Page 124 of The Killer Cupcake
Carmelo moved like he always did—commanding space with his boxer's build, shoulders blocking her view as they passed through the doorway. His presence filled the frame so completely that she saw nothing beyond him.
Then he released her hand and stepped aside.
Maria's scream tore through the jazz music, through the candlelit romance, through every illusion of the evening.
Matteo Ricci Estate- 1978
Sandy had gone too far. She’d let him lead her away from the party, down into the belly of the Ricci’s prominent estate. A basement so large that there were rooms and doors everywhere. He actually took her into an office with wood paneling for walls, dark leather chairs, and a stench of a hundred cigars smoked at once. To the back corner of the room was a locked door. Nicolas had the key.
"Come inside. I have something to show you," Nicolas said.
Sandy's feet refused to move. The basement door gaped before her like a mouth.
"It's in here." Nicolas's patience was wearing thin. "What you need to see."
"I've changed my mind." She turned to flee. "I'm going back upstairs."
"Do you remember anything about him?"
The question stopped her cold. She looked back, trying to read his face in the dim light. "I don't know your father."
"He's your father. Not mine." His smile was not as warm as it had been all the times before. "You can return to those diaries, swallow Aunt Kathy's lies. Or you can step through this door and see the truth. Maybe even remember it yourself."
The words hit like physical blows. Since her mother's death, she'd stopped taking the pills that kept her mind from becomingfoggy with chaotic thoughts, stopped the dreams she could never remember when she woke up.
She had expected the headaches to return along with the confusion, but instead, it was replaced by raw grief and her mother's written secrets. But now, standing at this threshold, she felt dangerously empty. Incomplete.
Nicolas disappeared into the darkness beyond the door.
After a heartbeat's hesitation, Sandy followed.
The Pink Lady- 1954
Maria's scream died in her throat, replaced by a desperate hand pressed to her mouth. The kitchen's fluorescent lights turned the scene before her into a waking nightmare—too bright, too real, too impossible to deny.
Carmelo's men formed a semicircle of judgment. Slim had materialized from the back entrance, completing their ranks. They stood motionless as executioners, their eyes boring into her with collective condemnation.
At their center, Caesar slumped in a chair, wrists and ankles bound with wire that cut into swelling flesh—his face—God, his face. The handsome features she'd kissed in secret were now a geography of bruises and split skin. Blood ran in twin streams from his nose, mixing with saliva that dripped from his slack jaw. Each labored breath bubbled red.
The hammer lay discarded at his feet, its head caked with evidence of methodical violence.
"Look at me."
She obeyed without thinking, meeting Carmelo's gaze. The expression waiting for her transcended mere cruelty. This was the face of a man who'd discovered the exact depth of his own capacity for violence—and embraced it.
"Surprise," he said softly, making the word obscene.
Speech failed her entirely.
"Cat got your tongue? Or is that Caesar's job?" The casual vulgarity made her stomach heave. "Come now, Maria. You've been so poetic about our fresh start. Our new beginning. Surely you have something lovely to say now?"
"Wha-wha-why?" The stammer betrayed her disintegrating control.
"Why?" He stepped closer, and she saw Caesar's blood decorating his cuffs. Why hadn’t she noticed the blood before? Her mind pondered. The answer was clear. When it came to Carmelo, she only saw what she wanted to see. Not the Wolf inside of him.
“You want to know why? Where were your questions when you let another man fill your womb? When you made me believe I was a monster? When you gave me another man’s children to raise. Made me love a lie?"
"Please... Carmelo... we thought... it was to protect?—"
