Page 4 of The Deadly Candies

“Finalmente,you wake,” the Don said, his voice graveled by decades of cigars and curses. He turned and stepped closer,his polished Oxfords clicking like a judge’s gavel with each step toward the bed.“The doctors said you might not.Che peccato,no? My strong boy, reduced to…questo.”

He gestured at Carmelo’s broken body,the casts and bandages a grotesque parody of a son he’d once bragged about.

Carmelo’s eye burned, but he refused to blink.

The Don removed his hat, revealing a face carved from Italian stone—hard, unyielding, yet fissured by something raw.“You think I wanted this? To see my blood lying in shit and bandages?” He leaned down,his breath reeking of amaro and regret.“You forced my hand,figlio.A Ricci does not kneel for love. Heruleswith it. And thatnegrogirl… she made you weak enough to defy Papa. That will not happen.”

Carmelo’s fingers twitched,a rusted hinge of defiance.

“Basta.” The Don straightened, his voice hardening. “The girl is gone.Finito.You will never see her again, son. I made sure of that. And Matteo—” He paused,the name of Carmelo’s brother a blade between them.“—Matteo thinks he’s clever. But he’ll learn.Tutti imparano.”

He adjusted Carmelo’s blanket,the gesture almost tender.“You’ll heal. The best doctors—Americaniwith their needles and pills—they’ll fix your face. And when you stand again, you’ll marry a woman worthy of our name.Italiana. Forte.Someone who’ll give me grandsons, not shame.”

Carmelo’s breath hitched. A silent scream of protest was trapped in his wired jaw.

The Don’s hand hovered over his son’s fractured leg,as if remembering the hammer’s weight from when he brought it down on his sons’ bones and smashed them.“Luciano came to see me.Ha detto,‘A Don who cannot control his blood cannot control his city.’ You made me lookdebole.I am the only Italian among the five. These Sicilians think they are superior when they aren’t worthy of thefratelliI will build.” His voice dropped. A rare crack in the armor.“But the insult he gave, I will endure. For you… you are still mycuore.My heart.”

A tear slid down Carmelo’s temple,hot as a brand.

The Don turned away, hat clutched like a shield. “Your mother comes daily. Pray with her. Let her…comforteyou.” At the door, he hesitated.For a moment, just a moment, his posture softened.“Next summer, we’ll sail to Spain. You think Papa doesn’t know that is your dream? To be on one of the big ships and sail to Spain or Africa, and see a lion? We will see the mountains and the sea.Come era una volta.Like it was before.”

He left. The door clicked shut.

Carmelo’s eye drifted to the window,where snow fell like ash.Kathy.Her name was a prayer, a curse, a vow.Kathy. Kathy. Kathy. Kathy.

I’ll find you.

He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him,dreaming of a world where fathers drowned in their own remorse and a girl like Kathy was his destiny.

* * *

Lucia Ricci’sfingers found the rosary first, its onyx beads cool against her collarbone.In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.The cross felt heavier today. She kissed it anyway, lips lingering on the iron.

Faith is a blade,Father Michael had told her in her last confession, his voice muffled by the lattice.Sharpen it.

She inhaled: lemon soap, yesterday’s burntsugo. Exhaled:Slow. Steady.Her reflection wavered in the kitchen window—a woman of thirty-six with her mother’s stubborn jaw and a streak of silver she’d stopped plucking. Her Sicilian heritage is strong in her high cheekbones and deep olive skin tone.

Let them see the storm,she thought, untying her apron.

The dress was Cosimo’s favorite. Navy crepe, tight at the hips, the neckline dipped just enough to remind him she’d once turned heads at thefesta della Madonna. Earlier, she dabbed gardenia oil behind her ears—the scent he’d bought her on a makeup trip, after she discovered him cheating on her with a neighbor, when his hands were gentle and his laughter didn’t leave bruises.

Inside their home, Cosimo’s roar shook the ceiling beams.“Stronzo! You cheat like your whore mother!”

DeMarco’s laugh slithered through the walls.“Careful,compare. Your wife’s saints are listening.”

Lucia paused halfway to the door. Cosimo’s office door stood ajar. Cigar smoke coiled into the hall, mingling with the tang of spilledvino. Through the crack, she watched DeMarco—thatsmile, all wolf’s teeth—that scar to his cheek, scary, and dangerous. Her husband’s face purpled, veins bulging like ropes. She opened the door.

DeMarco’s eyes switched to the doorway.To her.

She knew men like the consigliere from Sicilia. He didn’t miss the neckline. The gardenia. The way she held her chin like a queen.

“Another round?”DeMarco drawled, never breaking her gaze.“The night’s young, no?”

Lucia stepped into the smoke. Don Cosimo’s domain reeked of power: Tobacco aging in cedar boxes, the tang of gun oil from theluparamounted above the desk, and beneath it all, the sour note of his consiglieri DeMarco’s cologne.

DeMarco dark eyes pierced. As venomous as his tongue. The scar to his left cheek spread from mouth to ear like a web.

“DonnaRicci.” DeMarco inclined his head, a pantomime of respect. “To what do we owe this…honor?”

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