Page 74 of The Deadly Candies

Junior gave a nod.

Matteo released him and looked out at the city. “José was my best friend, before Nam and after. I respected him. I loved him like a brother. I’ll tell you what happened to José, what you saw that night. When you’re ready to hear it."

"Tell menow,” Junior’s voice broke around, a sob rising in his throat.

"When you’reready, son. I know when a man isn’t ready for the truth. Hell, I rarely was.”

Junior turned away, shoulders rigid. Matteo left him there, the city’s hum a poor salve for the silence between them. Matteo stepped inside, the penthouse air thick with the aroma of braised short ribs and rosemary. His chef stood at attention near the dining room, where crystal stemware caught the low light like scattered diamonds. The table was set for five - one setting too many, one setting too few.

"Everything is prepared, Don Ricci," the chef murmured, gesturing to the spread:osso buco, Debbie’s favorite;ricotta gnocchi, I believe your youngest boy will love; and tiramisu for your daughter. He didn’t bother to create the perfect selection for Junior; Matteo doubted his son would stay long enough to taste it.

Matteo ran a finger along the edge of a china plate. He could almost see them there - Debbie at the foot of the table, Daphne rolling her eyes at Chris's jokes, Junior... if only Junior would sit and not make this difficult for him.

"It's perfect," Matteo said, though nothing ever was. The chef bowed and retreated to the kitchen, leaving Matteo alone with his fantasy of domesticity.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city pulsed with indifferent life. Somewhere out there, Debbie's car would be winding through Midtown traffic. Somewhere behind him, his son still stood on the terrace, breathing in the same air but worlds apart.

Matteo adjusted a fork that needed no adjusting. The silverware gleamed, accusation-sharp. Everything was prepared. Everything was wrong.

But like he told Debbie that day. He didn’t need Rita Hayworth and a beach. He didn’t need her to be perfect or a fantasy. He just needed her and his babies to belong to him. He finally felt, since the war, since prison, he was home. And before this was over, before he closed his eyes, she would be his wife.

Later—

Debbie glanced down the length of the table, her gaze settling gently on Matteo seated opposite her. Between them, the air felt charged with unspoken truths and fragile hopes. Sitting to her left, Christopher seemed oblivious to the tension, eagerly dipping bread into his sauce and savoring every bite. Daphne stared silently at her untouched pasta beside him, stirring it aimlessly with her fork, eyes shadowed by uncertainty. Across from Daphne was Junior. Debbie felt her breath catch at seeing him still there, seated, refusing to retreat from this difficult moment. Matteo's eyes kept drifting toward Junior, longing and gratitude flickering in their depths.

Her poor Matteo.

She saw his effort and how earnestly he tried to bridge the silence, mentioning the penthouse and neighborhood and trying to coax a response. But his words fell gently into the quiet, unanswered. Debbie’s heart twisted painfully—not with anger at her children, whose reluctance she understood, nor at Matteo, whose desperation she felt deeply—but with a helpless rage at the cruel world that had stolen so much from them. If only fate hadn’t robbed her of her mother when she needed guidance most. If only that cruel war in Vietnam hadn’t shattered Matteo’s spirit, imprisoning him for so many lost years, so many unspeakable crimes. If only she hadn’t been denied his love, their family fractured and scattered by secrets and absence.

They deserved better. She deserved better. Matteo deserved more.

“So, you my daddy?” Christopher suddenly asked, breaking the thick silence.

Debbie blinked, astonished by her youngest son’s boldness. Junior frowned slightly, while Daphne shot a startled look toward Christopher.

Matteo exhaled audibly, relief easing the tension around his eyes. “Yes, Christopher. I’m your daddy.”

Christopher considered this thoughtful. “You been in jail like Junior say?”

“Prison,” Matteo corrected gently. “Jail’s temporary. Prison are where they send you to rot.”

“You home for good?” Christopher pressed earnestly.

“Yes,” Matteo said firmly. “For good.”

Christopher glanced at his mother before turning back to Matteo. “You love Mama?”

Junior’s voice came sharp and low. “Shut up. Eat your damn food.”

“Stop it, Junior,” Debbie interjected softly but firmly. Junior slumped defiantly lower in his seat, eyes sullen.

Matteo appeared unfazed. Despite his son’s rebellion, Debbie wondered what quiet conversations Matteo had managed with Junior to bring him to the table and keep him there.

Matteo leaned forward slightly, addressing Christopher clearly but loud enough for all to hear. “I love your mama very much. I want to marry her. I did marry her once.” His gaze shifted to Debbie. He winked at her, “It wasn’t legal. I plan to do it right this time. I want your permission, son.”

Debbie’s eyes widened, startled. Daphne gasped softly, while Junior sat upright abruptly, eyes snapping to Debbie’s face in disbelief.

“Mama?” Christopher asked quietly, his eyes hopeful. “Do you love him?”

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