Page 46 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)

THE CHAMP AND HIS LADY

C armelo sat frozen in the back room, robe hanging loose on his shoulders, gloves laced, boots on.

He should've been warming up, should've been in the ring twenty minutes ago.

But his body had shut down, suspended between dread and hope.

Did she know? How much? Was he already dead and just waiting for the bullet?

"Matteo's back." A voice cut through his paralysis from one of his watchers. "Got people with him."

Carmelo's head lifted like a man on the gallows spotting the governor. Matteo entered first, then Carmine, and behind them?—

Kathy.

She wasn't looking at him yet, her attention caught by something in the hallway. When her eyes finally found his, he watched her face transform—soft recognition, then something harder, sharper, before a smile bloomed that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Hey," she said, and the simple word undid him.

He launched from the chair, sweeping her into his arms and spinning her around before his mind could warn him to be careful.

She hugged him back, her body fitting against his the way it always had, but when her eyes opened over his shoulder, they locked on Matteo with something fierce and unforgiving.

When he finally released her, she softened again, that practiced smile returning. "They said I could watch you warm up. You ready, champ?"

He kissed her desperately, tasting her as if it were for the first time. She went rigid for just a heartbeat before melting into him, kissing back with enough heat to fool anyone watching. When they broke apart, he kissed her again, drowning in relief.

"Carmelo, stop," she laughed, and it almost sounded real.

He pulled back, searching her face. "You... came? You okay? We okay?”

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?” Her eyes were wide, innocent. Perfect.

Carmelo glanced at Matteo and Carmine, who both nodded—whatever had been broken was fixed. He exhaled years of tension. Kathy's hands found his face, her touch gentle. "You ready, you focused, huh?"

"I am now,” he sighed.

"Then show me what you do best." She kissed him once more, her fingers stroking his jaw with such tenderness that even the men watching were convinced. Carmelo grinned like a fool, shoved in his mouthguard, and bounced out toward the ring.

The moment he was gone, Kathy's mask slipped. She stood perfectly still, as if movement might shatter her facade.

"Thank you, Kathy," Matteo started.

She turned on him with a heated glare. "Don't speak to me. And you tell Debbie—we're not family anymore. No letters. No calls. Ever. I don’t ever want to see or talk to her again. After Tennessee, I hope I never see you either.”

Matteo flinched as if slapped. Kathy walked out, her spine straight as a blade.

Carmine shook his head at the younger man. "There's no turning back now."

The next two days were a masterclass in torture.

Kathy played her part flawlessly—at the gym, cheering from ringside; at dinners, laughing at the right moments; at the parties where Negroes were allowed, dancing just close enough to keep Carmelo happy but never alone.

She had a dozen excuses to avoid his bed, each more creative than the last. A few times, he got aggressive, even reached under the table and under her skirt to touch her between her thighs.

She tolerated his unrelenting desires, but kept him from gaining the prize he sought.

That particular performance, she refused to give.

Meanwhile, Carmine had Janey sedated at the colored hospital, then sent home to Willa under guard. Kathy never said goodbye. How could she face her aunt now, knowing what madness and poison had wrought?

The constant pretending carved her hollow.

By the second day, she felt nothing—not love, not hate, not even anger for the man she'd once built her world around.

Just emptiness. And that terrified her more than anything.

Because somewhere in that void, his child was growing, and she had no idea what to do about that either.

No choices left—just the performance.

"You ready?" Mabel's knock pulled her from the mirror.

The Douglass had become her sanctuary—Carmelo couldn't follow her into Mabel's domain. Kathy finished with her earrings and turned. "Yes, ma'am."

"Lord have mercy, you're something else. Every young man in this hotel's got his heart in his throat over you. Prettiest thing we've seen in ages."

Kathy studied her reflection. The lilac dress fit perfectly, sewn with her own hands for this night. Her hair was pinned just so. But it was all mechanical now—a doll dressing itself.

"You sure you want this, Carmine, taking you to the bus station so late at night? My boys would be happy to?—.”

"No, ma'am. Carmine and I have an understanding." She collected her bag, the smile automatic now. "It's time I went home."

Mabel studied her with those knowing eyes. "You're something remarkable. Know that?"

Kathy waited.

"When you first came here, I thought you were just another broken girl. Then I heard the whole story—how that boy lied, how you lost everything. Except..." Her gaze dropped meaningfully to Kathy's middle. "You're carrying his child, aren't you?"

Kathy stood perfectly still. If she acknowledged it, if she said the words aloud, the careful everything she'd built around herself would crumble.

"No judgment here, sweetie. Just admiring your strength. Not many could handle all this with such grace."

"One day at a time." Kathy's voice came from somewhere far away. "I've been on my own since Daddy sent me from Harlem. Guess me and this baby will figure it out together."

Mabel's smile was soft with understanding. She took Kathy's bag, and together they headed for whatever came next.

"Alright. You got this. We got this!" Matteo's hands worked Carmelo's shoulders, kneading the muscle like their mother used to when they were boys—before everything went to hell. Carmelo bounced on his toes, shadowboxing the air.

"You ready, Champ?” Matteo asked.

“Yeah, tell them I’m ready,” he said. Matteo patted him on the back and started for the door.

"Wait—one thing,” said Carmelo.

Matteo's hand was already on the door when Carmelo's voice pulled him back. Something in his brother's tone—too bright, too eager—made his stomach twist.

"What is it?" Matteo asked.

"After the fight, you bring Kathy straight to me." Carmelo's eyes shone with the kind of desperate hope Matteo hadn't seen since they were kids planning to run away from Pa. "I told her last night at the party—we're leaving. Subito. Right after the bell."

"Melo—?”

"Going west, fratello . Not telling anyone where, but when you make it to Vegas, I’ll know. Kathy and I will find you and Debbie. Just like we planned.” He threw a quick combination of air punches, dancing around, and grinning. "Like starting over, you know? Clean slate. New life."

"Listen, brother—" Matteo started.

"No, no, ascolta —listen to me." Carmelo grabbed Matteo's shoulders now, reversing their positions. "I almost lost her. You understand? If she'd heard about Maria from someone else, if she'd found out about—" His voice cracked. "I can't risk it again. Can't lose her. Ever."

Matteo's chest tightened. Kathy already knew. Had known for two days. Every smile she'd given Carmelo, every kiss—all performance. And here was his little brother, planning their escape like she hadn't already bought her bus ticket home.

"What about Maria? The bambini?" The words came out strangled.

"Pa's problem." Carmelo turned back to the mirror, adjusting his robe. "He wanted those kids and that marriage; he can deal with it."

"Melo, cazzo ! They're yours! Your blood!"

Carmelo spun, and for a second, Matteo saw rage in his brother’s eyes. The kind of eyes his father had. Then it vanished, replaced by that terrible, innocent hope.

"I have one wife, Matteo. Una sola . One family. Kathy. That's it. Those kids—Maria—they're nothing. Niente. You understand? They don't exist!"

Matteo felt his stomach churn. Had Carmelo’s sanity snapped? The sweet kid brother he knew would never blame innocent babies or their mother for existing. He did his best to avoid betraying the vow to maintain the deception. But the man in him wanted to knock some fucking sense into his brother.

Matteo forced his features into something like brotherly understanding, even as his heart broke. "Okay. Va bene, I get it. You win tonight, campione , and tomorrow you're gone. The world is yours."

" Fanculo il mondo ." Carmelo's voice went reverent as he made the sign of the cross in front of him and then kissed his fingers, like in prayer. "I don't want the world. Just her. Just Kathy."

Matteo nodded, not trusting his voice. He escaped into the hallway before Carmelo could see the truth written on his face. Behind the door, he could hear his brother humming—some Sinatra tune about flying to the moon—throwing punches at shadows.

Dancing like a man set free.

Matteo pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. In two hours, Carmelo would win his fight. In three, he'd be waiting for a woman who was already gone. And Matteo would have to watch his little brother's face when he finally understood that some lies cut too deep to heal.

Inside the dressing room, Carmelo kept dancing, kept humming, kept believing.

Outside, Matteo stood guard over his brother's last happy moment, knowing he'd helped orchestrate its end.

"Get up, Malone! Get up!"

The crowd roared as Irish Tommy Malone struggled to find his feet, blood streaming from his split eyebrow. Nine rounds in, and the Memphis boy was finally showing cracks.

From the colored section high in the rafters, Kathy gripped the railing, her knuckles tight. "Come on, Carmelo! Finish it!"

Below, Carmelo circled like a wolf, his body glistening under the harsh lights. His left eye was swelling shut, his ribs screamed with each breath, but he could taste it now—victory, redemption, everything.

Malone staggered upright at eight, raising his gloves just as the referee stepped back. The Irish fighter had fifty pounds on Carmelo and a reach like a telephone pole, but he was hurt. Bad.

"BOX!"

Malone charged, desperate, throwing wild haymakers. Carmelo slipped left, the punch whistling past his ear. Then right, another miss. The crowd was on its feet.

"Now, baby! Now!" Kathy screamed, her voice lost in the thunder of two thousand voices.

Carmelo saw it—the opening he'd been setting up all night. Malone's right hand dropped just an inch after each wild swing, leaving his jaw exposed for half a heartbeat.

Time slowed…

Carmelo planted his back foot, torqued his hips, and threw the cleanest left hook of his life.

It connected with Malone's jaw with a crack that silenced the arena.

The big Irishman's eyes rolled white. His legs went rubbery.

He toppled backward like a felled oak, crashing to the canvas with a thud that shook the ring.

The referee didn't even count. Malone was done.

"WINNER BY KNOCKOUT—CARMELO 'THE WOLF of brOOKLYN' RICCI!"

The arena exploded. White folks in their pressed suits, Negroes in their Sunday best up in the rafters—everyone screaming, money changing hands, history being made.

But Carmelo heard none of it. His eyes searched the colored section frantically until—there.

Kathy was on her feet, laughing and crying at the same time, waving both arms above her head.

Her lilac dress swirled as she jumped up and down, her face bright with what looked like genuine joy.

For this moment, in the lights and noise and glory, she was his Kathy again.

Not the hollow girl who'd been going through the motions for two days, but the woman who'd believed in him.

He raised his glove toward her section, and she blew him a kiss. The gesture hit him harder than any punch Malone had landed.

He'd won. Against all odds, against the whiskey and despair and the weight of his lies—he'd won. The Marcellos would get their money. His father would get his reputation. Matteo would get them out of Memphis alive. And Kathy would get in a car and drive away with him to their future. Forever his.

Carmelo closed his eyes and let the victory wash over him, memorizing the sound of her laughter floating down from the rafters. It would have to last him a lifetime.