Page 58 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)

THE DAY OF THE DEAD

Debbie had dressed little Junior in a little suit her mother had sewn in her grief. She smoothed his collar again, needing something to do with her hands, needing to avoid the eyes that cut toward her from every direction.

The Abyssinian Baptist Church had never felt smaller.

Every pew groaned with Harlem royalty—numbers runners, jazz musicians, politicians, and hustlers all pressed together in their grief.

The stained glass windows cast colored shadows across faces twisted with loss and fury.

Her father lay in his bronze casket at the altar, and Uncle Henry sat stone-faced in the front row, accepting condolences like a king receiving tribute.

He'd stepped into Bumpy's shoes without hesitation, and everyone knew what that meant. Blood would answer blood.

Kathy had almost turned back twice on the church steps.

The last time she'd been inside Abyssinian, she'd been seventeen and in love with a boy her family called an enemy.

Now she was twenty, married to another man, carrying Carmelo Ricci's child beneath her black mourning dress.

Ely guided her to a middle pew, his presence both shield and reminder of how thoroughly she'd destroyed her life.

The organ swelled with "Precious Lord," and she gripped the pew in front of her, nauseated by more than pregnancy.

Somewhere in this crowd were men who'd kill her, despite who her father was, if they knew whose baby grew inside her.

Somewhere outside, even more men circled Queens, ready to strike first against the Riccis and ignite the never-ending war between Harlem and Queens.

The war everyone whispered about had already begun; they didn't know she carried its future in her womb.

The funeral passed in a haze of hymns and tears, both Kathy and Debbie trapped in their private agonies.

When Claire's tremors worsened, Debbie pressed Junior into Kathy's arms without a word.

Her mother's illness couldn't handle this kind of stress—already Claire could barely hold herself upright, her body betraying her in waves of distress.

"I'm here, Mama," Debbie whispered, supporting her mother's shaking frame. "I've got you."

Kathy bounced Junior gently, grateful for the distraction of his fussing as she watched her own parents.

Her father sat like a monument—back straight, eyes fixed on his brother's casket.

Her mother's hand moved from his neck to the space between his shoulder blades, her lips moving in what Kathy knew were words of comfort.

But Henry Freeman might as well have been carved from marble for all the response he gave.

The procession from church to cemetery felt like a small mercy.

Settled in the back of the chauffeured car, Kathy finally let herself breathe.

She'd survived the church service. Now just the graveside ceremony remained before she could retreat to the bakery—her only refuge from the chaos threatening to swallow her whole.

"You okay?" Ely's voice was gentle.

She glanced up at him, Junior warm and heavy against her chest. When Ely reached over to cradle the baby's tiny hand, she saw it again—that soft light in his eyes whenever he was near children.

It was why she'd chosen him. In Butts, he'd built more than a school and recreation center; he'd created a world where forgotten children mattered.

Every swimming hole cleared, every baseball diamond carved from nothing was proof of the father he'd be.

"I'm worried about Aunt Claire," she admitted. "And Debbie."

The image haunted her—Brother carrying Claire's limp body from the church while Debbie stumbled behind, José's arms the only thing keeping her upright.

"I'm sorry, Kat. For all of it."

She managed a small smile. "I know you are."

The procession rolled to a stop at Woodlawn Cemetery.

Ely shifted Junior into his arms with practiced ease, then took her hand for the walk to the graveside tent.

Her family had already gathered—Claire propped between Brother and Debbie, the others arranged in a protective circle.

Above them, storm clouds gathered like an omen.

Kathy shivered despite the heat. Whatever was coming for them had already begun.

It started with whispers—urgent, shocked, rippling through the mourners like a spreading fire. Kathy's head came up slowly, dread pooled in her stomach as she watched faces twist with disbelief and rage.

"What is it?" Kathy asked.

Ely craned his neck. His eyes searched the crowd. She watched his expression transform from confusion to fury. “It can’t be. The fucking Riccis are here."

"What?" But even as the word left her lips, Kathy turned, searching.

Through gaps in the crowd, she caught glimpses—sharp suits, watchful faces, the unmistakable lines of made men.

Her attention flew to her father at the graveside.

His lieutenant was already there, whispering urgently.

Still, Henry Freeman continued his ritual—placing the lily on his brother's casket with the same measured grace, as if the enemy hadn't just walked into his brother's funeral.

The men lowered the coffin into the grave on long straps, and after it went in, her father gave the first shovel of dirt.

Her heart forgot how to beat.

Across the space, Debbie's terrified gaze locked with hers. They both knew what this meant—Matteo and Carmelo, here, now, when wounds were still bleeding. The audacity of it stole her breath.

The Freeman family moved together. Brother guided his mother's unsteady steps as they emerged from the tent's shelter.

Twenty yards away, the Ricci family waited in perfect symmetry.

Don Cosimo stood at the apex, Carmelo and Matteo flanked him like twin threats, soldiers—one to his left and the other to his right.

Kathy marveled at how much of a man Carmelo now looked next to his father and brother. Before, she only saw the boy she loved.

Without a word, Ely handed Junior to José, his hand tightening and going protective over Kathy.

Each step forward felt like walking to her execution.

Even through dark sunglasses, she felt Carmelo's stare.

She fought not to look at him. She reminded herself that it was over.

That they both had failed each other. She was married.

That was that. Still, her eyes betrayed her, and she was drawn to him like a compass finding north.

Then Ely's arm settled around her shoulders, claiming her. Everything changed.

The spell she had over Carmelo broke, and he took note of Ely.

Even under the cover of his dark sunglasses, Kathy saw his attention shift to her husband ever so slightly.

The shift in Carmelo’s stature was instantaneous—from focused intensity to something volcanic.

Even behind sunglasses, his rage breathed through him.

Out of protective instinct, she felt the need to shield Ely.

She'd seen Carmelo dangerous before, but never had she feared him.

Never had she seen his deadliness aimed at someone she'd sworn to protect.

Junior's shriek split the air. "Papa! Papa!" His little body fought José's hold, arms reaching desperately for Matteo.

Time stopped.

Don Cosimo's gaze swiveled to his son with lethal speculation. The look that passed between father and son could have frozen blood. Henry noticed—of course, he noticed—so did Claire and Brother. Debbie stood rigid, frozen. Henry’s suspicion of Debbie passed, and his face remained stone as he stopped the family march to the Ricci’s and faced off with the Don.

José slipped away with a wailing Junior in his arms, pulling poor Debbie away with him.

Matteo might have been carved from ice for all the reaction he showed to his son's cries. But Kathy saw the pain in his eyes as he watched her go.

"Henry Freeman.” Don Cosimo's voice boomed with self-appointed authority.

"On behalf of the Five Families and Lucky Luciano himself, I offer our deepest sympathies.

Pete Freeman was an old-school man—a man who understood honor.

And Bumpy Johnson remains the soul of Harlem, even in his current circumstances.

When men like them fall, the whole city bleeds. "

Kathy saw her mother's touch on her father's sleeve—gentle as a butterfly, strong as steel.

"Your sympathies mean nothing to me or my dead brother,” Henry said quietly, and somehow the soft tone was more terrifying than shouting.

"But I'll take your message to Bumpy when I see him.

As for Harlem bleeding..." Henry’s smile was winter itself.

"We've bled before. We survive. We rebuild.

And we remember. Harlem's been teaching this mob lessons for decades, now. Not the other way around,” he paused a beat.

No one else dared speak. “Here's another one: our territory is baptized in Peter Freeman’s blood. Any Italian who forgets where Harlem begins and ends will get a personal geography lesson. Written in their own blood. By my command.”

Don Cosimo chuckled. “You’re King now?”

Henry held the Don’s glare.

Don Cosimo said something in Italian to all of his men, who chuckled, except for his sons. He glanced at Carmelo and leaned in and whispered in his son’s ear.

To Kathy’s shock and horror, Carmelo nodded. He turned his gaze to her father. “My father understands this is a time for accounting. However, he is a generous man. You are mourning. He will forgive the disrespect. When you are ready, Mr. Freeman, he will be too.”

Henry smirked, and the gold tooth in his mouth gleamed.

“Stay ready, son,” Henry Freeman said. He leaned a bit forward and held Carmelo’s gaze. “I’m coming for you, too.”

Carmelo gave a curt nod of respect and a sly smile in return.

The mob turned and left. Not before Carmelo shot Kathy one last look and another to Ely, before he turned and walked away.

Feeling faint, Kathy closed her eyes and lowered her head.

Henry and the family stayed in place and didn’t move or retreat.

They didn’t even speak until the last car driving the Ricci’s out of the cemetery was unseen.

"Let's leave," Kathy said from the brownstone's stoop. She watched Ely pace the sidewalk. "Please, Ely. Let's go back to Butts."

He didn't seem to hear her over the chaos of his own thoughts.

Back and forth he went, past the corner boys who'd abandoned their dice games to stand around and watch, past the old women who'd pulled their children inside.

Through the open windows came the voices of men—her father's lieutenants crowding their parlor.

Outside, more men loaded crates into Buick trunks, the metallic sounds unmistakable.

She didn't want to know what those crates held.

"Ely!"

He jerked to a stop, focusing on her with visible effort. The hardness in his face melted. "Hey, it's okay. We're okay."

"No. We're not." She gripped her knees to stop them shaking. "You saw what happened at the cemetery. They declared war right there over Uncle Pete's grave. Daddy won't let this go. He'll turn every gun in Harlem against the Italians. My mother knows it. Big Mama knows it. Don't pretend you don't."

Ely's examination made her squirm. "He affected you."

"What?"

"Carmelo. Seeing him today—it upset you."

"I don't give a damn about Carmelo!" But even she heard the protest ring hollow. "That's done. I married you, didn't I?"

"We both know why, Kathy." No accusation, just quiet truth. "At least be honest."

"I've been nothing but honest, Ely. From the moment I chose you, I shut that door. Locked it. I don't care about his looks or his anger. This baby and I—we're yours. That's the only truth that matters." She stood, needing to move. "So let's go home to Butts. Let Harlem do what Harlem does."

"Abandon them? Now?" He gestured at the brownstone, at the neighborhood, at all of it.

"Your father's drowning in grief. Your family is under siege.

And you won't even sleep in your childhood bed—you're camping out all day at the bakery, hiding in bed with me at Debbie's parents'.

The Freemans became my family when I married you. We don't run. We unite.”

"At what cost?" The tears ambushed him. "You think I chose this? You think I don't know I caused it all?"

That stopped him cold. "What?"

Everything tumbled out in a rush. "That attic. The sneaking around, the lies. New Orleans, Chicago, North Carolina…”

“Stop it, Kathy!” he pleaded.

“No. If I'd listened to you, if I'd been the daughter they raised me to be, Uncle Pete would be at Daddy’s side right now."

Ely crossed the space between them in a heartbeat, sinking to one knee on the step below her. His hands found hers, solid as anchors. "Look at me. Kathy. Look at me."

She linked her gaze to his.

"You didn't kill Uncle Pete. You didn't start this war. You loved a boy your family called an enemy—that's not a crime. You've already paid too high a price for being a good person. We're not looking backward anymore, not with our child coming. Understood?" Ely asked.

She nodded, not trusting him or herself.

"Tell your mother about the baby. She needs something good to hold onto. Let me stand with your father. Then, when the payback is done, we'll go home even if Harlem burns. You have my word."

"Why tell her? Why now?"

"Because our child is not a secret to be ashamed of. You saw what happened with Junior reaching for Matteo. The whole cemetery saw. Debbie had to leave in shame." His voice grew fierce. "That will never be us. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you, Ely." The smile surprised her.

He stood. He kissed the ring he spent his entire savings on to put on her hand.

He pulled her against him, and she let herself be held.

When they separated, she scrubbed her face clean and straightened her spine.

Hand in hand, they climbed the steps and crossed the threshold she'd been avoiding.

The house of her childhood waited, transformed now into a council of war. But she was done running from it.