Page 77 of The Killer Cupcake (Poison Cherry #3)

P resent Day. Debbie sat on the exam table.

Her legs moved back and forth like a kid in a candy store.

She watched Matteo pace the floor. He is such a worrywart, she thought .

First, they'd had to wrangle Janey and her five-alarm tantrum about Willa coming to Harlem to collect her.

Matteo and Janey at war was something to behold.

The family sat and watched as Matteo put his foot down in a way that even Janey hesitated.

Debbie and Willa thanked God for Sandy. She stepped between the two of them and became the peacemaker.

The one who could handle her Aunt Janey better than them all.

It was one of many times Debbie saw the quiet strength of Kathy in her niece.

Thanks to Sandy, Janey had agreed to sign the papers to have her sister exhumed. Tonight, the whole family would witness Brenda's grave being opened and the medallion retrieved. Then off to Italy—every last one of them, including Janey, Willa, and Coffey.

Everything was falling into place. Except for one tiny detail growing in her belly that nobody believed existed. Her miracle baby. God’s gift to her for being faithful to Matteo after all these years.

Debbie loved babies. She loved the way they smelled. How their bodies drew up when you picked them up. The way her babies suckled her breast. Most of all, she loved the way Matteo was with his babies when allowed access to them. There was nothing better to behold.

"Would you sit down?" she said, rolling her eyes. "You're making me dizzy."

"Leave me alone. I got thoughts," he grumbled, still pacing.

"We don't need this doctor to tell us I'm pregnant. I already know! I ain’t no fool.”

Matteo stopped mid-stride, pain flickering in his eyes. "You think I don't want you to be pregnant? You think I don't want a hundred babies with you, Debs? But we gotta be realistic here. Even if you are—and that's a big, big, big, if—you're..."

"Old. Say it. I'm old,” she seethed.

"I wasn't gonna say old, bambina . I was gonna say... mature."

"Oh, that's much better," Debbie frowned.

"The doctor said pregnancies at this stage?—"

"The doctor can kiss my mature ass. My body is made for this. It's made for you." She grabbed his hand, pulled him close. "We're the same soul, Matteo. This baby won't hurt me. You just gotta have faith."

Matteo sighed, taking a step closer just as the door swung open. The doctor walked in with the poker face of a man who'd delivered both good news and bad for thirty years.

Matteo's heart tried to escape through his throat. Debbie crossed her arms, ready for battle.

The doctor cleared his throat. "Well, Debbie. Turns out you know your body better than medical science. You're pregnant."

"What?" Matteo's voice cracked like a teenager's.

"Ha! I told you! I TOLD you!" Debbie bounced off the table and put her hands on her hips. "Mature, my ass! Telling me I can’t make babies!”

"But... how? I mean, when? I mean how—?” Matteo stammered.

"Oh, for crying out loud, Matteo. You were there. Asking him how. You want me to tell him how many times you?—”

“Stop! Debs! Cut the shit! For Christ’s sake, woman. This is not normal. Is it doctor?” Matteo snapped.

Debbie rolled her eyes.

The doctor chuckled. “It happens. More than you know. And it’s normal for Debbie. She’s fertile.”

“See. I’m fertile,” Debbie said and tossed her chin up. “Not some old bitty that can’t make a baby!”

“Jesus,” Matteo sighed. “How long before the baby comes?”

“Debbie is about two months along, we estimate. We'll know more with blood work, but she's strong, healthy, and definitely pregnant."

Matteo stared at Debbie like she'd just pulled a rabbit from a hat. She glared back, daring him to doubt her again.

Then his face cracked. A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."

"Thank you, Doctor. We're good now. I've done this before," Debbie announced, picking up her purse. "Let's go, Matteo."

"Hold on there," the doctor interjected. "As I explained, Debbie, at your age, there are precautions?—"

"I never took precautions before."

"Pills. He means pills, not precautions," Matteo translated. "She'll take them. Doc, give me everything—instructions, pills, phone numbers, backup phone numbers. We gotta fly to... uh, we're traveling soon. That okay?"

"Should be fine, but—" the doctor stammered.

"Perfect. Thank you." Matteo pumped the doctor's hand while the man tried to lecture Debbie, who responded with Olympic-level eye rolling.

The moment the door closed behind the doctor, Debbie rounded on Matteo. "You never believe me when it counts!"

Instead of answering, he swept her up in his arms, spinning her around. He kissed her face—forehead, cheeks, nose—until she dissolved into giggles.

"Okay, okay! You're forgiven!" Debbie squealed.

He set her down gently, then dropped to his knees. Pressing his face against her belly, he whispered something she couldn't hear, then kissed the spot where their miracle was growing.

"See?" Debbie's voice went soft, fingers threading through his hair. "I told you we're a family again."

"If it's a boy..." Matteo looked up at her, eyes shining. "I want to name him Jose."

Debbie's hand stilled. "What?"

He stood, cradling her face in his hands. "Jose. He's up there with Ma, watching over us. He always believed in us, Debs. Even when we didn't believe in ourselves. This baby... it's his faith paying off too. Because Junior has forgiven me. My son has forgiven me.”

Tears spilled down Debbie's cheeks. She pulled him close, holding on tight. Matteo breathed deep—relief, gratitude, and something that felt dangerously close to redemption.

After all the bad he'd done, maybe God was finally giving him a chance to do something good.

Cefalù - Sicily 1978

Kathy woke to the sun kissing her face. It was a gentle, persistent warmth; the light was soft and golden.

It’s painted the inside of her eyelids yellow.

She stirred, turning into the pillow with a contented murmur, only to feel the cool, empty space beside her.

The surprise of it made her open her eyes.

Carmelo was a silhouette against the blazing blue sky, flinging open the final set of French doors. Light, pure and unfiltered, came pouring into the room, not just through windows but from all sides, as if the very walls of the Sicilian villa were designed to drink in the morning.

“Stop,” she groaned, her voice husky with sleep. She shielded her eyes, a smile playing on her lips. “What time is it? Come back to bed.”

Carmelo turned from the doorway. He looked good in his linen pants and shirt, freshly shaved. His posture was all taut wire and purpose. “I told you Giovanni would be here today. We need to get up. Get dressed. He’s agreed to meet for breakfast.”

The words were a bucket of cold water. He didn’t come back to bed. He just walked out.

Debbie sighed; the last vestiges of her dreamlike bliss evaporated.

She stretched, the sheet slipping from her bare skin, and looked around the sun-drenched room.

Four days. Four perfect days of isolation, of rediscovering each other without the shadow of names like Battaglia or the Wolf.

Then the call came yesterday. His mood had shifted, hardened.

Even when he’d made love to her last night, it was different—possessive, intense, as if marking his territory before a war.

Seeking solace, she looked out through the wide-open doors.

The world outside was a masterpiece. With the windows thrown open, the villa breathed in the essence of Sicily: the salt-kissed air, the intoxicating perfume of jasmine clinging to ancient stone, the distant, comforting scent of frying olive oil and dark espresso from the village below.

She slipped from the bed and pulled on his shirt left discarded on a chair. The fine cotton smelled of him, of sandalwood and sun, and she wrapped herself in it before walking to the balcony.

The view stole her breath every time. The first and forever dominant feature wasLa Rocca, a mighty fortress-like rock that guarded the town.

In the morning haze, it looked like something from one of Carmelo’s medieval fantasy books—a wild, ancient place where dragons might still nest. Below it, the emerald fields were dotted with scruffy sheep, and further down, the medieval town of Cefalù cascaded toward the sea in a breathtaking jumble of sun-bleached stone.

It was a tangled labyrinth of secrets and stories, with narrow cobblestone alleyways and endless arches draped with lines of white laundry fluttering like surrender flags.

The sounds of the waking village floated up to her: the distant, rhythmic crash of waves, the profound, echoing bells of the Duomo marking the hour, the melodic rise and fall of rapid Sicilian from workers already tending the land, the cheerful putt-putt of a single Vespa in a hidden alley.

This. This was the paradise he had whispered about all those years ago in the attic. A place of isolated freedom and breathtaking beauty. A place to get lost in, together. After all their battles, they had finally made it.

Last night felt like a dream now—the Mediterranean spread before them like black silk, stars scattered across the sky like diamonds.

They'd made love on the balcony with an abandon that belonged to their youth, but with a tenderness earned through decades of war.

In his arms, she'd remembered what victory tasted like.

Don Battaglia’s son would arrive soon. As much as she wanted paradise, they had serious business to tend to before their family arrived and learned the truth of their resurrection.

"Cara?” Carmelo's voice pulled her back. "You need to get dressed. Please! For the hundredth time. Get dressed.”

She didn't move from the window. After a long moment, she eventually turned. When he saw the tears tracking down her cheeks, his entire demeanor transformed.

"Kathy?"