Page 22 of The Deadly Candies

“Maybe we have met. You look familiar,” said Mama Stewart.

Debbie glanced away, then back at her. “You know my cousin.”

“Do I? Who’s your cousin?” Mama Stewart asked, her eyebrows raised with surprise.

Before Debbie could answer, a couple approached Mama Stewart, thanking her for the meal. Mama Stewart turned her attention to them, her laughter filling the diner as she hugged them and reminded them to come back in October for the Halloween party. But as the couple left, Mama Stewart’s jovial demeanor faltered. Her eyes locked on something-or someone—near the door.

Debbie followed her gaze and saw Matteo.

He stood there, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, his dark wavy hair slicked back beneath a flat cap. His sharp jawline was shadowed with stubble, and his eyes—those intense, brooding eyes—scanned the room until they landed on Debbie. Mama Stewart marched over to him, her finger already raised in warning.

“What are you doing here, Matteo Ricci?” Mama Stewart asked, her voice low but sharp.

Matteo’s gaze switched to Debbie, then back to Mama Stewart. He said something too quiet for Debbie to hear, but it made Mama Stewart glance back at her. The older woman’s expression shifted from anger to something softer—sadness, maybe.

Matteo approached the booth, his movements deliberate but calm. He slid into the seat next to Debbie, removed his cap, and set it on the table.

“Cara,” he said.

She looked up, her heart pounding.

“You okay?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.

“Did you hurt him? The boy? Did you?” she asked.

“No. Not yet. But I will if he does anything that hurts you,’ Matteo replied.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” she mumbled, her hands twisting in her lap.

“I’m glad you did,” Matteo said, his tone sincere. He put his arm up and over the top of the booth seat. She was cornered. There was no escape. But she didn’t feel threatened, just unsure.

Debbie glanced up at him. “You are?”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice softening. “For stopping me at the Espositos’.Grazie.”

Debbie’s cheeks warmed. “You wouldn’t have killed anyone, Matteo.”

“I shot a man right over there,” he said, pointing to the jukebox. His voice was calm, but there was a weight to his words that made Debbie’s stomach twist. “I did it to keep DeMarco—my father’s consigliere—from taking Kathy. That man was a friend of Mama Stewart’s. He died.”

Debbie’s breath caught. Kathy had never told her that.

She reached under the table and placed her hand on his knee. “Mama Stewart wants us to leave? Is that why?”

“No,” Matteo said, shaking his head. “She knows why I did what I did. She doesn’t want me here, that’s true. But where else can I go to see you?”

Debbie smiled faintly, her heart flutteringlike a moth caught in lamplight.The waiter, a lanky redhead in a starched white apron, slid their salads and frosty Pepsis onto the table. Before she could pick up her fork, Matteo—ever the provocateur—stuck his fingers into her salad, plucking a wedge of boiled egg dripping with homemade dressing. He popped it into his mouth with a smirk. Shocked Debbie punched him in his side.

“Mannaggia!You hit harder than my Nonna,” he laughed, rubbing his side where she’d swatted him. His hand darted out again, this time tickling her ribs until her gasps turned to giggles that drew stares from the elderly couple at the next booth.His cologne—bay rum and Lucky Strikes—drowned out the diner’s grease-scented air as he leaned in.

The kisswasn’t fire. Wasn’t stolen desperation like the garden behind Esposito’s home.This was slow, honey,a confession without words.His lips lingered, warm and insistent, until her fingers curled into his shirt sleeves. When he pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to hers.His thumb brushed the rose-petal lips of hers.

“I’m glad you’re my friend, Debbie,” he whispered.

“Iamyour friend, Matteo,” she said,her voice steadier than her racing pulse.

“Bene.Friends don’t let friends make stupidstronzatelike my brother.” His smile faded.The mob prince reemerged, sharp as a switchblade.“They can’t know about us; our friendship I mean. Not my old man. Not your folks. Trust me. I will protect our friendship, from anyone who wants to hurt you. I still don’t like the fact that your Pa hit you,” he mumbled. “This place is now for us.”

“Us?” She recoiled,but his hand slid up her skirt, calloused fingers branding her inner thigh through her stockings.His gaze never wavered.

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