Page 69 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)

WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE - MATTEO & JOSé

P resent. Matteo surveyed his kingdom from the edge of the tent, tasting victory and defeat in equal measure.

Through endless nights in prison, he'd built this moment in his mind—returning triumphant, crowning Debbie and their children with the respect they deserved.

Reality had exceeded even his grandest visions, yet something felt hollow at its core.

Under the tent's soft lights, Daphne and Christopher spun across the dance floor with their mother, her joy infectious enough to draw other wives and children into their orbit.

The men maintained their typical distance—clustered around card tables and ashtrays, conducting business through cigar smoke and measured words.

His gaze tracked across the assembled faces.

Capos who'd prospered financially under Carmelo.

Street soldiers who'd bled for the Wolf.

Dealers who still whispered his brother's name in reverence.

They wore loyalty like armor. All except Caesar, whose dedication had cost him more than anyone knew through the decades of Matteo's absence.

He was broken, conditioned to be nothing but loyal. Him and his wife Maria.

The crowd skewed heavily male—enforcers, earners, and associates outnumbering family three to one.

Not a single face reflected the mixed heritage Matteo had tried to protect.

No wonder Junior had vanished into the night.

The boy understood what Matteo was only beginning to grasp: this was still the Wolf's pack, merely tolerating new leadership.

Caesar's hand landed on his shoulder from behind.

"Where is he?" Matteo asked without turning. “I searched and couldn’t find him.”

"Found him. He's in his mother's car smoking weed. We've got eyes on him."

"So he didn't leave?" Genuine surprise colored Matteo's voice.

"Nope. Still here."

Matteo located Debbie in the dancing crowd, watching her coax Christopher through how to do dance steps called the Robot, and she was wrong. The other younger children got in on the fun and mimicked the dance as well. "Keep them happy. Nobody ruins their night. Especially for my baby-boy. Clear?"

"Got it."

"Wait." Matteo scanned the crowd again. "Where's Sandy?"

"No idea. She's not with Junior."

"Find her! Christ." Matteo was already moving. "I'll be back."

He strode inside his home and ignored those who either wanted to kiss his ass with congratulations or talk business.

He walked straight out the family door, past the parade of chauffeured cars lining the street.

This stretch of coastline belonged to his top men exclusively—he could walk barefoot to the beach without concern.

But Junior alone out here was different. Unacceptable.

The Mercedes sat where he'd expected, music drifting from barely cracked windows along with telltale smoke. A smile tugged at his mouth. Kid had balls, at least.

Junior shot upright at his approach, frantically rolling down windows to release the evidence. Debbie would raise hell about her car reeking after Matteo had just had it detailed.

By the time Matteo reached the driver's door, Junior was climbing out.

"Get back in. You're driving."

"What?" Junior's confusion was evident.

Matteo walked around the car and slid into the passenger seat. Junior hesitated before returning to the driver's seat, adjusting his seatbelt properly. "What about Ma? We can't just leave?—"

"She doesn't need your protection anymore. I'm home. Nobody touches what's mine." Matteo reclined his seat. “Drive.”

“Where?”

“To the beach,” he replied, staring straight ahead.

“Why?”

Matteo’s gaze cut over to him. “You asked me a question about the man you called Father. I said I would tell you what happened that night when you were ready.”

Junior felt his hands shaking.

“You’re ready,” Matteo gaze moving back to the road ahead.

Junior studied his father's face, then nodded slowly. The engine turned over, and they pulled away from the curb into the night.

1961 - Brooklyn, the Gardens

The Carroll Gardens apartment had become a tomb for Matteo Ricci. Kicked out of Debbie’s house for the final time, the Gardens was the best his brother would give him.

This was his hell. The lights were kept off.

Darkness thick as tar soothed him. The rot and stench of half-eaten plates mixed in with his senses as he heard the scratch of rats in corners.

All of it added to its suffocation. The silence of his loneliness was broken only by the sound of bottles rolling when he reached for one.

His fingers found one at last. He drank to forget.

The gag was that his drinking made him remember.

The apartment dissolved.

Jungle stench rose like his fevers whenever he entered his haunted dreams. It was a sweet decay instead of the apartment stench. Pebbling rain on elephant grass instead of windowpanes, but pounding through the triple canopy of the forest leaves, his mind had transported him back to.

Thump-thump-thump.

The Huey helicopter that had dropped them into the combat zone was pulling away, its rotor blades fading into the distance.

They were alone now in the hot LZ—a landing zone under enemy control—with no quick escape, no door gunners for cover, no medevac if things went wrong.

Just them and the terrible silence that meant Mr. Charlie, the enemy, Viet-cong, was out there, watching, waiting.

Then, the world tore open.

The first mortar landed and opened the earth.

Then the world became violence—erupting mud, vegetation turned shrapnel, spider holes lids flipped open as the black-pajamed Vietnamese joined the fight from holes that shouldn't exist. Their muzzle flashes competed with the steady thud-thud-thud of American return fire.

He was down, sighting his rifle. Beside him, Ely Brown—Mississippi by way of Harlem—matching his rhythm shot for shot.

When Ely had arrived in-country and been assigned to Matteo's unit, the coincidence had seemed impossible.

Two men from the same New York streets, ending up in the same squad in this green hell.

But after months of firefights and midnight conversations, they'd discovered the thread: the same recruiting office, the same over-eager sergeant, the same expedited papers.

No coincidence at all. Someone had engineered this.

The enemy and envy of his brother had become salvation for Matteo and a lifeline. Together, he and Ely survived, determined to return to the women they loved. They laid down a suppressing fire that was a thing of brutal beauty.

“Tunnel rats comin’ up for air, Sarge!” Ely yelled at Matteo, his voice cutting through the din, not a trace of fear in it. Only a fierce, focused joy. “Time for a little pest control!”

They worked in sync, a perfect, deadly dance. Crack.

Matteo’s shot. A shadow fell.

Thud-thud-thud.

Ely’s tracers walked a line across a spider hole, silencing it. They were winning. In that moment, drenched in sweat and rain and fear, they were Gods of war, holding back the chaos. He flashed a grin, teeth white in his grime-caked face. “Ain’t nothin’ but a th?—”

The world dissolved into a single, soundless flash of pure, white light. It came from the ground itself, two feet from Ely’s right boot—a buried Bouncing Betty.

The sound returned, a deafening CRUMP that was felt more than heard.

Matteo was thrown back, his ears ringing. He blinked through the haze of smoke and suspended dirt. Ely was on the ground. The bottom half of his legs were just… gone. The rest of him was tossed aside like a broken doll, his uniform smoking.

The firefight faded. The world shrank to the three yards of churned earth between them.

Matteo was crawling fast, screaming, crying, but he couldn’t hear his own voice.

He reached Ely, his hands scrambling, pressing against the unthinkable ruin of his torso, trying to stem a tide that was everywhere.

The blood was hot. So hot. It soaked through his sleeves and his vest, leaving a sticky, warm residue.

Ely’s eyes were wide open, locked on his. Not afraid. Just… surprised. His mouth moved, forming a word Matteo would never hear but would forever see: “Sandy…tell…”

Then, the light behind those eyes just… went out. It didn’t fade. It snapped off. A switch was thrown.

A final, single mortar round landed twenty yards away, its shrapnel whining overhead, but Matteo didn’t flinch.

He just knelt in the red mud, holding what was left of his best friend, the hot rain washing the blood down his arms in thin, pink rivers.

Then they came. The Vietnamese soldiers had him, dragging him down into the hole… into the tunnel…. into hell.

A flash of light…

Matteo threw his arm up, shielding his eyes against an explosion that wasn't there. Electric light. Apartment light. Not jungle fire. He was on the floor of his Carroll Gardens apartment, screaming at ghosts.

His arm lowered slowly, vision swimming with tears he couldn't stop. His heart hammered against ribs that remembered other impacts. Ely's surprised face. The wet sounds from the tunnels where his squad died by degrees.

"Matteo." José's voice was carefully modulated. Standing clear of the grabbing range.

"Don't touch me!" The words ripped out, half-warning, half-plea.

"I'm done watching this." José's tone held finality. "Debbie, the kids—I'm taking them to California. Tonight. She'll die before she abandons you, so I'm choosing for her."

"No—she can't—they're fine—" Matteo tried to stand, knocking bottles aside, hands moving through garbage like he could find salvation in the debris. "Getting better. See? Cleaning up. Just need to get my head right?—"

"She knows about the whores, Matteo. The drinking's one thing, but the women?" José's voice held grief now. "You're destroying her, and she won't save herself. Won't leave you. So I'm taking them. Sam has work for me in California. He loves your kids as if they were his own. We'll protect them."

"Nobody takes Debbie!" The rage mixed with panic, past bled into the present.

"Those whores lied! Never touched them. Used them for a place to hide from Mr. Charlie.

Never touch. Never. Debbie, my sweet Debbie.

Only Debbie. But they're coming—can hear them digging in the walls—" He beat his fists against his temples, trying to separate then from now .

"Debbie's fine. I'm home. I can fix this. "

His fists hammered his skull, trying to beat sense into scrambled synapses. "Home now. Safe. Fix it. Fix everything. Tomorrow. Fix Debbie tomorrow. Baby coming.”

He made it upright through pure will. José caught him, propped him against the wall, where he could pretend to be functional.

And there were times when he was. Months could go by without a single trigger.

He’d make the kids laugh, play cards with Jose, and coax Debbie into letting him into her bed.

Then BAM, out of nowhere, he was on the ground, digging his way out of hell.

"Look at me." José's hands framed his face. "Really look. Your family loves who you were. Not this ghost. Not this violence waiting to happen. See yourself, hermano . Please."

Matteo's eyes focused, and with clarity came the breaking. Every defense crumbled. "I try." The words came out in a shredded voice between his sobs. "Jesus Christ, I try so hard, but it's all still happening. It never stopped happening!"

He collapsed into José, who held him as he shook through sobs. "Make it stop, José,! Whatever it takes, make it fucking stop!"

“Your brother. He’s offered to help. To send you out for help,” José tried to reason.

Matteo kept wailing in agony.

"Breathe, Matteo. Come on, breathe through it…brother,” José said.

That word. Always that word. Matteo mind convulsed—Back in the earth. Buried alive with the dying. His squad was reduced to meat and moans. Captain Minh crouching beside him, professional interest in his eyes, cigarette glowing in the dark.

"You breathe now. Good American. Breathe for Minh."

The ropes held as Matteo thrashed, screaming himself raw?—

He surfaced from hell on his hands and knees, apartment floor beneath him. Rain was slashing inside through the window. Shattered. When had he fallen to the ground? Sounds from the street caused him to look up. Something was wrong.

He crawled to the jagged opening of a shattered window. He staggered to a standing position.

Street scene from hell greeted him: José broken on pavement, rain pooling blood around him. Debbie's knees giving way, her scream ascending. And Junior—his boy, just a boy drowning in rain—staring up at the window with naked horror, finger pointing, mouth open in accusation that needed no words.

The past and present collided, leaving only the truth: he'd brought the war home, and now everyone he loved was a casualty.

The beach stretched empty except for two figures. Matteo had shed his shoes, sitting just beyond where the waves could reach—close enough to taste salt, far enough to stay dry. Junior, beside him, tears falling freely as the story ended.

Matteo had confessed it all. No euphemisms, no excuses.

The bottle that became his closest friend after Vietnam was gone.

The needles that promised to quiet screaming ghosts with heroin were gone.

How many times had Debbie found him broken, cleaned him up, and believed his promises?

How José had covered for him, carried him, forgiven him—until that night when forgiveness ran out.

The cruelest legacy wasn't his own suffering but the horror he'd gifted his children. Junior, his sweet baby boy, was watching his father become a monster in a window frame. That image carved into a boy's psyche, shaping every year since.

Matteo reached out tentatively, hand trembling. His son—this man who'd grown up without him—turned and collapsed against him, holding his chest. So many years of absence bridged by shared grief.

Part of him wanted to join Junior's tears, to mourn José properly at last. But prison had taken that from him, too.

Fourteen years of concrete and regret had cried him empty.

All those nights replaying José's fall, Junior's scream, Debbie's collapse—he'd grieved until grief became just another fact of existence.

"I'm sorry, son. I'm so sorry. I did it. It’s all my fault,” Matteo sighed.

Junior's response was silence, but his presence was answer enough. They sat holding each other while the tide pulled back, taking nothing with it but time.