Page 133 of The Killer Cupcake
She closed her eyes and nodded, surrendering inch by inch.
"A man wants to provide for his family," he continued. "You never belonged in Butts, Kathy. I know we're happy now. You're the head of the school. I know we're planning on having a baby.But I keep stopping us from taking that step because I want to give you more before we do."
"I don't need more, Ely. That's the whole point," she said gently, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest.
"The war in Harlem has cooled. Your father and the Italians have stopped the killing. Your father is in charge now, and he's tried to send for us twice. You won't go home. You need family, Kathy. You need more than what I can give you here, and I'm not going to sit back and watch you slip away, watch you disappear into yourself."
Kathy rolled to her back with a deep, shuddering sigh.
"I'm not saying you still think about Carmelo Ricci or that you fear Harlem because of him. But I do, Kathy. I still think about the warning he gave me in that alley. About how scared you’ve been to go home and see your parents.”
“I don’t trust him. I don’t trust myself,” she sighed.
“It’s okay. I need you to trust me. I need to free my wife. We don’t have to go back to Harlem. But we have to start somewhere fresh, for us. That’s real freedom. To just be a family. And if we're going to settle somewhere, let's do it where we can build fresh. Two thousand dollars, Kathy? Who turns down that kind of money?"
Kathy closed her eyes, and the tears came silently, tracking down her temples into her hair. Ely drew her closer, enveloping her in his arms as she turned into his chest and wept. They both knew the truth that hung between them—his mind was made up. He was going to enlist. And she was going to have to find a way to live with it.
One Year Earlier.The black Cadillac rolled to a stop in front of Kathy Sweets like a hearse arriving at a funeral. Carmelo Ricci sat in the back, a .45-carrying soldato at his left shoulder. Behindthe wheel, Slim kept the engine running, another gunman riding shotgun beside him. Two more cars idled behind them, packed with enough firepower to turn this corner of Harlem into Normandy Beach. If Henry Freeman so much as twitched wrong, they'd paint the entire block red.
"Slim, you're with me." Carmelo's voice cut through the tension as his door swung open.
He stepped out into the bitter February frost that had seized New York by the throat. His charcoal fedora sat low over his eyes, cashmere coat whipping back in the wind like a cape. Two Nation of Islam officers flanked the bakery entrance—ramrod straight, bow ties crisp as their contempt, eyes full of righteous fury.
The Nation of Islam had run tight operations in their partnership with Henry Freeman. Carmelo understood it. The Nation had kept Henry Freeman breathing through two years of bloody warfare, and here stood the enemy at their gates.
Carmelo's gloved hands curled into fists. The standoff stretched taut as piano wire.
Slim stepped forward, breaking the spell. "Mr. Ricci here to see Mr. Freeman. He's expected."
One officer disappeared inside without a word. The other maintained his death stare, unblinking, as if he could will Carmelo out of existence through sheer force of hatred.
The door opened. The first officer reappeared, stepping aside just enough to allow passage. No words. The message was clear:You're tolerated, not welcomed.
Carmelo never entered enemy territory first—that was how men got their brains blown out. He nodded to Slim, who walked through the doorway, hands visible, allowing the Muslims to pat him down for iron. Only when Slim entered did Carmelo follow.
Inside, the bakery smelled of sugar and Kathy’s tenderness. He had to take a moment to inhale. Henry Freeman commandeda corner booth like a general surveying a battlefield. To his left sat a man of equal bearing—tall, sharp-featured, with the kind of eyes that had seen men die and slept soundly after. This had to be Nicky Barnes, the man who'd stepped into Pete Freeman's blood-soaked shoes as Henry's right hand. Carmelo had heard whispers about Barnes—that he was clever and twice as ruthless.
Carmelo crossed the black-and-white checkered floor, each footstep deliberate, measured. He slid into the booth opposite the two men, the leather creaking under his weight.
Henry Freeman's stare could have frozen the East River. No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just pure, undiluted hatred radiating across the table like heat from a furnace.
The war had brought them to this moment—blood demanding blood, territory demanding respect, and somewhere in between, the possibility of money to be made. But first, they had to survive this conversation.
“Henry, you look well,” Carmelo said with a sly smile.
Henry didn’t speak.
Carmelo let his gaze sweep over Kathy’s Sweets. “Been a long time since I’ve been here. Business good?”
"You said you came to be heard.” Henry Freeman's voice cut through the diner's smoke like a straight razor. "Speak before I silence you."
"Thank you for seeing me." Carmelo smoothed his silk tie, a gesture calculated to show ease where none existed. "This war between you and my father?—"
"It's between us now, too, boy. Has been for some time.” The words came out like bullets from a Tommy gun, each one meant to wound.
Carmelo absorbed the hit with a barely perceptible nod. "This war has grown expensive. Bodies stacking up like unpaid bills." He traced a gloved finger across the table's battle scars—knife marks, cigarette burns, the archaeology of violence."My father and I, we've had words. The real money ain't in spilling blood on 125th Street. It's in the peace. Therefore,”—he paused for effect—"he's prepared to return Harlem to your... ownership."
Henry's eyes, cold as a February morning in Central Park, slid to Nicky Barnes before returning to rest on Carmelo like the barrel of a .38. "What's the vig on that generosity?"
