Page 24 of The Deadly Candies

“I don’t need your protection,” she frowned. “I got my daddy and my brother to protect me. And why do you keep telling me you kill people? That is not what I want to know!”

“And you got another man. You got me,” he said, ignoring her last statement. He had to cool it on the confessions. It was clear she wasn’t that kind of girl. She stared at him as if he had said the words in Italian instead of English. She couldn’t conceive the concept of him and her united, but it was a reality, a real promise he felt he could make. And he was terrible at trying to be humble.

Matteo loved her defiance. For him, the problem was simple. Strong women were the kind of women the men in his world preyed on. When they couldn’t break them, they destroyed them—not him, not Carmelo. Their mother was a treasure, and loving her instilled in them both what love means.

“Lo so, bella mia—I know, my beauty. You’re not Kathy. You’re Debbie. I got my chance now. Like a friend, you came here for me, like you did at Coney Island.Ma io voglio di più—All I am saying is let’s do more. You are already special to me, Debbie. I want to be special to you.”

Matteo looked her over with a level of desire Debbie didn’t welcome. Chester was her boyfriend. They’d just made it official a few days ago. But Chester wasn’t Matteo. Chester was always quick and hurried with his attempts to seduce her. And she had solid defenses. Nothing more than a kiss and little feel until marriage. Matteo’s conquest was something entirely different. It felt exciting, new, even possible because he was so tough. She could feel her defenses crumbling just from him saying over and over again that she was his. Was this why Kathy chose Carmelo? Did he make her feel this way too? Was this how Eve felt in the garden when she took a bite of the forbidden fruit?

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she sighed. “I got a boyfriend.”

Matteo narrowed his eyes on her.

“I mean, I had one, she stammered. Not anymore,” she quickly added.

Matteo smiled. “You know, I own that fabric store. Yeah, the old man runs it, but it’s mine—mine and the apartment above it.Mio padrethinks I’m counting bolts of fabric and scratching the register, but I’m really…” He leaned closer, voice lowering intimately, “…qui con te—right here with you. My boys hustle the corners, bring me cash. Soon, I’ll buy my own building and get my mama and brothers somewhere nice and safe, away from my father. Until then, tell your mama you’re scrubbing floors at Esposito’s. We’ll have Tuesdays or Thursdays, you can decide… here, instead. No one will know.”

A bolt of nervousness shot through Debbie, hot and intense. She picked up the fork, hoping to steady her shaking hand. Spearing a tomato, she fed it to him with exaggerated calm. If he kept chewing, she wouldn’t have to hear any more of his dangerous plans for her. Her daddy would bury her alive if he knew she’d even considered such a thing with a Ricci. Debbie knew too well the risk—Kathy had paid dearly for playing this same game.

Matteo swallowed, licking his lips. “Hai capito?You heard me?”

“Ah, yes. I heard you. Matteo, East Harlem is two blocks from my church. And Deacon Jones lives and works in Brooklyn. He could easily see me. He will sing like a canary if he sees me coming and going from this diner place,” she joked. “Stop talking crazy.”

“Let him.”Matteo’s teeth closed over the fork, eyes glinting.“I’ll buy his silence with a case of sacramental wine.”

“I’m serious!” she protested.

“Shh…” he turned her chin and kissed her lips. “I’m not Melo. I’m not stupid. I know how this goes. That’s why I wanted you to come here. See the place. We won’t go to East Harlem, Debbie. Are you listening? We come here. We need to convince Mama Stewart to help us. To give us a room like she did for Melo and Kathy. Simple. I wanna be alone with you.”

“I told you I’m not like that, I’m not doing anything like that,” she stammered. “I don’t want to have sex.”

“Sex?” he frowned.

“You keep mentioning a room,” she rolled her eyes.

He laughed. Not to have sex. For us. A place for us. That’s all. You don’t have to do anything. Let me touch you a few times is all I want. But you my girl, Debbie. Can’t you see it?” he asked. “You and me. We can just be normal.”

She glanced over at him and then back at the salad. “I guess.”

He leaned in and kissed her cheek. She softened, and this time when his hand went to her knee and up under her skirt she didn’t mind. They ate like that—her feeding him bites of liver and onions, him spinning plans to dismantle his father’s empire between swallows. Talking Italian in his mumbles. His laughter rang rich and dark as espresso, but Debbie tasted the lie beneath during their frequent kisses.When she excused herself to the ladies’ room,the jukebox played a new Ink Spots melody. It followed her, along with Matteo’s eyes. He turned all the way in the booth to watch her. The songs dreamy harmonies and his hopeful grin clashed with the dread coiling in her gut.

When Debbie finished, she flushed and washed her hands at the sink. The door opened behind her, and she turned, surprised that she had forgotten to lock it. The bathroom’s single bulb flickered, casting shadows that made Mama Stewart’s face look older, harder, like the ghost of the girl she’d been decades ago.

“What’s your name again, baby?” Mama Stewart asked, shutting the door with a softclick. The diner’s muffled laughter died abruptly.

“Debbie, ma’am.”

“Debbie.” Mama Stewart’s voice softened, but her eyes were flint. “Kathy’s cousin. Sweet as peach cobbler, that girl. Came in here all dreamy smilin’ like the sun. You got her heart. That’s why I’m gonna tell you what I should have told her. What I wish someone told me.”

She stepped closer, her perfume—gardenias and fried grease—mixing with the sharp tang of bleach. “You think Matteo’s different? That he ain’t his father’s son?”

“I-I-I-I—” Debbie stammered.

“Of course you do. They ain’t different baby. Not for us, not even for their own women. Trust me.” Mama Stewart warned.

10

Harlem, New York – October 1923

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