Page 30 of The Deadly Candies

“Emilio, stop talking,” she rolled her eyes.

He grinned. He was far more handsome and harmless when she made him grin. “Let me show you. A perfect fit.”

Clara nodded, a bit intrigued.

“On your knees and hands, turn for me,” he said. “I will get you ready.”

Clara had only lain down flat for lovemaking. Sweet Ed was so skinny she feared her weight would snap him. Plus, Ed was a licker, during, before, and after sex. Ed always wanted her flat on the ground to use his tongue. Michaelo was a huge man. Over six feet and 300 pounds of muscle, he’d lift her off her feet and carry her to bed. He taught her sex. And sex with Michaelo was that she was on the bottom and he and all his weight was on top.

She turned on her hands and knees and looked back over her shoulder at him. Emilio had a wicked grin as he came behind her, licking his palm and slicking his dick as he positioned himself behind her. He was right. His dick was long, and curved. It could reach her puss with little effort, though her ass was a soft cushion between them. Clara closed her eyes. She expected the pussy-punch of his dick on the way in, but instead she got his warm palm touching her sex.

“La tua figa è così bagnata per me,”he teased.

She knew the vulgar saying he said in his language. Michaelo said the same thing when they were together. He taught her the meaning. It was in reference to how her vagina was often wet and slippery. Maybe other women weren’t, but even Ed commented on how much he preferred sex with her over any other woman. Clara gripped the sheets as Emilio stimulated her with his fingers, and then came the pussy-punch, unbelievable deep and stretching. Her knees buckled, and her head dropped. Only two thrusts inside of her, and she lost control. It was more than she’d ever experienced. So much so soon, she didn’t know pleasure from pain. But he rocked his hips, and soon she discovered the difference.He was right.Her bodydidaccommodate. With her mouth stretched into a wide O, she went down on her elbows, still pinned to him while on her knees. He thrust in and out of her faster and faster. The groans and grunts and moans of Sicilian dialect made her smile. He was enjoying it as much as she was. The bed was loud and noisy, announcing her weight and the sexual act to any ghosts left by the Stewarts below. Emilio dropped onto her back, licking her sweat. His hands went beneath her belly to her thick thighs, keeping them apart because she was so slippery he kept missing his aim when he tried to withdraw and plunge deeper. He held her that way for his pump action. When he neared the explosion, he grunted so hard and loud she felt as if he would scream. Then, together, they crashed on the mattress, with Emilio still moving and wetting her even more inside with his seed. She prayed for relief. He was more man than she’d ever known. He accommodated by pulling his long, thick snake out of her. She gasped and exhaled.

“So soft, your body,” he groaned, his voice thick with reverence. “Like making love to a cloud. So beautiful.Bella, mia Madonna nera.”

Clara smiled, a warmth that she hadn’t felt in years spread through her. She’d never felt more desired than in this moment. Emilio turned her gently, climbing atop her to nuzzle and suckle at her breasts, his touch both tender and possessive. She stroked his dark wavy hair, her fingers tangling in the dark waves, holding him close as he sighed against her skin—once, twice, a sound of pure contentment.

“Bellissima,” he murmured again, his voice barely a whisper, before they both drifted into a deep, sated sleep.

When they woke, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains, he began to speak. His voice was low, confessional, as he told her his story—his fears, his losses, his sins—even the story of Maria. Swearing, Clara had exorcised her ghost from his heart. Now she was the only woman he’d touch, love. He spoke of how he’d been near death, brought to her clinic during theCastellammarese War, a bloody feud that had torn through the underworld like a wildfire. He’d been part of the plot to assassinateJoe “The Boss” Masseria, a man he’d hated more than Mussolini, more than anyone.

“Castellammare del Golfo,” he said, his accent thickening as he named the Sicilian town he’d fled at just nineteen, a boy. He touched the second medallion on his neck. The thorned rose. A symbol of the survival and resilience of Sicilians. “They killed my brother there. I saw it. I was just a child, ten, but I swore I’d make them pay.” His voice cracked, and the fearsome Don was gone for a moment, replaced by a grieving boy turned man too soon. “I boarded a ship to America when the tuberculosis wiped out my village. The hate followed me across the sea. Masseria… he was worse than the men back home. He took everything. But now…” He trailed off, a dark smile playing on his lips. “Now he’s dead. And I have what they all want—information, money, power,respect.”

“Does anyone know. That you killed him, Don Masseria?”

“Never. I could never be Don that way. Not how we Sicilians do it. They think it was the Irish,” he chuckled. “Even my men.”

Clara listened, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. Over the years, she’d learned more about the young Don—his cunning, his ruthlessness, his brilliance. He’d forged alliances with men likeLucky Luciano when Luciano was fresh off the boat—taking him and giving him authority. Together, he and Lucky would reshape the underworld into theFive Familiesof New York. The secrets he shared with her were more than confessions; they were lifelines, pieces of a puzzle that would prove invaluable in the years to come. Because she became the whisperer to the Mafia when the young Don was gone. The Madonna Nera.

Present –

“That was 1923. He died ten years later. Gun downed in the street like a dog. I loved him hard back then. So hard I had taken a shotgun and shot a few Italians, Irish, and Sicilians myself in retaliation,” Mama Stewart said.

“You? You shot Italians and Sicilians?” Debbie repeated.

Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Love can you make crazy, insane. Losing Emilo made me both for a spell.”

Debbie put her hand to her mouth. “But wouldn’t the mob kill you?”

“Emilio was the true Godfather of this city. He introducedOmertaand the sacred oaths of the families that stand today. Luciano is devout in the rules of the Sicilian Mafia. One of those vows protects me,” she said.

“How?” Debbie asked.

“He issued aregalo di protezione.It was a protection gift that goes all the way back to the tenets of the Mafia families. I carry his soul inside of me. Every time I put a slug in an Italian or Sicilian from my rifle, it was his hand that did it. That is why they waited until I was gone to take your cousin. If I had been here, I’d have killed them all to save her. Ricci knows this.

Before my Emilio was gone, the men who worshipped him imitated him. They found the diner I owned to be their safe place, even if they were rivals. And because I was Black Madonna, they decided to imitate their boss and bring in negro women they claimed. I saw those girls and I knew their lives and stories were not like mine. That these men had trapped them. I fought with Emilio. I didn’t want lovers who weren’t in love. I would not harbor men who wanted a place to abuse women just because they had the power to do so. So, he gave another decree that became legend among the Five Families: "Stewart’s place is holy ground. And I am the holiest of women: Black Madonna. His soulmate. His goumada. My life for his life and his life for mine. No one could ever touch me or this place, or live here with me. Not Sweet Ed, not my brothers. All I have is his place and his ghost. That is Emilio’s law.”

“So, you married him?” Debbie asked.

“No,” she wiped at her tears. “Not because I was black. He didn’t give a fuck that anyone saw me as black. He marched me around them all, including his wife. Put me at his table. That was his only weakness—his ego, his arrogance, his defiance, and his pride. And ultimately, it was why he was killed. But his reason for not marrying me wasn’t due to the fact that he loves a woman who looks like me. It was because I couldn’t give him children. He had to have a son, you see. These men want sons. Always remember that. They need sons. It was who he was. So, he took a wife and kept me… kept me in limbo.”

The heartbreak in her voice and her eyes made Debbie look away.

“Even after his death, the pact held—partly out of respect, partly because Luciano knew how much of his empire he built on Emilo’s shoulders. And Emilo taught me everything. I carry all of Emilio’s secrets and Luciano’s secrets. Lucky Luciano is superstitious. He would come to me for his blessings before he went to the priests. He thinks I’m some witch who cast a spell over Emilio, or Saint, who is the secret mother. I dunno. Won’t let anybody near me. Thinks if he does, I could destroy them all even through my death.”

“So, this place is and will be mine to my death, under the protection of the mob. I don’t have to answer to anyone. And if anyone tries to take what their honorable Godfather gifted me, then I could put a bullet in him myself. Luciano’s word is law. That boy out there who brought you here. He’s got Ricci blood in his veins. He’s not a true Sicilian or of the tradition. When my Emilio died, Luciano and the other three Don’s knighted Cosimo Ricci to take his throne. Gave him the territories that Emilio had bled for. A Ricci doesn’t have the oath in his heart. He’s jealous, conniving, and a devil spirit. And his sons are cursed. Those boys are doomed to suffer because I pray for it. Because I know it was Don Cosimo Ricci who raised the plot to kill my Emilio.”

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