Page 110 of The Killer Cupcake
Pete Freeman’s blood was on his hands. He could never be clean of his complicity in his death. Whether his father ordered the hit or not, it was his fault. He believed it.
Only Slim knew where to find him. Only Slim had seen him like this—raw, unguarded, a man stripped down to grief and rage.
Today was the seventh day. The day he’d face the devil.
Carmelo slipped into the bar through the back door, the key cold in his grip. The place was a front for his father’s operations, a poor replacement for the club the Freemans had burned to the ground. He carried a hammer at his side, its weight familiar, its purpose clear. This time, he’d kill him, and he didn’t give a fuckwho came for him for doing it. He was ready to die. Join his mother in hell. He was ready.
But he hadn’t expected a sit-down.
Voices, sharp and raised, cut through the dim hallway. His father’s. The underbosses. Carmelo froze in the shadows, listening.
“—tired of pretending that mongrel lover is my son!" Don Cosimo's voice carried through the heavy wood. "Two years. For two years, I've watched him parade that Negro whore and her bastard through my territory. They’re like roaches. You get rid of one of them and more come!”
Carmelo dropped against the wall. He gripped the hammer tighter, wishing it were a gun instead.
"The Vegas arrangement is perfect," Big Eli’s oily voice responded. "Clean, distant, untraceable to you. Once he and the bitch arrive, they're no longer under Ricci’s protection. Any two-bit gun can take the contract. And you will be the grieving father. Lanskey can take the fall for letting one of ours drop on his watch.”
“I want it done within the week of their arrival. All three of them—him, the girl, and especially that bastard abomination he created. No loose ends, no mixed blood carrying the Ricci name.”
“What about Carmelo? He and Matteo—,” said Slick Mike.
“Carmelo will understand,” Don Ricci waved off the rest of the comment from Mike. “He's already proven himself. Once Matteo's gone, he'll be my only son. The way it should have been from the beginning.”
Carmelo's hand found the wall for support, his mind racing. His father had smiled at Sunday dinner, had toasted Matteo's Vegas plans, and had played the supportive patriarch. All while planning his execution. And Nino? What would he do to Nino?
He backed away silently, his footsteps carrying him through the bar and to his car without conscious thought. Only when he reached the Holland Tunnel did he allow himself to process what he'd heard. His father would murder Matteo for the crime of loving wrongly. He would slaughter an innocent child for carrying the wrong blood. And kill the baby Debbie carried.
By the time he reached his destination, his rage had crystallized into something colder, more useful.
Mama Stewart'sDiner sat on the corner like a lighthouse in hostile waters. It remained neutral ground even in wartime. Carmelo chose a booth in the back, positioning himself where he could see every entrance. The dinner crowd of mixed couples had thinned, leaving only the die-hards nursing coffee and the weight of their troubles.
Mama Stewart herself moved between tables with practiced grace, her eyes missing nothing. When she poured Carmelo's coffee, her gaze lingered on his face, reading something in the set of his jaw that made her pause.
“You waiting on somebody?” she asked.
"Two somebodies. They'll be here soon."
She nodded, moving away but keeping him in her peripheral vision. She'd seen the Ricci boys enough to recognize when they were teetering on the edge. Her form of mothering was not to hover but to counsel and let the strongest one stand. Now with the war in Harlem, she was weakening. She just wanted to put her arms around him and nurse him back to the boy she’d first met with Kathy. Stop the killing of her people, and heal whatever was left of them all.
Her gaze swiveled to the small table near the kitchen where he first arrived with Kathy years ago. Teenagers, on their forbidden date. How happy the two of them were before it all turned to ash. Love, in her experience, often led to pain.
Slim arrived first, sliding into the booth with his characteristic ease. “Urgent message from you at this hour usually means bodies or money.”
“Both, potentially.” Carmelo's voice carried no inflection.
Caesar entered minutes later, his bulk filling the remaining space. A flash of something—possession, defiance, guilt—crossed his features when he met Carmelo's eyes, but it vanished quickly.
Carmelo lit a cigarillo with steady hands. He gave Caesar a nod. “I need to discuss a delicate matter. Family business.”
Mama Stewart wiped down a nearby table.
“Here?” Caesar asked. Carmelo ignored the question.
“Your Don, dear old dad, has decided that Matteo's Vegas relocation requires... adjustment. So yes, we discuss it here.”
“What kind of adjustment?” asked Slim.
“The kind that involves bullets and shallow graves. Three of them, maybe four if he learns that Debbie is pregnant again.”
