Page 74 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)

NEW YORK - RICCI CONSTRUCTION

T he knock silenced the room instantly. Slim stood. He walked to the door of Carmelo’s office. He checked the peephole before glancing back at Carmelo. At his boss's subtle nod, he opened the door.

The others stood in unison—not scrambling, but moving with the synchronized respect of men who understood hierarchy.

Leone "The Fox" Ferrara entered. Cosimo Ricci's second consigliere, since DeMarco’s death, swept his gaze across the assembled soldiers, each look an apparent dismissal.

They called him Fox for good reason—where others used force, Ferrara wielded strategy like a scalpel.

Clever, cunning, and impossible to pin down, he solved problems with an elegant brutality that even Carmelo admired.

"Thanks for coming." Carmelo's tone suggested courtesy while his eyes promised consequences. He nodded to his men—a king dismissing his court. They filed out in practiced silence, Caesar last. Even Slim departed at Carmelo's gesture, though they both knew he'd position himself within earshot.

The Fox consulted his Patek Philippe with theatrical boredom. "I have court in three hours. Whatever this is, make it brief."

"Legal troubles?" Carmelo kept his voice neutral, fishing.

"Nothing concerning you. Especially after that deal you convinced your father to sign over Harlem for. I think you should leave all business matters in the future to me!”

The dismissal came with that signature sneer as Ferrara claimed the sofa—a calculated insult. By refusing the chair facing Carmelo's desk, the consigliere broadcast his contempt for the younger man's growing power. Old school arrogance, Carmelo noted. The kind that made men blind to shifting tides.

But Leone Ferrara was still the sharpest legal mind in La Cosa Nostra. Thanks to months of Slim and Caesar's intelligence work, Carmelo finally understood how to transform that asset from his father's weapon into his own.

The Fox made a show of settling in—unbuttoning his jacket, crossing his legs, radiating the confidence of a man who'd survived two decades in this life through intellect alone. "Well?"

Carmelo's hand found the drawer, extracting a folder with deliberate care. He placed it flat on his desk, palm pressed against it like a poker player protecting a winning hand. "I need your expertise. This document requires immediate filing and enforcement. No negotiations."

The Fox's mask slipped for an instant—curiosity overruled his smug defiance. His gaze tracked between Carmelo's face and the folder, running calculations. When Carmelo remained seated, it forced the mountain to come to Mohammed. Ferrara's nostrils flared.

The older man stood with exaggerated dignity, each step across the room a small surrender. The folder was slid toward him. He opened it. His reaction was instantaneous.

" Dio santo...? " The words escaped before he could stop them. His eyes snapped up, searching Carmelo's face. "Does Don Cosimo know this exists?"

Carmelo's smile was answer enough.

"This bears the seal of the New York Superior Court." Ferrara's voice climbed despite himself. "You said it needs filing? How is that possible when?—"

"It was never filed."

"Impossible. Judge Foley's seal?—"

"Never filed." Carmelo leaned back, savoring the moment. "Which is why I need you to ensure the courts recognize its validity. Today."

"A marriage certificate? To the Freeman girl?" The Fox's composure cracked entirely. "After you orchestrated peace between our families and cost us thousands in profit? Accepted scraps while that?—"

"While I secured Las Vegas." Carmelo's voice cut like ice. "Lanskey already has territory in Harlem; it’s worthless to us with Henry Freeman and him in alliance. I gave Papa Las Vegas, a vision in tribute to my brother. And now we have the casinos that generate more in a month than Harlem produced in a year. No war. No bloodshed. Just profits. So cut the bullshit. You have never produced anything close.”

"This family was built on heroin, loan sharking, empire building, not roulette wheels." The Fox's carefully calm demeaning cracked, revealing depths of resentment. Here was the brilliant legal mind, reduced to a stuttering fool over being outmaneuvered by what he considered a kid.

"File it,” said Carmelo.

"Bigamy is a felony. You have a wife and children. This document would delegitimize?—"

"Obstacles for lesser lawyers. Not for the legendary Fox."

Ferrara drew back, reverting to the voice that had cowed judges. "And if I refuse? If I walk out and head to your father right now and show Cosimo his son's betrayal?"

"Then I show him yours." Carmelo opened another drawer, producing photographs, documents, and even copies of wired communications made by Ferrara. "Shipping manifests to Naples. Coded communications with Luciano. Bank accounts in Zurich feeding the old boss while my father pretends at kingship."

The consigliere aged a decade in seconds.

"Every family dinner, you sit at his right knowing Lucky Luciano still runs New York through you." Carmelo spread the evidence like a deck of tarot cards. “While I sit at his left, knowing the true hustle. How long do you think you'd survive that revelation? An hour? Less?"

"You don't understand the complexities?—"

"I understand perfectly. You hedged your bets. Smart, until now." Carmelo gathered the photos with a gambler's efficiency. "New management, new rules. You work for me. First task: legitimize this marriage."

"Your wife?—"

"Maria signs whatever you draft. Clean annulment, whatever legal fiction necessary." Carmelo returned the marriage certificate to its folder. "Forty-eight hours."

“The church! The church will not bend to this,” Ferrara tried to reason.

“I will make my peace with God,” Carmelo said. “Just as I plan to make peace with Kathy. I am the Wolf of Harlem, remember?”

“You’re not listening. The legal complexity alone?—"

"Forty-eight hours. Or I convene a special meeting to discuss your divided loyalties." Already, Carmelo was looking through him, business concluded. "We're done here."

Leone Ferrara—the Fox who'd outwitted FBI, IRS, and five ambitious prosecutors hunting down his father—shuffled out like a beaten dog. The moment of solitude returned, Carmelo retrieved a worn business card, fingers tracing numbers he knew by heart.

The prince had become king. Time to claim his queen.

"Sergeant Donovan speaking."

"Ricci. Tell me it's done."

"Mr. Brown enlisted this morning. Signed, sealed, delivered to the U.S. Army."

Relief flooded through Carmelo's system like morphine. His body sagged into the leather chair. "Departure date?"

"Two days. Fast-tracked as requested."

"The wife—was she present? Was she upset?” He fought to keep desperation from bleeding through.

"Lovely lady. Sweet little girl, too. She sat silently at his side, holding the child. Her eyes were down. She didn’t say anything. Quite the looker, if you don't mind me saying."

"Can any of this be traced back to me?" Carmelo asked.

"Negative. He believes the bonus is standard. Paperwork's been expedited. He signed for two years, but the contract reads four, just like your brother. Your problem is solved."

"My brother. They cannot be stationed together. Arrange it."

"Mr. Ricci, I'm a recruiter, not a general. Once the recruit boards that bus, they're in God's hands. Or the Army's, which might be worse. Besides, with this situation in Asia, we'll all be shipping out soon."

“What? You said no wars. That the Cold War was just politics, not combat!” Carmelo sat upright.

“Do you read the paper? There is always wars to be fought. It is a risk every soldier takes when he enlists. I thought you understood that.”

“My brother… he’s not in a war, he’s doing military stuff, advising,” Carmelo reasoned.

Donovan remained silent.

Carmelo ground his teeth. Two years since discovering Kathy carried another man's child. Two years of meticulous planning while his soul rotted from the inside by pretending at civility with his father. It had pushed him into complete darkness. Kathy’s marriage to that farm-boy meant the end of every dream he had planned to share with her.

And the child should have been his. All hope was lost until he discovered the truth.

That money and power, not good intentions, could get you anything you wanted in the world.

It could bring her to him. And he’d take her in any way he could.

"Payments in your account." The line went dead.

Slim appeared in the doorway. "Fox stormed out like his ass was on fire."

"Good. Everything's aligning perfectly."

"That's what scares me." Slim's weathered face showed concern. "Getting what you want can be its own punishment."

"All I want is her back in Harlem, where I can reach her. Where she belongs, she’s trapped in that shithole town because of me. I’m helping her.”

Slim retreated, recognizing the futility of arguing with obsession.

In the silence, Carmelo let himself imagine it—Kathy back in New York, close enough to touch.

For the first time in two years, something resembling happiness flickered in his chest. Even if it was just the phantom pain of a limb he'd lost, it was better than the nothing he'd been living with.

Quebec - 1978

Kathy slept upstairs. Marco, his most trusted man, approached with the American newspaper he requested. It was several days old, but current enough. Carmelo set his coffee down and reached for it.

"Your newspaper, sir." The soldato placed it beside the cooling coffee.

"When does Ernesto land?" Carmelo kept his voice level, though urgency pressed beneath.

"Flight arrived forty minutes ago. He called from the tarmac—should be here within the hour."

"Bene." He opened the paper methodically, each section carefully separated.

Page three stopped him cold. Twin photographs—his own from federal booking, Kathy's from happier days. The headline alone made his blood freeze: