Page 137 of The Killer Cupcake
"Your newspaper, sir." The soldato placed it beside the cooling coffee.
"When does Ernesto land?" Carmelo kept his voice level, though urgency pressed beneath.
"Flight arrived forty minutes ago. He called from the tarmac—should be here within the hour."
"Bene." He opened the paper methodically, each section carefully separated.
Page three stopped him cold. Twin photographs—his own from federal booking, Kathy's from happier days. The headline alone made his blood freeze:
NEWARK, N.J. — Federal authorities confirmed yesterday that Carmelo "The Wolf" Ricci, the reputed organized crime figure found dead in a car bombing last month, had been secretly married to Harlem bakery owner Kathy Freeman Brown for 30 years.
Kathy Brown, 48, was discovered dead in a burnt vehicle off Interstate 287 near Exit 14. New Jersey State Police initially attributed the incident to weather-related conditions following recent storms in the area.
Court documents obtained by the FBI reveal the couple first wed in a civil ceremony in 1949. The marriage was reaffirmed by New York State courts in 1956 and recognized by the Catholic Church in 1963. Sources indicate the pair underwent another religious ceremony just two weeks before Ricci's death.
"We are investigating all connections between these deaths," said Special Agent Michael Torres of the FBI's Organized Crime Task Force. "The timing raises questions we intend to answer."
Ricci, a former light-heavyweight boxer turned businessman, had long been suspected of running criminal operations throughout Harlem and Queens. Freeman Brown operated the popular Kathy's Bakery on 125th Street.
The FBI declined to comment on whether Freeman Brown's death is being investigated as a homicide.
"Why ismy picture in the paper?"
Carmelo was startled, coffee sloshing. Kathy stood behind him, hair wild from their night of fighting and reconciliation. Her silk kimono—the kind he loved to unwrap from her—hung loose at the shoulders. She rubbed sleep from her eyes, waiting.
Old habits die hard. The King of Lies had sworn honesty, but the words came anyway: "Nothing important. More federal harassment."
"Let me see."
He folded the paper with reluctance and handed it over. She read it while he studied her face. Carmelo watched for the moment she'd understand. When she finished, her expression remained neutral.
"Our marriage was never secret from the government. You made that certain years ago. They are using this to bait your enemies into providing more information on us.”
The comment was loaded with accusations he had hoped not to hear from her since they reconciled. But he understood why. That date: 1956, it was when he turned her world inside out. The moment she saw the date, Ely Brown's ghost walked into the room. He’ll probably be in every room they shared for the rest of the day. Carmelo looked away, unable to meet her eyes. Some sins were too heavy for confession.
Shame burned through him. Ely Brown—recruited, deployed, destroyed. The price of his obsession was paid in another man's blood.
She closed the space between them. Her fingers found his jaw, gentle but insistent. She forced his gaze upward. "Somewounds aren’t supposed to heal. Some scars are permanent. That is life, Melo. I understand that now. Do you?"
He couldn't speak.
“Our love kept us alive while everything around us fell into ashes. I forgave you for Ely, Melo. Because I’ve done things I wish to be forgiven for, too. You need to forgive yourself."
"I'm trying." His voice cracked. "But this plan means we do it again. We set everything on fire, and I don’t?—”
“What?” she asked.
“I don’t want Sandy to know the truth about me, this way. I want her to know me in a different way. I'm terrified it'll be too much for her to trust me or even love me,” he said.
“It will be. And you know that, it’s why you brought me here and boxed us all in. You’re not scared that it is too much for us. You’re scared that we’ll escape.”
She knelt before him. “I’m not running, Melo. We’ll help Sandy understand her parents aren’t perfect. But we won’t lie anymore about what we are and what we’ve done. Not anymore.”
He pulled her onto his lap, and she guided his head to her breast, holding him like a broken bird. They stayed that way as morning light strengthened, sharing silence and touch. Eventually, he fed her from his plate while she spoke of Sandy, of next year's plans, of anything except the man whose shadow would always live between them.
Marco DelSilva emergedfrom the villa's entrance. At six-foot-three, he moved with the agility of an experienced enforcer. Each step deliberate, measured, dangerous. His tailored black suit couldn't disguise the coiled power in his broad shoulders, nor the weapon holstered beneath his jacket.
Marco's dark hair, slicked back from his forehead, gleamed like coal in the light. But it was his eyes that made men step back—eyes the color of bitter espresso, piercing and unforgiving, that seemed to catalog every weakness, every tell, every possible threat. Women found those same eyes irresistible, though few were brave enough to hold his gaze for long.
