Page 28 of The Killer Cupcake
"You will marry Maria Romero?" he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Who asked you to marry her?”
“Madre. She asked. I will marry her, Padre, under one condition." Carmelo's grip tightened on the hammer until his knuckles went white. "You lift the black death order on the Freeman family. You inform Bumpy Johnson that a permanent truce has been established between our families. You do that, and I will fulfill Madre’s dying wish and whatever you demand of me."
Cosimo struggled to push himself up to a sitting position, his damaged arm hanging useless at his side. He set the pistol aside on the nightstand with deliberate care, never taking his eyes off his son's face.
"Why?" The word came out as barely more than a whisper. "Why have you decided this now?"
Carmelo's laugh was bitter. "Mama is gone. Dead. You might as well have pulled the trigger yourself,” Carmelo said.
"You've already killed the boy in me. I don't care what happens to me as your son anymore. Mama’s gone. Her death has to mean something. So. You win. Because what she wanted was for you to win. To give you a daughter. To give you a family. To be the perfect wife. And you never allowed it. Now she wants me to do the same.”
Cosimo's gaze fell to the hammer in his son's hand—that terrible reminder of the night he'd lost control, the night he'd beaten his own child with the same tool.
And then, for the first time since Lucia's funeral with only two sons at his side, the great Don Cosimo Ricci broke completely.
“I loved Lucia. I loved her and I will burn in hell next to her for making her do what she did,” he said.
Don Cosimo wept with the raw anguish of a man who'd destroyed everything he'd ever loved. For his wife, whose gentle spirit he'd crushed beneath his brutality. For his sons, whom he'd made into weapons instead of men. For the family legacy he'd poisoned with his own hands. Every night in that tomb-like bedroom, he prayed to a God who'd stopped listening, begging for the impossible return of the woman who'd been his conscience, his redemption, his only humanity.
Carmelo watched his father's breakdown with empty eyes, feeling only distant satisfaction that justice had finally come. Without a word, he turned and walked out, leaving Cosimo to drown in his choices.
He returned the hammer beneath his bed with the reverence of laying flowers on a grave, then slipped under the covers beside Nino. His brother slept on, innocent and unaware that his world had just shifted on its axis.
Only then, in the darkness beside the one pure soul left in the Ricci family, did Carmelo cry—not for what he'd lost, but for what he'd just agreed to become. A liar. He wept for Kathy.
CHAPTER 13
THE TREMÉ
Kathy felt wonderfully renewed when she woke. Carmelo, of course, slept like the dead beside her. She tried twice to rouse him gently, but it was the third attempt that finally stirred him—and his response was to pull her closer and make love to her with sleepy passion. Not that she minded in the least.
Intimacy with him had transformed into something addictive and deliciously wicked. He had guided her to lie on her stomach, his body covering hers as he loved her from behind with slow, deliberate intensity. Twice she buried her face in the pillow when the sensations became overstimulating, her body responding to his surging cock with an urgency that surprised her. The weight of him above her, the steady rhythm of his movements that seemed to reach deeper into her very soul—it was all breathtakingly wonderful. Soon she was on her knees with her head down on the pillow while he was behind her delivering hip thrusts and his surging dick until she cried out for mercy.
When he finally found his release, she discovered her own, their bodies moving together in perfect, synchronized bliss as they collapsed flat to the bed.
Now, after a refreshing bath, she had changed into a cheerful floral summer dress and pinned her hair into a neat ponytail to avoid dealing with the tangles from yesterday's rain. As she descended the stairs, she heard her Aunt Janey's melodious voice mingling with Willa's bright laughter and the sound of an unfamiliar man speaking. Not with the hard Sicilian accent of Boanno—this man possessed the smooth, languid drawl of a true New Orleanian.
She stepped off the last stair and made her way to the sun-drenched garden room, where she found Janey and Willa enjoying breakfast with their visitor. The man turned at her approach, and her breath caught—it was the Creole gentleman from the speakeasy.
He was even more striking in the morning light than he had been in the smoky amber glow of the underground club. He stood gracefully from his chair, revealing a tall, lean frame draped in an impeccably tailored tan linen suit that spoke of both wealth and refined taste. His crisp white shirt was left casually open at the collar, suggesting a man comfortable with his own sophistication.
His skin was the warm color of café au lait, smooth and unmarked except for the faint lines around his eyes that appeared when he smiled. Those eyes—a mesmerizing shade of golden honey—seemed to hold secrets and promises. But it was his hair that truly set him apart: thick waves, the rich color of ground cinnamon, expertly slicked back from his aristocratic features to reveal a broad forehead and sharp cheekbones that could have been carved by a master sculptor. His full lips curved into a smile that was both charming and slightly dangerous, the kind that had undoubtedly broken hearts across New Orleans.
Everything about him radiated the confidence of money and privilege—from his perfect posture to the way he held his coffee cup with elegant fingers that had never known manual labor. Hewas polished perfection, a man who belonged in drawing rooms and private clubs, yet there was something in his gaze that suggested hidden depths beneath the refined surface.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he said, his voice carrying the musical cadence of refinement.
"Good morning?" Kathy locked eyes with Janey in surprise, clearly wondering why this man was there.
"I don't believe we were properly introduced last evening. I am Jean-Baptiste, but everyone calls me JB.” He took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. She glanced toward Willa, who was positively glowing like a lustrous pearl in her crisp white summer dress, a delicate magnolia blossom tucked behind her ear. Janey’s ruby red lipstick on her lips.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Kathy."
"Oui,ma chère, I have been told many lovely things about you," he said smoothly, pulling out a chair with fluid grace. "S'il vous plaît, join us forpetit déjeuner."
Kathy sat and studied him carefully. He was undeniably handsome, carried himself with impeccable manners, and wore an expensive cologne that spoke of European sophistication. Yet something about him set her teeth on edge. She hadn't forgotten the sharp look he'd given her when she'd interrupted his pursuit of Willa the night before—a flash of cold displeasure that had revealed something calculating beneath his charming exterior. There was an air of entitled arrogance about Jean-Baptiste that made her instinctively distrust him, no matter how perfectly he played the role of gentleman suitor.
"JB arrived this morning to ask permission to take Willa to Café du Monde," Janey explained with a knowing smile.
