Page 7 of The Killer Cupcake
"Wife?" Carmelo frowned. Kathy had been so excited about the visit and her aunt's help that she'd left out this crucial detail. Her aunt was married to a Sicilian? Legitimately? In the segregated South?
Carmine's smile was sharp as a blade. "Yes, wife. Though sometimes I have to remind her of the fact."
Carmelo's pulse jumped. "And Kathy?—?"
"Already there." Carmine's eyes glittered with something unreadable. "Get dressed. She's waited long enough."
Carmine Boanno drovewith deceptive ease, one hand on the wheel, the other arm resting on the edge of the open windowwith his elbow poking out. Carmelo kept stealing glances at him, wondering about the walking stick and the careful way he moved, which contrasted with his otherwise calm and erect physical demeanor. He didn't bother asking. Men in their world didn't appreciate being questioned about weaknesses.
Carmine's pale blue gaze slipped over to him as they navigated the crowded streets. "So you love an Elliot woman?"
"Elliot?" Carmelo frowned, confusion coloring his voice.
"Your girlfriend. Kathy is an Elliot," Carmine said as they slowed to a stop for horse-drawn traffic. He lit a thin cigarillo with practiced movements. All the windows in the Cadillac were rolled down to combat the oppressive heat of New Orleans.
"My girlfriend is a Freeman. I don't know what you?—"
Carmine exhaled smoke through slightly parted lips. "Your girlfriend is an Elliot woman, and that is something you must understand right away." His tone carried a warning wrapped in silk.
Carmelo's frown deepened. "How so?"
"Her mother and my wife are sisters. To the best of my understanding, there are eight of them scattered to the wind. I don't know all of them—only met four since Janey and I got married. But they exist, born to torment men like you and me." There was dark humor in his voice, but something else too. Something that sounded like hard-earned wisdom.
"Watch your fucking mouth. Don't speak of Kathy that way!" Carmelo said coolly.
Carmine's smile was knowing, almost pitying. "It's not an insult, boy. Her grandfather was a mean son-of-a-bitch named Elliot Wynn. And her grandmother was a black servant who killed him. She birthed nothing but girls. All Elliot women birth girls. When you love an Elliot woman and she loves you back, it's like touching heaven. But when she doesn't love you..." His grip tightened on the steering wheel. "It's the worst pain you can everimagine. Worse than bullets, worse than broken bones. They'll tear your heart out and hand it back to you still beating. Kiss you on the lips while you’re dying.”
The car surged forward through the humid afternoon. Carmelo wanted to ask more questions, but Carmine drove as if he'd said all he intended to say. Carmelo understood that Sicilians in New Orleans were different from those up North. He'd heard stories from his father's men before making this trip—how they ruled the criminal underworld here, even held positions of legitimate authority in the city. They bowed to no one. They married Black women and lived with them openly, defiantly. It had sounded like paradise to him and Matteo.
But there was something troubling about Carmine. He wasn't broken, exactly, but he seemed perpetually wary, as if he carried a weight that could never be fully offloaded.
Elliot women?What did that mean for Kathy, exactly?
The neighborhood was a revelation—homes painted in jewel tones, people of every shade of brown dressed with sharp elegance and an air of quiet prosperity. It was like Harlem infused with a culture he'd never experienced, more refined and alluring all at once. Once again, he was reminded of how shortsighted he'd been when he first met Kathy. They could have gone anywhere, built anything, if they'd truly understood the scope of the world beyond their narrow experience and so much time wasted on lessons they'd had to learn the hard way.
Carmine pulled the Cadillac to a smooth stop in front of a magnificent shotgun mansion painted periwinkle blue, its three stories rising like a monument to defiance. Wrought-iron galleries dripped with emerald ferns and cascades of purple bougainvillea, while orange trees heavy with fruit in the dappled shade of ancient live oaks.
"A few rules," Carmine said, his voice taking on a deadly serious tone.
Carmelo nodded and waited, suddenly alert.
"Janey is my wife and a gracious hostess, but never—and I meannever—accept any treats or candies from her hands. Never accept a drink she hasn't shared from first. And never, under any circumstances, cross the line with her." His pale eyes bore into Carmelo's. "These aren't suggestions."
"I wouldn't disrespect you. I'm grateful that you're hosting Kathy and me here."
Carmine's chuckle was dry as autumn leaves. "You really have no idea who they are, do you?"
Carmelo shook his head slowly. "No."
"Stick to those rules and you'll be fine. Repeat them back to me."
"No treats, no drinks unless she shares them first, be respectful," Carmelo recited.
"Good boy." Carmine got out of the car, reaching for his cane with practiced grace. "Remember—Elliot women are like beautiful storms. Magnificent to behold, but they'll destroy everything in their path if the men frighten or anger them. So be kind to your Kathy. Trust me. Janey is watching.”
Carmelo grabbed his bag and followed, his mind spinning with questions. As they walked up the long, shaded walkway lined with blooming jasmine and sweet trees, the ornate front door suddenly flew open with dramatic flair.
And there she was.
