Page 134 of The Killer Cupcake
“A modest request." Carmelo held up black gloved fingers. "Twenty percent of gross on all the white horse that rides at night through Harlem. Andcontrol of its distribution."
The laughter that erupted from Henry Freeman could've frozen the Hudson. His gold tooth caught the overhead light like a muzzle flash. Beside him, Nicky Barnes added his own dry chuckle.
"Twenty percent and the keys to my kingdom?" Henry's laughter died like a snitch in the East River. "Listen here, little Don Ricci. You ain't buying no partnership. You're trying to put a leash on a lion. My people see me taking orders from downtown, they'll feed me to the streets piece by piece. The Honorable Elijah Muhammad himself would see it as blasphemy. So let's discuss terms that don't require me to sit as low as your father's feet."
Carmelo's jaw tightened, but his voice remained silk over steel. "I'm all ears."
"Here's how it plays in Harlem." Henry leaned back, spreading his arms across the booth like a king on his throne. "Ten percent off one numbers bank—location of my choosing—for twelve months. Plus a one-time tribute for the blood your father spilled on my streets. Call it reparations. Everybody saves face. Your old man gets his taste without me looking like his house nigger."
“I think the tribute goes in reverse. You have taken out legitimate businesses of ours. You owe us that debt.”
“Fine,” Henry said. "The number?" The gold tooth made another appearance.
“Seventy large,” Carmelo replied.
The air between them was charged with enough electricity to light up the Apollo. Finally, Henry spoke. "Seventy it is. But here's the sweetener—my boys guarantee safe passage for your merchandise through Harlem to the East: no hijacks, no shakedowns, no mysterious fires. Your trucks roll through at any time of day, as if they have guardian angels. For this divine protection, we take five points on everything that moves. We ain't partners, little Don; we're your insurance policy. Hell, take it out of the seventy if it makes you sleep better."
Carmelo's fingers formed a church steeple, considering. "Counter-proposal. Forty thousand cash, immediate. And our trucks roll through Harlem like ghosts—untouched, untaxed, unseen."
Henry's head tilted, appraising. "Now you're speaking my language, paesano."
"I ain't finished." Carmelo's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow filled the empty diner. "Matter of fact, forget the forty grand entirely. I want something worth more than money. I want my own killer cupcake: Kathy Sweets."
The temperature in the diner plummeted twenty degrees. Henry's mocking smile dried up, and his face turned to stone.
"What the fuck did you just say?" Each word dropped like a hammer on an anvil.
Carmelo's smile replaced his nervousness. "Simple transaction. I sell this deal to my father. You keep your money, pay your ten percent like a gentleman, let my trucks pass through untaxed, and the war ends tonight. In exchange, I get the deed to Kathy Sweets. The whole building. Basement to attic. Definitely the attic.
The crack of Henry's fist against the table sounded like a gunshot. The rage in his eyes burned hot enough to melt steel—the same volcanic fury Carmelo had glimpsed years ago when he and his brother had arrived to try to muscle in on Henry’s territory.
Fear crawled up Carmelo's spine like a cold-fingered junkie, but he kept his face marble-smooth.
Nicky leaned into Henry's ear, whispering urgently. But Henry's eyes never left Carmelo's face, reading every micro-expression, measuring the price of violence if he were to kill him in that very moment. Slim took a step forward, prepared to defend Carmelo.
“It will run as it always has, by Harlem. Hire whoever you want. I can’t cook or bake..." Carmelo pressed on, twisting the knife. "In the grand scheme, it's just brick and mortar, right? It can’t be as fond of you as it is to me.”
"You listen to me, you mick-wop piece of shit." Henry's voice had gone subterranean, dangerous as a gas leak. “My Kathy is not now, nor will she ever be, for sale."
"I'm aware she's a married woman. Happily, from what I hear. A mother. Good for her.” Carmelo's gaze swept the diner like he was already measuring it for new fixtures. "I'm not asking for the woman. I'm asking for the monument to her to be put under my care.”
He slid from the booth with practiced grace, adjusting his wool coat. Henry sat coiled tight as a switchblade spring, violence radiating from every pore. Carmelo pretended not to notice.
"You have twenty-four hours to consider my terms. If you're smart—and I know you are—my lawyers will pay you a visit tomorrow and you will save lives, including our own. Harlem goes back to being yours." He pulled on his gloves with deliberate care. "And Kathy Sweets… she’s mine."
He turned and walked toward the door, each curse and threat bouncing off his back like bullets off a tank. In the reflection of the diner window, he caught a glimpse of Henry Freeman—a man capable of unspeakable violence, held back by the thinnest thread of restraint.
Carmelo smiled and stepped out into the Harlem winter.
CHAPTER 50
NEW YORK - RICCI CONSTRUCTION
The knock silenced the room instantly. Slim stood. He walked to the door of Carmelo’s office. He checked the peephole before glancing back at Carmelo. At his boss's subtle nod, he opened the door.
The others stood in unison—not scrambling, but moving with the synchronized respect of men who understood hierarchy.
Leone "The Fox" Ferrara entered. Cosimo Ricci's second consigliere, since DeMarco’s death, swept his gaze across the assembled soldiers, each look an apparent dismissal. They called him Fox for good reason—where others used force, Ferrara wielded strategy like a scalpel. Clever, cunning, and impossible to pin down, he solved problems with an elegant brutality that even Carmelo admired.
