Page 121 of The Killer Cupcake
Junior's jaw worked. "He murdered two of my friends. For the crime of knowing me. You're looking at a killer, Sandy."
"He's family."
"Fuck this." Junior hurled both drinks onto the manicured lawn. "I'm out."
Sandy caught his arm. "Wait. Please."
"They don't want us here,” Junior hissed.
"You have every right to be here." She reminded him of the pride and confidence her mother had taught her over the countless years, when her differences made her feel like an ‘other’ among people.
“What are you talking about?” Junior frowned.
"Those diaries make it clear—your father adores you. The army and prison stole him and your birthright, not lack of love. Don't let them win. He is in danger too, and you’re all he has. Stand and?—"
Applause broke through the cousins’ standoff. Sandy and Junior’s heads turned in sync. Matteo and Debbie had made their grand entrance. He stood with his characteristic stillness, but Debbie bounced beside him, clutching flowers and radiating joy. Her grin could have lit the entire estate. If the Ricci family harbored reservations about their new matriarch, they buried them deep—even the wives raised their glasses in practiced celebration.
"God, look at her," Sandy breathed. "She's so pretty, so happy."
Junior couldn't look away as his father kissed his mother like a proud prince, then scooped her up as if she weighed nothing. The crowd parted respectfully while Don Matteo Ricci carried his bride deeper into their circle of his world, and Debbie clung to him, ready for the journey.
The contradiction of his parents—violence and tenderness, separation and devotion—had shaped Junior's whole life. Through his father's absence, his dramatic and troubled return, this inexplicable bond endured.
"See what they have?" Sandy's voice held hope.
"I need the truth." The words tumbled out of Junior, soft but raw.
"Truth about what?" she asked.
He forced himself to meet her eyes. "About José. Why did my father murder the man who raised me? Have you reached that part in the diaries?"
"Junior, no." Her shock was genuine. "They were best friends in everything I've read. Both of them were partners in protecting you and Auntie. Why would you think?—"
The memory slammed into him. Rain streaming down windows. Five-year-old Daphne argued with her mother about going inside and wanting to see her Papa. His mother was angry and distressed, crying and shouting at them to be quiet, just be silent. Daphne's cries turned hysterical. Junior, ten and desperate for quiet, disobeyed.
His mother spun around: "Get back in the car!"
Debbie threw open her car door and got out. She caught Junior by his shirt, and he fought her. He knew where to go. He knew where his fathers were.
The sound came first. Glass exploding twenty stories up, crystalline glass fell with the rain. A shape, dark against the grey sky, arms and legs splayed like a broken marionette.
Poppy.
Time stretched as their beloved José fell. Junior's brain refused to process what his eyes saw—his surrogate father windmilling through space, tie whipping behind him like a banner.
The impact. Hard. Wet. Final. And blood… there was so much blood.
His mother's scream joined Daphne's from the car until Debbie, pregnant, fainted. Junior stood there shaking. His gaze lifted up. He didn’t see his father’s face. He saw his shape, his dark silhouette outlined by the light behind him. He stood there staring, then turned away.
"Junior? Junior!" Sandy's touch made him flinch. He walked away, swiping at his eyes.
"Junior, please—" Sandy reached for him, but he was gone fast.
She looked helplessly toward the party. Matteo had clocked his son's distress, fatherly concern cracking his public mask as everyone fawned over his wife. She saw him kiss Debbie and go after Junior. She felt a twinge of hope.
"Poor kid's a mess.”
Nicolas stood behind her again, persistence personified. "Seriously, what is your problem?"
