Page 73 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)

Kathy closed her eyes, and the tears came silently, tracking down her temples into her hair.

Ely drew her closer, enveloping her in his arms as she turned into his chest and wept.

They both knew the truth that hung between them—his mind was made up.

He was going to enlist. And she was going to have to find a way to live with it.

One Year Earlier. The black Cadillac rolled to a stop in front of Kathy Sweets like a hearse arriving at a funeral.

Carmelo Ricci sat in the back, a .45-carrying soldato at his left shoulder.

Behind the wheel, Slim kept the engine running, another gunman riding shotgun beside him.

Two more cars idled behind them, packed with enough firepower to turn this corner of Harlem into Normandy Beach.

If Henry Freeman so much as twitched wrong, they'd paint the entire block red.

"Slim, you're with me." Carmelo's voice cut through the tension as his door swung open.

He stepped out into the bitter February frost that had seized New York by the throat.

His charcoal fedora sat low over his eyes, cashmere coat whipping back in the wind like a cape.

Two Nation of Islam officers flanked the bakery entrance—ramrod straight, bow ties crisp as their contempt, eyes full of righteous fury.

The Nation of Islam had run tight operations in their partnership with Henry Freeman. Carmelo understood it. The Nation had kept Henry Freeman breathing through two years of bloody warfare, and here stood the enemy at their gates.

Carmelo's gloved hands curled into fists. The standoff stretched taut as piano wire.

Slim stepped forward, breaking the spell. "Mr. Ricci here to see Mr. Freeman. He's expected."

One officer disappeared inside without a word. The other maintained his death stare, unblinking, as if he could will Carmelo out of existence through sheer force of hatred.

The door opened. The first officer reappeared, stepping aside just enough to allow passage. No words. The message was clear: You're tolerated, not welcomed.

Carmelo never entered enemy territory first—that was how men got their brains blown out. He nodded to Slim, who walked through the doorway, hands visible, allowing the Muslims to pat him down for iron. Only when Slim entered did Carmelo follow.

Inside, the bakery smelled of sugar and Kathy’s tenderness.

He had to take a moment to inhale. Henry Freeman commanded a corner booth like a general surveying a battlefield.

To his left sat a man of equal bearing—tall, sharp-featured, with the kind of eyes that had seen men die and slept soundly after.

This had to be Nicky Barnes, the man who'd stepped into Pete Freeman's blood-soaked shoes as Henry's right hand.

Carmelo had heard whispers about Barnes—that he was clever and twice as ruthless.

Carmelo crossed the black-and-white checkered floor, each footstep deliberate, measured. He slid into the booth opposite the two men, the leather creaking under his weight.

Henry Freeman's stare could have frozen the East River. No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just pure, undiluted hatred radiating across the table like heat from a furnace.

The war had brought them to this moment—blood demanding blood, territory demanding respect, and somewhere in between, the possibility of money to be made. But first, they had to survive this conversation.

“Henry, you look well,” Carmelo said with a sly smile.

Henry didn’t speak.

Carmelo let his gaze sweep over Kathy’s Sweets. “Been a long time since I’ve been here. Business good?”

"You said you came to be heard.” Henry Freeman's voice cut through the diner's smoke like a straight razor. "Speak before I silence you."

"Thank you for seeing me." Carmelo smoothed his silk tie, a gesture calculated to show ease where none existed. "This war between you and my father?—"

"It's between us now, too, boy. Has been for some time.” The words came out like bullets from a Tommy gun, each one meant to wound.

Carmelo absorbed the hit with a barely perceptible nod.

"This war has grown expensive. Bodies stacking up like unpaid bills.

" He traced a gloved finger across the table's battle scars—knife marks, cigarette burns, the archaeology of violence.

"My father and I, we've had words. The real money ain't in spilling blood on 125th Street.

It's in the peace. Therefore,”—he paused for effect—"he's prepared to return Harlem to your. .. ownership."

Henry's eyes, cold as a February morning in Central Park, slid to Nicky Barnes before returning to rest on Carmelo like the barrel of a .38. "What's the vig on that generosity?"

“A modest request." Carmelo held up black gloved fingers. "Twenty percent of gross on all the white horse that rides at night through Harlem. Andcontrol of its distribution."

The laughter that erupted from Henry Freeman could've frozen the Hudson. His gold tooth caught the overhead light like a muzzle flash. Beside him, Nicky Barnes added his own dry chuckle.

"Twenty percent and the keys to my kingdom?

" Henry's laughter died like a snitch in the East River.

"Listen here, little Don Ricci. You ain't buying no partnership.

You're trying to put a leash on a lion. My people see me taking orders from downtown, they'll feed me to the streets piece by piece.

The Honorable Elijah Muhammad himself would see it as blasphemy.

So let's discuss terms that don't require me to sit as low as your father's feet. "

Carmelo's jaw tightened, but his voice remained silk over steel. "I'm all ears."

"Here's how it plays in Harlem." Henry leaned back, spreading his arms across the booth like a king on his throne.

"Ten percent off one numbers bank—location of my choosing—for twelve months.

Plus a one-time tribute for the blood your father spilled on my streets.

Call it reparations. Everybody saves face.

Your old man gets his taste without me looking like his house nigger. "

“I think the tribute goes in reverse. You have taken out legitimate businesses of ours. You owe us that debt.”

“Fine,” Henry said. "The number?" The gold tooth made another appearance.

“Seventy large,” Carmelo replied.

The air between them was charged with enough electricity to light up the Apollo.

Finally, Henry spoke. "Seventy it is. But here's the sweetener—my boys guarantee safe passage for your merchandise through Harlem to the East: no hijacks, no shakedowns, no mysterious fires.

Your trucks roll through at any time of day, as if they have guardian angels.

For this divine protection, we take five points on everything that moves.

We ain't partners, little Don; we're your insurance policy.

Hell, take it out of the seventy if it makes you sleep better. "

Carmelo's fingers formed a church steeple, considering. "Counter-proposal. Forty thousand cash, immediate. And our trucks roll through Harlem like ghosts—untouched, untaxed, unseen."

Henry's head tilted, appraising. "Now you're speaking my language, paesano."

"I ain't finished." Carmelo's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow filled the empty diner. "Matter of fact, forget the forty grand entirely. I want something worth more than money. I want my own killer cupcake: Kathy Sweets."

The temperature in the diner plummeted twenty degrees. Henry's mocking smile dried up, and his face turned to stone.

"What the fuck did you just say?" Each word dropped like a hammer on an anvil.

Carmelo's smile replaced his nervousness.

"Simple transaction. I sell this deal to my father.

You keep your money, pay your ten percent like a gentleman, let my trucks pass through untaxed, and the war ends tonight.

In exchange, I get the deed to Kathy Sweets.

The whole building. Basement to attic. Definitely the attic.

The crack of Henry's fist against the table sounded like a gunshot. The rage in his eyes burned hot enough to melt steel—the same volcanic fury Carmelo had glimpsed years ago when he and his brother had arrived to try to muscle in on Henry’s territory.

Fear crawled up Carmelo's spine like a cold-fingered junkie, but he kept his face marble-smooth.

Nicky leaned into Henry's ear, whispering urgently. But Henry's eyes never left Carmelo's face, reading every micro-expression, measuring the price of violence if he were to kill him in that very moment. Slim took a step forward, prepared to defend Carmelo.

“It will run as it always has, by Harlem. Hire whoever you want. I can’t cook or bake..." Carmelo pressed on, twisting the knife. "In the grand scheme, it's just brick and mortar, right? It can’t be as fond of you as it is to me.”

"You listen to me, you mick-wop piece of shit." Henry's voice had gone subterranean, dangerous as a gas leak. “My Kathy is not now, nor will she ever be, for sale."

"I'm aware she's a married woman. Happily, from what I hear. A mother. Good for her.” Carmelo's gaze swept the diner like he was already measuring it for new fixtures. "I'm not asking for the woman. I'm asking for the monument to her to be put under my care.”

He slid from the booth with practiced grace, adjusting his wool coat. Henry sat coiled tight as a switchblade spring, violence radiating from every pore. Carmelo pretended not to notice.

"You have twenty-four hours to consider my terms. If you're smart—and I know you are—my lawyers will pay you a visit tomorrow and you will save lives, including our own. Harlem goes back to being yours." He pulled on his gloves with deliberate care. "And Kathy Sweets… she’s mine."

He turned and walked toward the door, each curse and threat bouncing off his back like bullets off a tank. In the reflection of the diner window, he caught a glimpse of Henry Freeman—a man capable of unspeakable violence, held back by the thinnest thread of restraint.

Carmelo smiled and stepped out into the Harlem winter.