Page 135 of The Killer Cupcake
"Thanks for coming." Carmelo's tone suggested courtesy while his eyes promised consequences. He nodded to his men—a king dismissing his court. They filed out in practiced silence, Caesar last. Even Slim departed at Carmelo's gesture, though they both knew he'd position himself within earshot.
The Fox consulted his Patek Philippe with theatrical boredom. "I have court in three hours. Whatever this is, make it brief."
"Legal troubles?" Carmelo kept his voice neutral, fishing.
"Nothing concerning you. Especially after that deal you convinced your father to sign over Harlem for. I think you should leave all business matters in the future to me!”
The dismissal came with that signature sneer as Ferrara claimed the sofa—a calculated insult. By refusing the chair facing Carmelo's desk, the consigliere broadcast his contempt for the younger man's growing power. Old school arrogance, Carmelo noted. The kind that made men blind to shifting tides.
But Leone Ferrara was still the sharpest legal mind in La Cosa Nostra. Thanks to months of Slim and Caesar's intelligence work, Carmelo finally understood how to transform that asset from his father's weapon into his own.
The Fox made a show of settling in—unbuttoning his jacket, crossing his legs, radiating the confidence of a man who'd survived two decades in this life through intellect alone. "Well?"
Carmelo's hand found the drawer, extracting a folder with deliberate care. He placed it flat on his desk, palm pressed against it like a poker player protecting a winning hand. "I need your expertise. This document requires immediate filing and enforcement. No negotiations."
The Fox's mask slipped for an instant—curiosity overruled his smug defiance. His gaze tracked between Carmelo's face and the folder, running calculations. When Carmelo remained seated, it forced the mountain to come to Mohammed. Ferrara's nostrils flared.
The older man stood with exaggerated dignity, each step across the room a small surrender. The folder was slid toward him. He opened it. His reaction was instantaneous.
"Dio santo...?" The words escaped before he could stop them. His eyes snapped up, searching Carmelo's face. "Does Don Cosimo know this exists?"
Carmelo's smile was answer enough.
"This bears the seal of the New York Superior Court." Ferrara's voice climbed despite himself. "You said it needs filing? How is that possible when?—"
"It was never filed."
"Impossible. Judge Foley's seal?—"
"Never filed." Carmelo leaned back, savoring the moment. "Which is why I need you to ensure the courts recognize its validity. Today."
"A marriage certificate? To the Freeman girl?" The Fox's composure cracked entirely. "After you orchestrated peace between our families and cost us thousands in profit? Accepted scraps while that?—"
"While I secured Las Vegas." Carmelo's voice cut like ice. "Lanskey already has territory in Harlem; it’s worthless to us with Henry Freeman and him in alliance. I gave Papa Las Vegas, a vision in tribute to my brother. And now we have the casinos that generate more in a month than Harlem produced in a year. No war. No bloodshed. Just profits. So cut the bullshit. You have never produced anything close.”
"This family was built on heroin, loan sharking, empire building, not roulette wheels." The Fox's carefully calm demeaning cracked, revealing depths of resentment. Here was the brilliant legal mind, reduced to a stuttering fool over being outmaneuvered by what he considered a kid.
"File it,” said Carmelo.
"Bigamy is a felony. You have a wife and children. This document would delegitimize?—"
"Obstacles for lesser lawyers. Not for the legendary Fox."
Ferrara drew back, reverting to the voice that had cowed judges. "And if I refuse? If I walk out and head to your father right now and show Cosimo his son's betrayal?"
"Then I show him yours." Carmelo opened another drawer, producing photographs, documents, and even copies of wiredcommunications made by Ferrara. "Shipping manifests to Naples. Coded communications with Luciano. Bank accounts in Zurich feeding the old boss while my father pretends at kingship."
The consigliere aged a decade in seconds.
"Every family dinner, you sit at his right knowing Lucky Luciano still runs New York through you." Carmelo spread the evidence like a deck of tarot cards. “While I sit at his left, knowing the true hustle. How long do you think you'd survive that revelation? An hour? Less?"
"You don't understand the complexities?—"
"I understand perfectly. You hedged your bets. Smart, until now." Carmelo gathered the photos with a gambler's efficiency. "New management, new rules. You work for me. First task: legitimize this marriage."
"Your wife?—"
"Maria signs whatever you draft. Clean annulment, whatever legal fiction necessary." Carmelo returned the marriage certificate to its folder. "Forty-eight hours."
