Page 132 of The Deadly Candies

How could she ever say no to a friend like Lucia?

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“Cosimo! You dirty bastard!”Don Emilio Falcone crashed through the crowd, his ruby ring flashing as he enveloped Cosimo in a bear hug that threatened to snap ribs.

“You look like you’ve swallowed a canary,” Falcone chuckled, his black beard bristling. Behind him, two burly enforcers flanked a shaking man. “You were looking for him? No? Accused one of my boys of theft?”

Cosimo shrugged, a cool smirk on his lips. “This isn’t a parlor trick. We have business to discuss. Let’s the consigliere’s deal with petty theft.”

Matteo exchanged a puzzled glance with his brother Carmelo, who shrugged—he didn’t follow the exchange either. The two dons locked eyes in a silent challenge. Then Falcone surprised everyone by grabbing Cosimo’s father, planting a loud kiss on each cheek. “I’ll put him on ice for you. But we’ll finish our business later.”

Cosimo eased back into his chair. Around the table, the men tried to laugh it off, but Carmelo caught his father’s warning glare aimed at Falcone. Whatever words had passed were clearly an act of war.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Carmelo murmured to Matteo, slipping from the table before his brother could stop him. He half-wished he were home, on the phone with Kathy—there was so much he still needed to tell her.

Afterwards, he drifted toward the champagne tower, scanning the room. His father sat at the head of the table, other dons bending to kiss his ring—a curious sight, since everyone knew Luciano wielded more clout from Italy. Yet lately his own father’s influence seemed to be eclipsing Luciano’s. Carmelo felt a cold bitterness at the thought. He poured himself a glass of bubbly.

He hovered near the tower of champagne, tuxedo jacket tight over shoulders built for the boxing ring more than a dining hall. When would his father announce the fight? The date loomed like a gathering storm—Tony “The Hammer” Gallo, Don Falcone’s prize Bronx hitter who’d sent two men to the morgue, awaited the challenge for his title.

“Not drinking,ragazzo?” came a soft voice like chimes. Livia materialized beside him, gardenias in her hair and a sharp almond note under her perfume. “Che ti tormenta, campione?What troubles you, champion?”

“Oh—no, I—” Carmelo stammered, staring at his glass. “It tastes… kind of fizzy. Like gasoline bubbles.” He managed a crooked smile. She was beautiful—different from Kathy, but in a strange way, familiar.

She smiled back. “You’re Carmelo, right? The prizefighter. Don Ricci’s youngest son.” Her gaze lifted to a banner above them, his face in boxing gloves.

“That’s me,” he said.

“A tough guy,” she teased.

“I’m just a fighter.”

She bit her nail, eyes dancing. “Seems your father doesn’t like you making new friends.”

He glanced across the room at the table, where his father and DeMarco both watched Livia with intent expressions. Two dangerous men were transfixed by her presence. Yet she remained cool, focused on him alone—those melting honey-brown eyes framed by dark lashes. Suddenly, they reminded him of Kathy.

“He’s not staring at me,” Carmelo said quietly. “He’s staring at you. And that’s not a good thing, sweetheart.”

Livia’s brow rose. “Is that so?”

“Be careful,” he warned. “He’s not someone to tease. And DeMarco’s worse. If that’s possible.”

“Do you always speak so fondly ofla famiglia?” She laughed, a clear bell that drew glances from nearby guests. Unfazed, she leaned close, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, “Don’t worry—I’m the deadliest candy in the room.” Then, softer still: “Kill ’em in the ring, kid. Leave the monsters for Aunt Janey.”

She stepped away, sweeping through the crowd to the cloakroom to fetch her coat. Carmelo lingered, inhaling the fading trace of her perfume. When he finally turned back toward the dining room, he saw DeMarco rise abruptly and follow her, and his father watching every move.

* * *

The wind howledlike thesiroccothat used to whip through her Sicilian village as Lucia Ricci stood on the pedestrian walkway of the Triborough Bridge. Below her, the East River swirled black as thedress she’d worn to her mother’s funeral. This was the bridge that connected everything—Queens, Manhattan, the Bronx—just as she’d once connected her family from Sicily to Italy to America. Now, like the rusty girders trembling underfoot, those connections were crumbling.

She’d taken the#7 train from Corona, passing the butcher shop where little Carmelo used to beg forlupinibeans. The other passengers—factory girls with their Victory Roll hairdos, drunk dockworkers—hadn’t noticed the woman clutching her precious son Nino’s First Communion medal. Nor had they seen her pause outsideP.S. 19, where Matteo’s teacher once told her,"Your boy has a mind like a stiletto—sharp but fragile."

The bridge lights flickered like the votive candles in her kitchen shrine. From this height, she could see: Hell Gate’swhirlpools where the Harlem and East Rivers met, churning like her husband’s temper. She could seeRikers Island’ssilhouette, where Cosimo’s men did their "business”. Her gaze went left, where she saw theWard’s Island Asylum—where Cosimo had sent her after she gave birth to Nino and fell into a deep depression. He often threatened to send her again if she mentioned suicide to his boys.

Lucia closed her eyes. She had no other choices left. Her sons had set themselves on a path that would get them both killed. Maybe, just maybe, this sacrifice would save all of their lives. She climbed over the railing to the screams of those walking along the bridge and honking horns to warn of the pending event.

The fall took 4.3 seconds.

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