Page 28 of The Deadly Candies

Clara’s pulse drummed in her ears. “I don’t want your money. You’ve alredy paid more than enough.”

“It’s notmymoney,” he said, his voice hardening. “The Stewarts owed a debt and couldn’t pay it. Now they’re gone. This place is clean.Stewarts Diner, it’syours.”

She stared at him, her mind reeling. This man—acapo dei capiwho’d gutted his way to power—had orchestrated her eviction, strangled her options, then dangled salvation like a pound of beef before a starving lioness.

“Why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why do this, Emilo? Why step into my life?”

Emilio stepped closer, the distance between them vanishing. He circled her slowly, hands clasped behind his back, his presence as deliberate as a predator stalking prey. He stopped behind her, his breath warm against her neck as he slid her coat off her shoulders, slow and deliberate. He handed it to one of his men with a curt nod, and like clockwork, every man in the diner—whether seated at tables or leaning against walls—filed out without a word. They’d seen his intentions in the way he looked at her, the way he moved. The respect the young Don commanded was absolute, mesmerizing.

He turned to face her, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb grazing her cheek. “You remind me of everything I lost and left behind in Sicilia,” he said, his voice low and rough. “My girl. She was a lot like you. Full of love and beauty, bursting with it in her hips, her thighs, her breasts.” His gaze lowered to her heavy bosom. “Bursting with rebellion. See this ring that pierces my ear.”

She looked at the tiny hoop. She had never seen a man wear earrings, but she thought Emilio was just different, so she never asked.

“She was Cammananti, not a Romani. We called her people ‘walkers’. They were gypsies in Sicily. Descendants of peasants. They travelled between villages working as tinkers, basket weavers, or entertainers. She gave me this ring in my ear out of her own, as a sign of love.”

“Okay,” said Clara.

“You treat me like I’m a man, not a benefactor, not a King. You make me humble like she did.”

Clara’s breathing slowed to a stop as his other hand traced the curve of her waist, his touch went down the wide expanse of her hip, burning through the fabric of her dress. “And there is another reason. I died on that table, and the saints brought me back. Now, my life for your life. Because I dream of myangelo nero,” he murmured, his accent thickening. “The one who reached into my chest and plucked out the bullet meant to kill me. The one who wiped my brow when the fever tried to claim me. The one who listens to my stories without judging me.” His lips brushed her ear, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I can’t stop dreaming of myBlack Madonna.”

Clara’s eyes widened, her throat closing, making it hard to swallow. Emilio used both hands. They slid down her curves, possessive but not cruel, sending a shiver of delight up her spine. She wanted to pull away, but his touch was unyielding—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her:he wasn’t letting go.

“Sai quantu vulìa tùcciriti—Do you know how much I’ve wanted to touch you? How many nights I sit in Harlem in my car watching your window to see if you will wake and call for me. Invite me in.”

“Emilio?”

He cut her off. “Because when you saved me that night in the clinic,” he said, his breath hot against her skin, “I knew I had been given another chance and that you were for me. All of you.”

She tried to step back, but he held her firm. Though she was strong, he was tall and strong as well. He could handle her, no matter their weight difference.

“And because I don’t share what’s mine, this is final,bambina,” he added, his voice tight. “Do you understand, Clara? Who I am? What you are to me? What this means to me?”

The implication hung in the air like a blade:Sweet Ed. Your lover. Your friend. It’s over.

Clara suffered a spasm or rebellion. She had swum her way out of certain death in Rollings with her brothers under each arm. She had lived on the streets of Harlem with the rats for months, feeding the boys from dumpsters before finding a safe place. She had suffered not to be anything less than the woman she wanted to be. This wasn’t generosity; it was a chess move. He’d boxed her in, had the inspectors harass and shut her business down. Isolated her, made herneedhim. Yet when his gaze dropped to her mouth, hunger blazing behind the control was enticing, she felt it—the pull, the forbidden thrill of power recognizing power. She could run from him, make him chase her, risk Ed’s life and her own. Or she could concede, become whatever women became in his world—trapped in limbo, never fully belonging. Or she should be Clara and use this situation and all of life hard times to her advantage.

She took a step back, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. “I’m not your pet. If you want me, you have to, uh, make it sweet for me. I don’t want to be forced into loving you, Emilio. You understand? You have todeservewhat I got that no other man than Ed has ever tasted,” she lied.

Emilio’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Va bene.Insegnami.Teach me.”

She chuckled, the sound brittle but defiant. “I’m hungry. Are you going to let me starve? If I were special, I’d be eating now.”

His brows lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He rubbed his jaw, then glanced toward the kitchen where pots bubbled on the stove. Without a word, he removed his coat and blazer, rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms corded with muscle and faded scars. Clara exhaled, the tension shifting as he moved to the kitchen instead of on her.

She watched, transfixed, as he worked, pouring wine, plating food with a precision that belied his reputation. The aroma of garlic and herbs filled the air, making her stomach growl. He returned with a steaming plate and a glass of wine, setting them before her with a flourish.

“Sit,” he ordered.

She obeyed, her gaze lingering on the medallion around his neck—a Saint Jude, the patron of lost causes. It reminded her of Michaelo, her first love, the young Italian dockworker who’d taught her fragments of his language and worshipped her like a goddess until the docks claimed his life. For a moment, Emilio’s dark eyes mirrored Michaelo’s, and her heart ached with the ghost of what could have been if prejudice and poverty didn’t divide them.

When he leaned in to add to her plate, because he evidently wanted her to eat a belly full, another medallion slipped out from under his shirt. A thorned rose on the silvery disc. It was beautiful with gems. It wasn’t large, but it was distinctively elegant.

“That is beautiful,” she said and pointed at it. “What is it?”

He gave her a sly smile. “Maybe I’ll let you touch it and tell you the story, if you let me touch you.”

Clara blinked, unable to speak.

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