Page 66 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)

DAUGHTER AND SON

P resent. Having a good time?" A voice asked.

Sandy turned. Nicolas Ricci stood closer than comfort allowed, and his expensive cologne created an invisible barrier of temptation for her. He extended a drink like a peace offering.

It was his eyes that she could not look away from. Brown and deep, they had a dreamy appeal with dark lashes under his straight brow. She had very little experience in dating and even less in flirting.

After a heartbeat of indecision, she accepted the drink.

“Thank you,” she said.

“ Prego ,” he winked.

“ Prego ? What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means you’re welcome ,” he replied.

“ Grazie, ” she replied.

His left brow winged up. “You speak Italian?”

“No. I dunno, heard words before,” she shrugged.

“You don’t know if you speak my language?” Nicolas asked.

She blushed. “Growing up, I just knew it sometimes. Spoke it sometimes. It’s a running joke. I was teasing. I knew what “Prego” means, and I am familiar with some other words. It just comes from nowhere, I guess.”

“I doubt that. I think it comes from some place special,” he replied.

She glanced away. “Do you live here?"

"We all do now. Family,” he said. The word 'family' rolled off his tongue like ownership instead of belonging. The comment drew her gaze back to his.

She sampled the drink cautiously. "Why do you keep staring at me?"

“Do I stare?” he asked, as if shocked.

“You stared at the funeral for Mama. You stared across from the bakery. You stared at the weird wedding at the graveyard. You stare a lot,” Sandy commented.

"You're beautiful. You look like Aunt Kathy at her age."

The comparison chilled her. The hurt over the loss of her mother was too raw for the compliment. “You never saw my mother at my age,” she countered.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to make it weird—I just?—”

“It’s okay,” Sandy said.

He nodded, but didn’t explain further.

His bakery visit surfaced in fragments thanks to that cultured voice, words wrapped in silk.

But the actual conversation? Gone, like so many memories lately.

She struggled to surface it to keep the conversation flowing.

D.C. had been the same. Lucky for her, she lived in a dorm with roommates who had their own special needs.

"How's it going?" he asked when the silence went too long.

"How's what going?" she answered.

"Your research. The diaries." Impatience leaked through his charm. "Any new revelations?"

The pieces snapped together. He'd wanted information, needed intel from those pages.

She'd just finished her mother's time in New Orleans and then the subsequent war of Harlem that eventually killed her uncle and sent the Penny Man into the military—pages filled with nothing but contradictions of the man who was her true father, Carmelo Ricci.

"Nothing,” she said.

His disappointment softened his features. It was as if he stepped closer without moving. She just felt him reaching for her without words or touch as his inspection of her turned deliberate, possessive. "Let me show you around. Privately. I won’t hurt you, Sandy.”

“How about you fuck off instead.” Junior appeared like a guardian angel, drinks in hand—when had she asked for one?

Nicolas kept his focus on Sandy. “I don’t fuck off in my own house, cousin. You're free to leave."

Sandy watched them both, embarrassed.

“Nah, I’ll stay and crack your fucking jaw,” Junior's voice dropped low, deadly.

"Junior, stop!" Sandy gasped.

The party's attention shifted, men straightening like soldiers sensing conflict. Nicolas finally graced Junior with his attention, utterly unmoved.

“Take your best shot, hero,” said Nicolas.

"Nicolas, thank you, but I should stay with my cousin."

The staring contest stretched until Nicolas offered a mocking bow, turned, and walked away as casually as he had appeared.

"What is wrong with you?" Sandy demanded.

Junior's jaw worked. "He murdered two of my friends. For the crime of knowing me. You're looking at a killer, Sandy."

"He's family."

"Fuck this." Junior hurled both drinks onto the manicured lawn. "I'm out."

Sandy caught his arm. "Wait. Please."

"They don't want us here,” Junior hissed.

"You have every right to be here." She reminded him of the pride and confidence her mother had taught her over the countless years, when her differences made her feel like an ‘other’ among people.

“What are you talking about?” Junior frowned.

"Those diaries make it clear—your father adores you. The army and prison stole him and your birthright, not lack of love. Don't let them win. He is in danger too, and you’re all he has. Stand and?—"

Applause broke through the cousins’ standoff.

Sandy and Junior’s heads turned in sync.

Matteo and Debbie had made their grand entrance.

He stood with his characteristic stillness, but Debbie bounced beside him, clutching flowers and radiating joy.

Her grin could have lit the entire estate.

If the Ricci family harbored reservations about their new matriarch, they buried them deep—even the wives raised their glasses in practiced celebration.

"God, look at her," Sandy breathed. "She's so pretty, so happy."

Junior couldn't look away as his father kissed his mother like a proud prince, then scooped her up as if she weighed nothing. The crowd parted respectfully while Don Matteo Ricci carried his bride deeper into their circle of his world, and Debbie clung to him, ready for the journey.

The contradiction of his parents—violence and tenderness, separation and devotion—had shaped Junior's whole life. Through his father's absence, his dramatic and troubled return, this inexplicable bond endured.

"See what they have?" Sandy's voice held hope.

"I need the truth." The words tumbled out of Junior, soft but raw.

"Truth about what?" she asked.

He forced himself to meet her eyes. "About José. Why did my father murder the man who raised me? Have you reached that part in the diaries?"

"Junior, no." Her shock was genuine. "They were best friends in everything I've read. Both of them were partners in protecting you and Auntie. Why would you think?—"

The memory slammed into him. Rain streaming down windows.

Five-year-old Daphne argued with her mother about going inside and wanting to see her Papa.

His mother was angry and distressed, crying and shouting at them to be quiet, just be silent.

Daphne's cries turned hysterical. Junior, ten and desperate for quiet, disobeyed.

His mother spun around: "Get back in the car!"

Debbie threw open her car door and got out. She caught Junior by his shirt, and he fought her. He knew where to go. He knew where his fathers were.

The sound came first. Glass exploding twenty stories up, crystalline glass fell with the rain. A shape, dark against the grey sky, arms and legs splayed like a broken marionette.

Poppy.

Time stretched as their beloved José fell. Junior's brain refused to process what his eyes saw—his surrogate father windmilling through space, tie whipping behind him like a banner.

The impact. Hard. Wet. Final. And blood… there was so much blood.

His mother's scream joined Daphne's from the car until Debbie, pregnant, fainted. Junior stood there shaking. His gaze lifted up. He didn’t see his father’s face. He saw his shape, his dark silhouette outlined by the light behind him. He stood there staring, then turned away.

"Junior? Junior!" Sandy's touch made him flinch. He walked away, swiping at his eyes.

"Junior, please—" Sandy reached for him, but he was gone fast.

She looked helplessly toward the party. Matteo had clocked his son's distress, fatherly concern cracking his public mask as everyone fawned over his wife. She saw him kiss Debbie and go after Junior. She felt a twinge of hope.

"Poor kid's a mess.”

Nicolas stood behind her again, persistence personified. "Seriously, what is your problem?"

"Time-sensitive problem. I need your help. Now,” said Nicolas.

"Too bad. Find someone else." She turned to leave.

"You're his daughter,” Nicolas called after her.

Everything stopped. "What did you say?"

“You’re his daughter,” he said.

“I told you I wasn’t having that conversation with you in the bakery. I know who my father was,” she replied.

“It’s the truth. It’s what Aunt Kathy could never tell you. That’s why they want you to read those diaries, my guess. So you can remember and tell us his secrets.”

"That's insane?—"

"You're Carmelo Ricci's daughter. The Wolf of Harlem's lost princess." His smile held secrets. "I can prove it. Unlock what your mother sealed in your mind."

Sandy's world tilted. She scanned desperately for family but found only strangers.

Nicolas's hand appeared before her, steady and sure. "My father left something behind. Something that will make you remember—everything."

Logic screamed warnings. But the more she read about her parents, the more questions she had. Sandy took his hand and let him lead her away from safety, toward whatever truth waited in the shadows.