Page 62 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)

REWRITING HISTORY

T he weight of his father’s betrayal pressed down on Carmelo’s chest like a tombstone.

For six days, he’d vanished from the family, holed up in what he called his safe house .

A place he’d bought and rebuilt with his own hands after losing Kathy.

New Jersey was his exile, his purgatory.

There, he sketched her face until his fingers cramped, punched the heavy bag until his knuckles split, and drank himself into a stupor to sleep without dreaming of her.

Pete Freeman’s blood was on his hands. He could never be clean of his complicity in his death. Whether his father ordered the hit or not, it was his fault. He believed it.

Only Slim knew where to find him. Only Slim had seen him like this—raw, unguarded, a man stripped down to grief and rage.

Today was the seventh day. The day he’d face the devil.

Carmelo slipped into the bar through the back door, the key cold in his grip.

The place was a front for his father’s operations, a poor replacement for the club the Freemans had burned to the ground.

He carried a hammer at his side, its weight familiar, its purpose clear.

This time, he’d kill him, and he didn’t give a fuck who came for him for doing it.

He was ready to die. Join his mother in hell. He was ready.

But he hadn’t expected a sit-down.

Voices, sharp and raised, cut through the dim hallway. His father’s. The underbosses. Carmelo froze in the shadows, listening.

“—tired of pretending that mongrel lover is my son!" Don Cosimo's voice carried through the heavy wood. "Two years. For two years, I've watched him parade that Negro whore and her bastard through my territory. They’re like roaches. You get rid of one of them and more come!”

Carmelo dropped against the wall. He gripped the hammer tighter, wishing it were a gun instead.

"The Vegas arrangement is perfect," Big Eli’s oily voice responded.

"Clean, distant, untraceable to you. Once he and the bitch arrive, they're no longer under Ricci’s protection. Any two-bit gun can take the contract. And you will be the grieving father. Lanskey can take the fall for letting one of ours drop on his watch.”

“I want it done within the week of their arrival. All three of them—him, the girl, and especially that bastard abomination he created. No loose ends, no mixed blood carrying the Ricci name.”

“What about Carmelo? He and Matteo—,” said Slick Mike.

“Carmelo will understand,” Don Ricci waved off the rest of the comment from Mike. “He's already proven himself. Once Matteo's gone, he'll be my only son. The way it should have been from the beginning.”

Carmelo's hand found the wall for support, his mind racing. His father had smiled at Sunday dinner, had toasted Matteo's Vegas plans, and had played the supportive patriarch. All while planning his execution. And Nino? What would he do to Nino?

He backed away silently, his footsteps carrying him through the bar and to his car without conscious thought.

Only when he reached the Holland Tunnel did he allow himself to process what he'd heard.

His father would murder Matteo for the crime of loving wrongly.

He would slaughter an innocent child for carrying the wrong blood. And kill the baby Debbie carried.

By the time he reached his destination, his rage had crystallized into something colder, more useful.

Mama Stewart's Diner sat on the corner like a lighthouse in hostile waters.

It remained neutral ground even in wartime.

Carmelo chose a booth in the back, positioning himself where he could see every entrance.

The dinner crowd of mixed couples had thinned, leaving only the die-hards nursing coffee and the weight of their troubles.

Mama Stewart herself moved between tables with practiced grace, her eyes missing nothing. When she poured Carmelo's coffee, her gaze lingered on his face, reading something in the set of his jaw that made her pause.

“You waiting on somebody?” she asked.

"Two somebodies. They'll be here soon."

She nodded, moving away but keeping him in her peripheral vision.

She'd seen the Ricci boys enough to recognize when they were teetering on the edge. Her form of mothering was not to hover but to counsel and let the strongest one stand. Now with the war in Harlem, she was weakening. She just wanted to put her arms around him and nurse him back to the boy she’d first met with Kathy.

Stop the killing of her people, and heal whatever was left of them all.

Her gaze swiveled to the small table near the kitchen where he first arrived with Kathy years ago. Teenagers, on their forbidden date. How happy the two of them were before it all turned to ash. Love, in her experience, often led to pain.

Slim arrived first, sliding into the booth with his characteristic ease. “Urgent message from you at this hour usually means bodies or money.”

“Both, potentially.” Carmelo's voice carried no inflection.

Caesar entered minutes later, his bulk filling the remaining space. A flash of something—possession, defiance, guilt—crossed his features when he met Carmelo's eyes, but it vanished quickly.

Carmelo lit a cigarillo with steady hands. He gave Caesar a nod. “I need to discuss a delicate matter. Family business.”

Mama Stewart wiped down a nearby table.

“Here?” Caesar asked. Carmelo ignored the question.

“Your Don, dear old dad, has decided that Matteo's Vegas relocation requires... adjustment. So yes, we discuss it here.”

“What kind of adjustment?” asked Slim.

“The kind that involves bullets and shallow graves. Three of them, maybe four if he learns that Debbie is pregnant again.”

Slim's expression didn't change, but Caesar's coffee cup rattled against the saucer. "Don Cosimo wouldn't—kill his son and his grandchildren.”

“Wouldn't he?” Carmelo's smile was winter-sharp. "A mixed-blood grandchild offends him. Apparently, two years was his limit for tolerance.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in. Mama Stewart continued her cleaning, watching Carmelo's face remain marble-still while his eyes burned with something volcanic.

"What do you need from us?" Slim asked finally.

"Options. Leverage. Anyone in our books who might prove useful for an alternative solution to fucking kill my father!”

Caesar cleared his throat. “We can’t kill him. We all know that.”

“Then I’ll kill him!” Carmelo said.

“No,” said Slim. “We need a different kind of solution. The kind that gets Matteo out of Cosimo’s reach.”

“There's Donovan. The army recruiter from Fort Hamilton. He's into us for fifteen large. Gambling debts. I was supposed to pay a visit next week. Knee breaking is on the menu.”

Carmelo's cigarette paused halfway to his lips. “Military recruitment. Interesting. Tell me more about Donovan.”

As Caesar outlined the recruiter's debts and desperation, Mama Stewart observed how Carmelo absorbed information, calculating, reformulating. His control never wavered, even as he planned his brother's salvation through a forced exile.

“Slim, you'll accompany me to visit Mr. Donovan tonight. Caesar, you'll prepare documentation suggesting Matteo's patriotic interests. Letters and newspaper clippings about the Communist threat. Make it convincing in case we need to submit something.”

“Boss,” Slim ventured carefully, “Matteo won't go willingly. He's got Debbie, the kids?—"

"He'll go if the alternative is death. His and theirs." Carmelo stubbed out his cigarette with precise violence. "Sometimes mercy comes in uniform."

Caesar shifted uncomfortably. "What do we tell him? The truth?"

“Never the truth. Only my version of it. That is the law,” Carmelo said, and his gaze was laser sharp on Caesar.

Slim and Caesar frowned. Not understanding.

Carmelo rolled his eyes. “We’ll set him up.

An ambush, a dead rival, and witnesses placing him at the scene.

We’ll make him believe he has no choice.

” Carmelo's gaze found Caesar's again and held it.

“After all, we're all excellent at keeping secrets in this family. Aren't we?”

The threat hung between them like a blade. Caesar nodded quickly, too quickly.

"Good. Slim, bring the car around. We have a recruiter to motivate."

As the men filed out, Mama Stewart approached the table. Carmelo met her eyes without flinching.

"That's a heavy burden you're carrying," she said quietly.

"Heavier than you know." He left a twenty on the table. "But some weights, we’re born to bear."

She watched him leave, seeing not a man orchestrating salvation disguised as betrayal. It was the kind of terrible arithmetic she understood. The kind that might make him worthy of greater things.

Patrick Donovan lived in a modest Bay Ridge apartment that reeked of desperation and cheap whiskey. When he answered the door at 11 PM to find Carmelo Ricci flanked by Slim, his face went from confused to terrified in the space of a heartbeat.

"Mr. Ricci, I—I have until next week. Your men said?—"

"So, you know me?” Carmelo asked.

“Yes, sir, all of Brooklyn knows the Wolf,” Patrick Donovan replied.

“Invite us in, Patrick." Carmelo's tone brooked no argument.

The apartment was exactly what fifteen thousand in gambling debt looked like—bare walls, minimal furniture, a kitchen table covered in past-due notices. Donovan backed against the wall, hands raised.

"Please, I can get the money. I just need?—"

"Sit." Carmelo took the room's only comfortable chair, studying the recruiter like a specimen. "Tell me about your quotas."

"My... what?"

"Your recruitment quotas. The Army must be pushing hard with this situation in Indochina."

Donovan's confusion deepened. "Yes, sir. They want volunteers. Advisors especially. It’s not a matter of war. Just need ground coverage. But what does that have to do with?—"

"Everything." Carmelo said. “You said there will be no war?”

“I don’t think so. There is no talk of war,” he said.

“Good. Good.” Carmelo looked at Slim and nodded. "You're going to have a visitor soon. A young man named Matteo Ricci. Strong, capable, exactly what Uncle Sam is looking for."

"Your brother? The Butcher?”

"My brother." The words carried weight. "You're going to give him your best pitch. Expedite his paperwork. Ensure he ships out for basic training within forty-eight hours. All paperwork on my end will be done.”

"Mr. Ricci, I don't understand?—"

Slim stepped forward, looming. "You don't need to understand. You need to comply."

"In exchange," Carmelo continued as if Slim hadn't spoken, "your debt disappears. Permanently. You'll also receive a bonus—let's say one thousand—for your exceptional patriotic service."

Donovan's face cycled through confusion, hope, and fear. "Just... recruit your brother?"

"Enthusiastically. Efficiently. Effectively. Quietly." Carmelo stood. "He may be reluctant. You'll overcome that reluctance with tales of duty, honor, and service. You'll process him so fast he won't have time for second thoughts."

"And if I don't?" Donovan asked.

Carmelo's smile was answer enough. "You're a smart man, Patrick.

Smart men recognize opportunities for redemption when they're offered.

" He moved to the door, pausing. "Oh, and Patrick?

If anyone asks, this was all Matteo's idea.

His patriotic choice. You simply facilitated a young man's desire to serve his country. "

"Yes, sir. Of course."

"Slim will provide you with the necessary background materials. Study them. Be convincing." Carmelo's eyes were chips of black ice. "My brother's life depends on your performance. Yours does too."

They left Donovan shaking in his kitchen. In the car, Slim glanced at his boss.

"You think it'll work?" Slim asked.

"It has to." Carmelo stared out at the Brooklyn streets. "The alternative is I shoot my father. And this time I don’t miss."

"And when Matteo finds out it was really Cosimo that caused all this?”

"He'll be alive to hate me and dear dad. That's all that matters."

They drove back to Manhattan in silence; each lost in thoughts of the machinery they'd just set in motion. Somewhere in Harlem, Matteo Ricci was sleeping beside Debbie, unaware that his brother was rewriting his fate with invisible ink.

Carmelo's hands remained steady on the wheel, but Slim noticed the white-knuckle grip, the only sign of the storm raging beneath that icy control. Even wolves, it seemed, could love their pack.