credit goes to you.”
Cosimo acknowledged the half-apology with a curt, dangerous nod.
“As for my Don,” Carmine continued, shifting gears,“he admires the champion’s shine along with the profits you split.
But his sights are set beyond the ring. The desert calls.
Bugsy Siegel’s Flamingo is spitting gold coins all over the streets of Vegas.
Meyer Lansky has been seeking investors since Bugsy’s unexpected demise.
He courts the Battaglias… in the Almalfi, Mancini is Sicily.
”Carmine let the implication hang—Italians and Sicilians encroaching from across the water would never sit well with Cosimo.
That would only raise Luciano’s power in Italy.
“I’m listening,” said Cosimo.
“Don Marcello believes this desert fruit should be harvested by our hands. He proposes a new alliance. You and him.”
“Battaglia?” Cosimo’s lip curled, a flash of old pride, the resentment of being an outsider when Tomosino moved in and claimed the Cammora.
“My interests,” Cosimo stated flatly after a weighted silence,“are here. New York. Chicago. Detroit. Tell Marcello those jewels are greater than sand to me.”
“A small stake, Cosimo,” Carmine pressed gently, playing the diplomat.“A foothold. Lanskey owns Vegas, but eventually it will be in our hands. The dice will roll in our favor…”
A soft knock cut him off. The door opened.
A stunning young woman with dark hair entered, radiant in a summer floral dress. In her arms, a baby boy swaddled in pale blue. Behind her, an equally striking older woman, evidently the girl’s mother, clearly held a baby girl wrapped in soft pink. Twins.
“ Scusi, Papa, ” the young woman murmured, her voice melodic. “We leave now. We wanted yourbambinito say goodbye to Nonno.”
Carmine rose automatically, a polite smile fixed in place. His eyes, however, snapped to the infants, then to Cosimo.
Don Cosimo’s formidable presence dissolved.
The ruthless leader vanished, replaced by a besotted grandfather.
He pushed his chair back, his good arm opening.
The baby boy was carefully placed in the crook of his inner elbow.
Cosimo bent his head, pressing a tender kiss to the downy forehead.
The baby girl was then transferred to his lap, receiving the same gentle affection.
“Carmine,”Cosimo announced, pride swelling his voice,“my daughter-in-law, Maria Ricci. And her mother, my wife, Rebecca. Behold the future of the Ricci family! A king and a queen!”
Carmine tipped his head, the polite mask firmly on.“My congratulations! I hadn’t heard that Matteo had taken a wife. Beautiful children.”
Cosimo’s head lifted sharply, the warmth freezing into icy disdain.“Matteo? These are Carmelo’s bambini. My son has been wed to Maria for two years.”
The words hit Carmine like a physical blow. His carefully constructed smile faltered, then died. He stared at the babies – Carmelo’s twins – the blood draining from his face. He forced his expression blank, a monumental effort.
“ So nice to finally meet you, Signore Boanno,” Maria offered sweetly, oblivious to the earthquake she’d triggered. “Carmelo speaks of you and New Orleans often. He loves it there. We hope to visit someday soon. Once he becomes the World Champion.”
“Ah… does he?” Carmine managed, his voice slightly strangled .
“Yes… a man of… many talents, a true champion.”He touched the brim of his hat, a desperate gesture of retreat.
“Cosimo, forgive me. I have other families to see, Marcello’s messages to deliver.
If your thoughts on the desert… evolve… You know how to reach us. ”
Don Cosimo barely glanced up, already cooing softly in Italian to his grandchildren.
Carmine practically fled the room, the image of those innocent twins seared into his mind, a secret now burning a hole through his loyalty to Janey and shattering everything Kathy believed.