Page 143 of The Killer Cupcake
Carmelo turned from the doorway. He looked good in his linen pants and shirt, freshly shaved. His posture was all taut wire and purpose. “I told you Giovanni would be here today. We need to get up. Get dressed. He’s agreed to meet for breakfast.”
The words were a bucket of cold water. He didn’t come back to bed. He just walked out.
Debbie sighed; the last vestiges of her dreamlike bliss evaporated. She stretched, the sheet slipping from her bare skin, and looked around the sun-drenched room. Four days. Four perfect days of isolation, of rediscovering each other without the shadow of names like Battaglia or the Wolf. Then the call came yesterday. His mood had shifted, hardened. Even when he’d made love to her last night, it was different—possessive, intense, as if marking his territory before a war.
Seeking solace, she looked out through the wide-open doors. The world outside was a masterpiece. With the windows thrown open, the villa breathed in the essence of Sicily: the salt-kissed air, the intoxicating perfume of jasmine clinging to ancient stone, the distant, comforting scent of frying olive oil and dark espresso from the village below.
She slipped from the bed and pulled on his shirt left discarded on a chair. The fine cotton smelled of him, of sandalwood and sun, and she wrapped herself in it before walking to the balcony.
The view stole her breath every time. The first and forever dominant feature wasLa Rocca, a mighty fortress-like rock that guarded the town. In the morning haze, it looked like something from one of Carmelo’s medieval fantasy books—a wild, ancient place where dragons might still nest. Below it, the emerald fields were dotted with scruffy sheep, and further down, the medieval town of Cefalù cascaded toward the sea in a breathtaking jumble of sun-bleached stone. It was a tangled labyrinth of secrets and stories, with narrow cobblestone alleyways and endless arches draped with lines of white laundry fluttering like surrender flags.
The sounds of the waking village floated up to her: the distant, rhythmic crash of waves, the profound, echoing bells of the Duomo marking the hour, the melodic rise and fall of rapid Sicilian from workers already tending the land, the cheerful putt-putt of a single Vespa in a hidden alley.
This.This was the paradise he had whispered about all those years ago in the attic. A place of isolated freedom and breathtaking beauty. A place to get lost in, together. After all their battles, they had finally made it.
Last night felt like a dream now—the Mediterranean spread before them like black silk, stars scattered across the sky like diamonds. They'd made love on the balcony with an abandon that belonged to their youth, but with a tenderness earned through decades of war. In his arms, she'd remembered what victory tasted like.
Don Battaglia’s son would arrive soon. As much as she wanted paradise, they had serious business to tend to before their family arrived and learned the truth of their resurrection.
"Cara?” Carmelo's voice pulled her back. "You need to get dressed. Please! For the hundredth time. Get dressed.”
She didn't move from the window. After a long moment, she eventually turned. When he saw the tears tracking down her cheeks, his entire demeanor transformed.
"Kathy?"
"Do you realize," she said slowly, "that for the first time since we were teenagers, we're just two people in love? Not Henry Freeman’s girl and Cosimo Ricci’s boy. Not the scandal. Just... us. No one cares, here. No one.”
He approached. "People always care when it comes to us. That’s been the problem from the start.”
"Not here. Not in this moment. Not until that medallion arrives in Italy with us and the Ricci brothers inherit the earth. Not until you start negotiating for everyone’s lives.”
“Touché. Now get dressed. I want him to meet you face to face. Give him something worth caring about." His hands slid up her silk robe, settling at her waist. "Let him see what twenty years of fighting for the perfect woman looks like."
"You want to parade your aging trophy around to a kid who is playing at Mafia games behind his father’s back?” she laughed.
The words had barely left her mouth before he spun her, pressing her back against the wall. His hands captured her face, forcing her to meet his eyes—dark, intense, absolutely certain.
"You're not a trophy. You're bigger than the fucking prize I’ve ever fought for in the boxing ring.” His thumb traced her lower lip. "You're the reason I became more than my father's name. You're why there's still a Ricci empire to inherit. You’re my soul.”
"I thought the Wolf worked alone," she teased.
"The Wolf found his mate." He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around him. "And she taught him that some victories are worth sharing."
Their mouths met in a clash of greed. Both were unable to stop sharing in the love that felt so honest and pure between them now. She tasted possession in his kiss, but also partnership. When he carried her to bed, when her hands found his skin, when he pressed her down into goose-feather softness—it was both claiming and surrender.
They moved together with the synchronicity of lovers who'd memorized each other's rhythms through years of separation and reunion. And there, in their temporary Eden, they wrote their victory in each other's skin, until the approaching storm of Giovanni Ricci became nothing more than a distant thunderclap in their perfect sky.
The knock came soonerthan expected. Carmelo had to take a call from Stefano before he hopped back in the shower to prepare for his meeting. That left her to meander through the villa.
She turned and looked over at Marco. He nodded in respect and approached the door.
"Wait." The command in her voice surprised them both. "Let me answer it. I'd like to greet this Giovanni Battaglia first."
Kathy walked with her spine straight and chin up toward the door . Lethal grace she'd perfected over decades—a walk that had stopped conversations in New Orleans speakeasies and Harlem back-door meetings alike. The Elliot blood ran thick in her veins, her father's ruthless cunning matched only by her mother's legendary skill with both seasoning and poison. Her turquoise summer dress flowed like the Mediterranean itself, the front split revealing her slender legs that ended in pointed heels sharp enough to draw blood. At forty-eight, she'd traded youth's raw beauty for something far more dangerous: the striking elegance of a woman who'd survived every game the underworld could play. The silver threading through her dark hair caught the light like moonlight on obsidian, framing features that had launched a thousand vendettas by her Don.
She opened the door and felt the world shift.
The man standing there could have stepped from Michelangelo's fever dreams—all sharp Mediterranean angles carved by gods who understood both beauty and cruelty. He was taller than most Sicilians she'd known, easily, with the build of a gladiator wrapped in modern elegance. Dark hair and lashes ringed cunningly deceptive eyes; he couldn't be more than twenty-three or four, the same age as her daughter. His white linen shirt, rolled to the elbows, revealed forearms corded with the kind of strength that came from more than just gymnasium visits.
