Page 111 of The Killer Cupcake
Slim's expression didn't change, but Caesar's coffee cup rattled against the saucer. "Don Cosimo wouldn't—kill his son and his grandchildren.”
“Wouldn't he?” Carmelo's smile was winter-sharp. "A mixed-blood grandchild offends him. Apparently, two years was his limit for tolerance.”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to drown in. Mama Stewart continued her cleaning, watching Carmelo's face remain marble-still while his eyes burned with something volcanic.
"What do you need from us?" Slim asked finally.
"Options. Leverage. Anyone in our books who might prove useful for an alternative solution to fucking kill my father!”
Caesar cleared his throat. “We can’t kill him. We all know that.”
“Then I’ll kill him!” Carmelo said.
“No,” said Slim. “We need a different kind of solution. The kind that gets Matteo out of Cosimo’s reach.”
“There's Donovan. The army recruiter from Fort Hamilton. He's into us for fifteen large. Gambling debts. I was supposed to pay a visit next week. Knee breaking is on the menu.”
Carmelo's cigarette paused halfway to his lips. “Military recruitment. Interesting. Tell me more about Donovan.”
As Caesar outlined the recruiter's debts and desperation, Mama Stewart observed how Carmelo absorbed information, calculating, reformulating. His control never wavered, even as he planned his brother's salvation through a forced exile.
“Slim, you'll accompany me to visit Mr. Donovan tonight. Caesar, you'll prepare documentation suggesting Matteo's patriotic interests. Letters and newspaper clippings about the Communist threat. Make it convincing in case we need to submit something.”
“Boss,” Slim ventured carefully, “Matteo won't go willingly. He's got Debbie, the kids?—"
"He'll go if the alternative is death. His and theirs." Carmelo stubbed out his cigarette with precise violence. "Sometimes mercy comes in uniform."
Caesar shifted uncomfortably. "What do we tell him? The truth?"
“Never the truth. Only my version of it. That is the law,” Carmelo said, and his gaze was laser sharp on Caesar. Slim and Caesar frowned. Not understanding. Carmelo rolled his eyes. “We’ll set him up. An ambush, a dead rival, and witnesses placing him at the scene. We’ll make him believe he has nochoice.” Carmelo's gaze found Caesar's again and held it. “After all, we're all excellent at keeping secrets in this family. Aren't we?”
The threat hung between them like a blade. Caesar nodded quickly, too quickly.
"Good. Slim, bring the car around. We have a recruiter to motivate."
As the men filed out, Mama Stewart approached the table. Carmelo met her eyes without flinching.
"That's a heavy burden you're carrying," she said quietly.
"Heavier than you know." He left a twenty on the table. "But some weights, we’re born to bear."
She watched him leave, seeing not a man orchestrating salvation disguised as betrayal. It was the kind of terrible arithmetic she understood. The kind that might make him worthy of greater things.
Patrick Donovan livedin a modest Bay Ridge apartment that reeked of desperation and cheap whiskey. When he answered the door at 11 PM to find Carmelo Ricci flanked by Slim, his face went from confused to terrified in the space of a heartbeat.
"Mr. Ricci, I—I have until next week. Your men said?—"
"So, you know me?” Carmelo asked.
“Yes, sir, all of Brooklyn knows the Wolf,” Patrick Donovan replied.
“Invite us in, Patrick." Carmelo's tone brooked no argument.
The apartment was exactly what fifteen thousand in gambling debt looked like—bare walls, minimal furniture, a kitchen table covered in past-due notices. Donovan backed against the wall, hands raised.
"Please, I can get the money. I just need?—"
"Sit." Carmelo took the room's only comfortable chair, studying the recruiter like a specimen. "Tell me about your quotas."
