Page 133 of The Deadly Candies

Three hours later—

The restaurant erupted in cheers asCarmelo "The Sicilian Sledgehammer" Riccistepped onto the wooden block, the makeshift podium creaking under his weight. Across from him,Tony “The Hammer” Gallosneered, his lanky frame towering over Carmelo, though he lacked the dense muscle that defined Ricci’s fighter’s build. The air between them crackled—two pit bulls held back by their handlers, men fromDon FalconeandDon Ricci’screws wedging themselves between them before fists could fly.

A fisherman-turned-MC—some poor sap who owed the wrong people money—stepped to the microphone, his voice trembling as he announced:

"At just 20 years old, Carmelo Ricci—the 1947 Intercity Golden Gloves Light-Heavyweight Champion—has returned to the ring under Don Ricci’sFive Boroughs Boxing Clubbanner! After his brutal knockout of Carlito ‘Muscle Man’ Bono last month, he’s earned his shot at the reigning champion, Tony ‘The Hammer’ Gallo! The fight is set for Christmas Eve!"

The room exploded. Men from the Ricci and Falcone factions roared, slamming glasses on tables, while the other families—Scordato’s, Moretti’s—watched in silence, their faces unreadable.Don Ricciseized Carmelo’s wrist, thrusting his son’s gloved hand into the air like a trophy. Carmelo glared at the crowd, his jaw set, his dark eyes scanning for weakness in Gallo’s smirk.

Then—

The doors burst open.

Police.

A dozen uniforms flooded in, their nightsticks already drawn. The room went dead silent.

A detective—tall, with a fedora shadowing his gaunt face—marched straight forCosimo Ricci, his shoes clicking on the tile like a death knell.

"Cosimo Ricci,"he said, loud enough for the whole room to hear."You’re coming with us."

DeMarcostepped forward, smooth as a blade slipping from its sheath."You got a warrant, detective?"

The cop’s lips curled. He glanced around the room, savoring the tension, before locking eyes with Cosimo again."Don’t need one. This is a personal matter."A pause."About your wife."

"Ma?!"Matteochoked, lurching forward. Carmelo grabbed his arm, his own stomach dropping like a stone.

The detective smirked."You want me to discuss family business in front of all these people?"

"WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MA?!"Matteo roared, surging forward. Carmelo and three of his father’s men barely held him back, their arms locking around his chest as he thrashed.

Carmelo’s hands shook. His breath came too fast. He didn’t understand—none of this made sense. His mother had been fine this morning. She’d kissed his forehead before he left.

Cosimodidn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But when Carmelo met his father’s eyes, he saw it—the sheen of something raw. Something likefear and worry.

One of the men draped Cosimo’s coat over his shoulders."Go home,"he ordered his sons, his voice eerily calm."Wait for me there. I’ll take care of her.”

"Pa!"Carmelo’s voice cracked. Tears burned his eyes."What’s wrong with my Mama?!”

Cosimo’s jaw tightened."I don’t know, son. But I’ll be home soon."

Then—

Matteo lost it.

He tore free, sending two men stumbling. When they caught him again, he lashed out, smashing a chair against the wall. Plates shattered. Glasses exploded. The other families—Scordato, Moretti, even Falcone—slipped out silently, their exits swift, their faces carefully blank.

Carmelo stood frozen, his body numb.

A terrible, hollow feeling spread through his chest.

Where was his mother?

* * *

Harlem—

“What you doin’ sittin’ out here by yourself?” Debbie stuck her head out the bedroom window. Kathy was perched on the fire escape, arms wrapped around her knees, staring out at the city like it could give her answers. Debbie climbed through the window, barefoot and curious.

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