Page 121 of The Deadly Candies

Ely looked at her gently. “You’re still that girl, Kathy.”

She turned to him and offered a faint, sad smile. “You sound just like Melo, you know? Both of you only see what you want to see in me. But I’ve changed, Ely. I’ve changed, just like Aunt Janey did in that house when she saw her mother’s belongings. Sometimes the pain and the loss is so much it makes you different. I’m different now. And so is he. The magic between us is different now. Not like it was in that attic. It’s not gone. It’s not here. I don’t know where it is.”

“Okay,” Ely murmured, uncertain how else to respond.

Kathy drew a deep breath, gathering courage. “I need to say goodbye to Melo. I need that, even if he doesn’t know it’s goodbye. But afterward, we’ll go to Daddy together, and I’ll tell him I want to go back with you.”

Ely’s eyes widened in shock.

Kathy met his gaze steadily. “But I won’t marry you, Ely. I won’t have your baby, or pretend that what you want from me is possible. I love Carmelo as much as you say you love me. That’s the truth. But I love my family more—and I need to protect them from my own heart.”

“I’m sorry, Kathy,” Ely said quietly, genuine sorrow reflected in his eyes.

“Don’t be,” she replied softly, shaking her head. “Maybe this is what it means to grow up. To let go of dreams about safaris in Africa and little cottages by the sea in Sicily. This is Harlem. This is reality.”

She slipped Ely’s jacket from her shoulders and handed it back to him gently. Offering one final, quiet smile, she turned and went back inside the bakery.

Ely stood watching her leave, his heart heavy with words left unspoken. He wanted to follow her, to somehow convince her that she could still find joy, happiness, and love—even here, even now. But he didn’t move. Standing there in the crisp November chill, he finally understood why Kathy was so special, why she had always meant so much to him. It was because Kathy was pure—pure in her feelings, pure in her passions, pure in the way she protected those she loved. Who wouldn’t want someone like that in their life?

She was worth the sacrifice, even if that sacrifice meant helping her be with another man.

36

The Wedding, Harlem 1949

The sleek, pearl-white Cadillac glided down Seventh Avenue, its polished chrome gleaming under the pale November sun. Inside, Debbie Freeman sat stiffly in the backseat, her trembling fingers clutching the bouquet of white roses in her lap. The satin of her wedding dress nearly covered the entire back seat as she shifted uncomfortably.

"You alright, baby girl?" her father, Pete Freeman, called from the driver’s seat, his deep voice warm with pride. He adjusted the rearview mirror to catch her reflection more pefectly—his little girl, all grown up and radiant in lace and pearls.

Debbie forced a smile. "Just nervous, Daddy."

Beside her, her cousin and maid of honor, Kathy, squeezed her hand. Kathy’s dark eyes, sharp and knowing, lowered to Debbie’s stomach—still flat beneath the layers of tulle, but not for long. The secret between them was a living thing, pulsing beneath every word they didn’t say on the ride to the church.

"You look beautiful," Kathy murmured, adjusting the delicate veil perched atop Debbie’s pinned curls. "Like a movie star."

Debbie’s throat tightened.Beautiful. That’s what Matteo had called her the last time she’d seen him, his hands on her belly like she was carrying something precious.Hisbaby was the one growing inside her—not José’s. But José Gonzalez, her sweet-natured Puerto Rican fiancé, was the man shehadto marry. The only story her father would digest. The only man who could save her from disgrace.

The car slowed as they approached Mount Olive Baptist Church, its grand stone façade towering over the block. The sound of the organ spilled into the street, the deep, resonant chords of“The Wedding March”already swelling inside. A small crowd of well-dressed guests who were members of the church and ready to assist lingered on the steps, their breath curling in the crisp air as they waited for the bride’s arrival.

Pete parked the Cadillac and stepped out, straightening his tailored suit before opening the back door for his daughter. Kathy climbed out first, smoothing her emerald-green bridesmaid dress before turning to help her uncle and Debbie.

"Ready?" Kathy said.

Debbie swallowed hard.No.

But she took her father’s outstretched hand and stepped onto the pavement, the cold seeping through her satin heels. As Charles and Kathy fussed with her train—adjusting the folds of fabric just so—Debbie’s gaze drifted absently across the street.

And then—her heart stopped.

There, leaning against a lamppost, stood Matteo.

He wore a heavy wool overcoat, the collar turned up against the wind, and a newsboy cap pulled low over his brow. But she’d know him anywhere—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his broad shoulders filled out his coat, the quiet intensity in his dark eyes as they locked onto hers.

He shouldn’t be there. Not in Harlem. Nottoday. If her father saw him—if anyone recognized the young Italian prince, second-born son of Don Ricci, who’d been sneaking around with a Black girl—it would ruin everything.

Yet here he was. Defiant as always. Possessive as her heart needed. Honoring his vow to her that no matter what she said to another man today before the eyes of the Lord, he would be the man to love and protect her always.

Debbie sighed. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the two of them—the church music, the chatter of guests, the weight of her father’s hand on her arm—all of it faded.

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