Page 40 of The Deadly Candies

He lifted her face and kissed her until she smiled. He never wanted to see her cry. She pushed him away playfully. Debbie unzipped her skirt, letting it fall around her heart-shaped hips. To him, any hint of excess was nonexistent—she was perfect, every curve a testament to the womanhood within her that had birthed his children. Next, she removed her blouse and bra, revealing the body he loved most, the one that had haunted his dreams and anchored his soul to the world, keeping him from checking out of this world long ago.

She gestured toward the sofa in her office, and Matteo followed without hesitation, taking off his belt and dropping his trousers. Even in their most bitter arguments, he remained obedient to her. No one else could see his vulnerability the way she did. No one would believe it if they were told it. Though she held power over him, she never abused it—not even when faced with his darkest deeds. No one in his life had ever shown him such unwavering loyalty other than this dear departed mother.

He sank onto the sofa, his palms damp, heat spreading beneath his skin. He craved her love—it was the only thing that cleared his mind and soothed his sickness. The echoes of gunfire and men’s screams from the jungles of Vietnam to the violent turbulence in the mental institution to prison all faded, along with the memory of his brother Nino weeping at their mother’s coffin. In her presence, he felt whole. Absolved of all sin. He once told her he never killed a man who didn’t deserve it. It was true except for the one man who had ever occupied her heart legitimately. The one life he took, he regretted.

Debbie moved closer, her body an invitation. He cupped her full, enticing buttocks, bringing her sex to his mouth. With a gentle push of her foot, she placed it on his knee, she parted her thighs and granted him access, her fingers threading through his hair as he teased her. Her hips gyrated like a gypsy, her breath hitching as she reached an early climax, his name spilling from her lips in a whispered chant.

“You got this, baby, then we can…” she began, but he cut her off.

“It’s not enough—It’s never enough,” he declared, pulling back, his lips glistening with her essence. Debbie laughed softly, the sound warm and mystical to him.

A funny thing happens to a man caged away from society for years. His mind adapts. To survive it hibernates and takes memories to immortalize and drink from. If he got shanked, he fought for survival for the memory of his sweet Debbie; if he shanked a man over disrespect, he did it in Debbie’s honor. He spat on the inmate’s battered body, cursed him in Italian, and made the sign of the cross to the front of him in Debbie’s name not the Virgin Mary. He could feel her. Her standing at his side with her hand to his shoulder giving permission. If he got a letter or a photo of her, he’d sometimes cut out the kids for privacy. The things he did to Debbie’s photo would make the most brazen of men blush. He made love to her in his cell, alone, with only her pictures for inspiration and petroleum jelly. Over and over again until she felt real.

Debbie washis.

When she straddled him, she took him inside of her slowly and easily; the sensation sent shudders through her pelvis and currents of striking heat through her body. A strong surge of anger hit him like a sledgehammer to the gut. How could she be so good, so good at it when it had been years for them both? But he knew his irrational jealousy was a remnant of his mental issues, so he talked himself down and relished in the truth. Her body was made for only him.

For a moment, she held control, but Matteo soon took over. He buried his face between her breasts, his hands gripping the cheeks of her ass tightly. In one fluid motion, he flipped her onto the sofa, pinning her down with her right leg pressed against her shoulder. He thrust slowly at first, then with increasing urgency as her body accommodated him, his movements raw and primal.

Debbie grasped his ball sack, her touch firm but gentle, ensuring he wouldn’t fuck her to hard and hurt her. As his aggression subsided, she released his testicles and cupped his face, her hips moving rhythmically to meet his down strokes.

“Tell me again,” he panted.

“No one baby, no one has had this pussy but you,” Debbie groaned.

Matteo groaned.

“I’m coming home with you tonight,” she whispered in his ear and flicked her tongue at it, her voice tender, her body cushioning his hardness. The words made him dizzy with his obsessive passion for her. “I’ll cook for you, take care of you. I’m yours. All of me, baby, only yours. Welcome back, my Matteo.”

Matteo smiled against her skin, kissing her again. After years of hiding, of pretending their love was secondary, he finally felt at home. There was no one else between them. Soon, she would break the news to Christopher—they were moving into the penthouse with his father, and Daphne and Junior would have to accept it. Because they were flesh of his flesh, and bone of his bone. He didn’t give a fuck what the Mafia had to say. He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t his brother. He was Matteo Ricci, and this time, he was in control.

Exhausted, Matteo collapsed against her, his breath ragged. Debbie gently stroked his back, her touch soothing.

“The Penny Man is home,” she chuckled, her voice soft with affection. He preferred the nickname to the Butcher.

He looked up at her, a sad smile playing on his lips. “You still love me?”

“Stop playing with me, Matteo,” she laughed. “You know the real.”

“Finally,” he murmured. “I got my girl back. This is real.”

14

Kathy Sweets, Harlem, 1978

Nicolas sat in Kathy Sweets’ corner booth, his fingers drumming a soft beat on the table. The bakery hadn’t changed much since he was a kid. The same warm scent of cinnamon and sugar hung in the air, the same faded floral wallpaper clung to the walls, and the same hum of quiet conversation filled the space. But Sandra—she was different. Back then he called her ‘Sandy’.

Time had passed. She wasn’t the little girl he teased anymore. She was a woman now, and the sight of her stirred curiosity and something in him he hadn’t expected. Interest. His sister Nina balked at the idea of this meeting. Refusing to join him. But Aunt Kathy was gone, his father was gone. Even Nino, his beloved uncle was gone. What was left in their world now was of their own making. And he had a debt to settle.

Sandra moved behind the counter with a grace that reminded him of her mother. She had a glow to her under the soft light of the bakery. Her hair was now picked out into a full afro-style, unlike the long curls she wore at the funeral. It framed her face in a way that made her beauty clear to any and everyone. She was delicate and feminine in a way that felt timeless, like the kind of beauty you’d see in old photographs or hear about in blues songs. But there was something else in her eyes—a missing light or vacancy of something stolen, almost haunted. It was a look he recognized in his mother before she remarried and found happiness again.

Earlier, he had surprised Sandra. She called him by his name and asked if he’d have a seat so they could talk. So, he did. He waited. She remembered. He had hope that time healed old wounds, especially the ones she carried.

When she approached his table with a cup of sweet tea and a slice of pie, he felt his throat go dry. The tea, she explained, was her mother’s recipe, passed down from Big Mama back in Mississippi. She set the cup and plate in front of him, then slid into the booth seat across from him. The stir of air brought up the fragrance she wore. Something decadent like sin. Her presence was both comforting and unnerving, like a melody he hadn’t heard in years but still knew by heart.

“Your name is Nicolas, right? I was right?” she asked, her voice soft.

He smiled, though it felt strained. “So, you do remember me?”

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