Page 24 of The Killer Cupcake
Necessary evils?
No.
These men were the architects of destiny. A destiny he could not escape. The balance in this country is to provide for the darkness in men like them and him.
The Don leaned sideways, lips brushing the ear of the man on his right—Lenny Marcello, the eldest son-in-law, face shriveled with meanness. Lenny nodded once. His eyes, the color of dirty ice, locked onto Carmelo.
"Saturday," Lenny’s voice scraped the air. "There will be no losses."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the distant wail of a trumpet from the main floor seemed to choke itself off. The other Marcello sons-in-law didn’t blink. The Don stared through hooded lids, a vulture perched on a tombstone. The unspoken threat hung heavier than the humidity:Lose, and you lose everything. Your name. Your future. Maybe your breath.
Carmelo carefully set his cigar on the crystal ashtray. The ember glowed like a malevolent eye. He leaned forward, elbowson the table, invading the Marcello circle’s sacred space—a challenge.
"The Mississippi Mauler, Cotton King, whatever he calls himself, he bleeds like any man," Carmelo stated, his voice low, devoid of bravado. Pure, chilling fact. "He fights with his height and muscle, not skill. If this were a wrestling match, I would be concerned.It is not.There will be no footwork from him. No finesse to dodge, no skill to counter or escape. I will use that to my advantage. I fight for the blood in my veins. For the nameRicci." Carmelo paused, letting the weight of his father’s shadow fill the booth."And for the men who understand that territory isn't won with a ballot box... but with shattered bones. I fight and win for these agreements, such as,La Cosa Nostrawould give the Sicilians unchecked power in the French Quarter.”
Lenny’s jaw tightened. One of the younger sons-in-law shifted with a smile of acceptance. The Don’s papery hand twitched on the tablecloth.
"The Klan’s fighter isn’t just strong, he’s a butcher, kid," Lenny countered. A crack appeared in his steel composure. “He trains for these matches with pure hate. Hates the white men who put him in that ring to face you, and he takes it out on every white face he fights. The only negro I ever seen kill three white men in the ring and get a goddamn bonus for it. They ain’t sending him to box you. They’re sending him to bury you. You grasp that?"
Carmelo’s smile returned, arctic and sharp. "Rage is a wildfire. Burns hot, burns fast, burns blind. Read that once." He lifted the cigar, its ember pulsing like a tiny, furious heart in the gloom. "I’m a scalpel, Signore Marcello. Precise. Trained not just to win, but to slay any beast, white, Sicilian, or black. Even the Devil bleeds. Find me where the Mauller does. What is his weakness? Where is it?Give me the cut."
Lenny sat back, a flicker of genuine surprise cutting through his disdain. Even Carmine Boanno, a statue in the corner, shifted his weight, his stern gaze sharpened. Carmelo saw it. The doubt etched on their faces.Too young. Too pretty. Too arrogant to understand the meat-grinder waiting for him in that ring.
They didn't know.
He’d survived Cosimo Ricci’s hammer. Lessons disguised as beatings that cracked his jaw and his soul. He’d lost Kathy once, a wound that still seeped, making every moment with her feel stolen. Pain wasn’t his enemy; it was his life. He was learning the language, syllable by agonizing syllable.
"Let the Mauler choke on his rage. Let the Klan hide in their sheets. When that bell rings," Carmelo’s voice dropped, cold and absolute, "they’ll learn the difference between anger... and annihilation. Get me this boxer’s weakness. I’ll give you New Orleans."
One of the younger sons-in-law shot a questioning look at Lenny, the clear favorite of the Don. A curt nod went between the men. The young man excused himself, disappeared into the smoky shadows to retrieve Carmelo’s demanded intelligence. Carmelo held Lenny’s gaze, letting the predatory calculation in his own eyes reflect back – the cold fury of the Wolf taking shape.
Carmine Boanno dipped his chin. A fraction of an inch.
The Don stirred. A skeletal hand, liver-spotted and trembling slightly, lifted from his tailored sleeve, knuckles presented.
Carmelo stood. He leanedintothe Marcello circle’s power, grasped the Don’s frail hand, and pressed his lips to the heavy gold ring – a gesture of respect that felt like a claim. Only one thought crossed Carmelo’s mind. The same thought that surfaced when his father returned home after Mama’s Stewarts’ mending and was handicapped to his bed.
Your time is ending old man. Mine is coming.
Caesar materialized beside him as they stepped away from the booth."Sangue freddo, Melo," he murmured, a rare note of admiration in his voice. "Like ice."
Before Carmelo could respond as he turned away from the men, movement caught his eye – Kathy, weaving past the crowded bar, heading towards the other side of the room. The tension in her shoulders was visible even across the room. He needed to reach her, to anchor himself in something real before the uncertainty settled in.
"I need to talk to Kathy,” he started after her.
Carmine’s cane tapped the floor, and he swiftly blocked his path. The older man studied him, his expression unreadable.
"Impressive," he rasped.
Carmelo offered a tight smile. "You expected less?"
"Expected a boy facing lions," Carmine countered, a dry chuckle rattling in his chest. "Saw a man. You move like him, you know. Your father. Knew Cosimo back in the old country."
Carmelo’s smile vanished. “I amnothinglike him.”
Carmine’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Not a fan of Papa? I see. Cosimo wasn’t a hero. But fear? That wasn't in Cosimo's blood. It isn't in yours either. That bravery you carry?" He tapped his own temple with a finger. "It's your inheritance, boy. Hard-earned. Use it on Saturday. Or it'll bury you alongside the Mauler. Because if the Klan kills you, we kill him in your honor. Don Marcello has ordered it.”
Carmelo’s eyes stretched.
