Page 6 of The Killer Cupcake
SHAMROCK ATHLETIC CLUB
The Shamrock stank of cigar smoke and bloodstained canvas—the perfume of violence that clung to every corner of the low-ceilinged gym. Carmelo rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of the entire city pressing down on him like humid Louisiana air. New Orleans wasn't just another fight—it was the battlefield the mob had chosen to prove Sicilian dominance over the Klan's stranglehold on the South. And for Carmelo, it was his only shot at getting back to Kathy.
"You good?" Caesar's voice was gravel, his calloused hands worked the tension from Carmelo's neck with practiced precision.
Carmelo nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. "Yeah. Just wish Matteo was here."
Caesar's grip tightened—just once—before he stepped back. "Debbie's due any day. You know he ain't leavin' her."
The unspoken truth hung between them like smoke: Matteo wasn't just staying for the baby. After their mother's suicide, Matteo had spiraled into a darkness that seemed bottomless—drunk, reckless, dangerous, his fists and knives always seeking someone to destroy. It had taken Carmelo swallowing his own grief, facing the mob about shooting his own father, andthen overcoming retribution with Mama Stewart's help, and humbling himself before Debbie to pull her in to rescue his brother. Debbie and the baby she carried had become Matteo's only lifeline. Together, he and Debbie, with Mama Stewart's guidance, found him, sobered him, and helped restore his sanity.
Matteo had switched his obsession—from saving their mother and making her happy to protecting the mother of his child. Every breath Debbie took, every need she had, Matteo was hypersensitive to it all. Luckily for them all, José didn’t mind. Matteo had full access to their home. Carmelo understood that kind of obsession. He'd started the same way with Kathy. Except he didn't have her warm embrace to cry into after losing madre—just stolen phone calls and carefully hidden letters to sustain him through eight torturous months. And always, the solemn death wish of his mother that he had to honor.
Now, with Debbie about to give birth, Matteo refused to repeat history. He'd stay. He'd be a father. Even if it meant Carmelo faced this fight alone. More frightening still—Carmelo knew his father suspected the truth but said nothing. What was Cosimo Ricci waiting for?
Caesar stood at Carmelo's back like a second shadow. Most people mistook him for Matteo—same dark glare, same coiled violence beneath olive skin. In a way, they were family. When promoters got greedy or rival camps got bold, Caesar stepped in. Six of Cosimo's men had come as insurance, but Caesar was the one Carmelo trusted with his life.
The announcer's bell rang, sharp and commanding.
Time for the weigh-in.
Carmelo shrugged off his silk robe, the expensive fabric pooling at his feet like liquid silver. Across the cramped room, a murmur rippled through the crowd.
The Cotton King, renamed for the fight as the Mississippi Mauler, had arrived.
The Klan's champion stood barefoot in dirt-streaked overalls, his massive frame built more for hard labor than refined fighting. No robe. No shirt. Just a sneer curling his lips as his handlers—thick-red-necked men in cheap suits—prodded him forward like a prized bull.
"Look at that," one of the Marcello men muttered. "They dug him straight out of a damn field."
Carmelo said nothing. He'd seen this before—men turned into weapons by people who didn't care if they broke in the process.
The Mauler's small, beetle-like eyes locked onto his. "Heard you Sicilians fight like girls."
Carmelo kept his face blank as marble.Let him talk.
The weigh-in passed in a blur of shouted numbers and aggressive posturing. Then—inevitably—the tension snapped like a taut wire.
"This ain't your city no more, Meatball!" A Klansman named Sheffield jabbed a thick finger at one of Marcello's top men.
"Fuck you and your bedsheetputanas," the mobster shot back, his hand moving toward his jacket.
Caesar grabbed Carmelo's arm, steering him away before fists and bullets could fly. "We're done here. Let's get you to the room."
The backroom was a sanctuary, guarded by two stone-faced Marcello triggermen with Thompson submachine guns slung casually over their shoulders. Caesar clapped Carmelo on the shoulder with genuine affection. “Giorgio’s handling the politics. You just focus on staying alive."
Then he was gone, leaving Carmelo alone with his thoughts.
Until—
Carmelo entered the room. A man in an expensive fedora sat quietly by the exam table, a silver-topped cane resting betweenhis knees. The shadow from his brim hid his eyes, but Carmelo felt the weight of his stare like a physical presence.
"You Boanno?" Carmelo asked. Kathy and Debbie had worked with Matteo to flesh out the details. She'd told him with breathless excitement about the plan:It's all covered. My auntie's husband is with the mob. He will bring you to me, Melo.
The man exhaled slowly, like a man carrying secrets. "Call me Carmine." He stood with deliberate care, his cane thudding against the wooden floor.
Their handshake was firm, but Carmelo's chest tightened with sudden anxiety. This was Kathy's lifeline? He looked more like one of the men who would service his father than someone devoted to a Negro woman's desires.Could this be a setup?Had Matteo vetted this thoroughly enough?
"Don Marcello says you're under my care," Carmine said, his voice smooth as aged bourbon. "You'll stay with me and my wife in Tremé."
