Page 71 of The Deadly Candies

A flimsy wooden table dominated the space, its surface scarred and stained. His gaze snagged on the stirrups, the leather straps coiled like snakes, waiting to pin her down. Above it, a metal bar hung from the ceiling, cruel in its purpose—to force legs apart, to make resistance impossible.His stomach lurched.

Debbie stood trembling in front of it, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her dress. She hadn’t heard him enter. Every shuddering breath she took was a knife twisting in his chest.

She would do this.She would lie back on that table and let them take their child—theirchild, the one thing made purely of him and her from love.The thought ignited something feral in him.

He crossed the room in three strides. At his approach, her sobs turned frantic. He froze and stood just a breath away from her. He was so close that he could smell the grease on her scalp and the fresh press of her beautiful hair.

Debbie yanked at her collar as if stripping faster could outrun the pain she carried.

Sobs wracked her body as she fumbled with the buttons of her dress, fingers trembling against the fabric. The robe lay discarded on the table, a silent witness. She didn’t hear Matteo enter or hear his footsteps or the hard breathing as he saw her. She realized she would be rescued only when his arm wrapped around her waist, grounding her.

Matteo’s hand caressed her tummy. “Don’t cry,mio cara.”

She turned. His eyes were glazed, raw with suppression of tears. Something inside her splintered to have an ally. Someone to know her desperation and not blame her for it. Without thought, she buried her face in his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat and cigarette smoke, the familiar starch of his shirt. He held her tighter, his grip almost painful, and then—hissobs shook her. Matteo, who never cried. Not even over the discovery of his brother’s broken body, or after witnessing his mother’s pain, sobbed.

She pulled back, stunned. Her fingertips brushed his damp cheeks. “I didn’t know what to do,” she pleaded for understanding.

“Not your fault.” His voice was gravel, and his cool was restored. He ran his thumb over her cheek and smeared her tears. Matteo then pressed his forehead to hers. “No one’s taking our baby.Ever.You hear me?”

“But—”

He kissed her nose, then her lips, then eased his tongue into her mouth. Not gentle—a claim, a vow. When he broke away, his hands were steady as he redid her buttons, one by one. Silent, dazed, she let him lead her back upstairs toward the light, toward freedom. And then past Magdalena’s shadowed walls, into the glare of daylight. A car idled at the curb. José sat stiffly in the passenger seat; a stranger gripped the wheel.

Magdalena was officially out of business. If she ever resurfaced in East Harlem again, even to collect a toothbrush from the home Matteo now claimed he owned, she’d get the final death sentence from the Butcher herself.

Debbie stopped. “Matteo—what is happening?”

He didn’t pause. His fingers laced with hers, his stride relentless, and she stumbled behind him to the car and then into the backseat. The door slammed like a verdict.

“Where are we going?”

“Justgo,” Matteo ordered the driver.

The car lurched forward. Debbie let Matteo pull her close; her ear pressed to his thudding heart. The silence thickened. Her mind turned over the possibilities—How did he know? How lord?—and then her gaze landed on José’s profile. Her best friend stared straight ahead, jaw set.

He told him.

No anger came. Only relief, so sharp it burned away any need for regret.

The Fabric Store

The car eventually stopped outside of the fabric store. Debbie’s brow furrowed with apprehension as she murmured under her breath. “What’s happening?”

Matteo tossed open the door and pulled her gently but determinedly outside the car. With an iron grip on his hand, he marched toward the store. She was left with a fleeting glance at José—before the car disappeared into the distance.

“Matteo, what’s going to happen?—?”

“Explain. Later.” His hand in hers, he ushered her inside, up a narrow staircase she’d never noticed, into a cramped tenement that smelled of tobacco and old newspapers. The place he told her about more than once at Mama Stewart’s. The door slammed behind them.

Matteo whirled on her. “Don’teverdo that again.” His voice cracked with emotion. “You could’ve died. Our baby—” He choked, fists clenching.

She sank onto the bed. Her heartbeat had slowed to nervous flutters. His rage was a living thing, pacing the room—kicking aside baseball carts of cards, rattling the knives he collected. The space washim: faded magazines, a pinned-up Rita Hayworth smirking in her bikini poster.

Matteo paused over his words. He fixed his gaze on Rita’s poster. Her sultry pose against a distant beach evokes forgotten glamour. Debbie joined his glance, the image a stark contrast to their grim reality.

“I will never be her. Never,” Debbie spat.

“What did you say?” he turned and looked at her.

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