Page 50 of The Killer Cupcake
The bell barely finished ringing when the Mauler exploded forward—330 pounds of muscle and malice. His first punch wasn’t a strike but a wrecking ball, whistling past Carmelo’s temple so close it stirred his hair.Whiff. Carmelo pivoted onslick soles—Brooklyn footwork threaded with Sicilian grace—letting momentum carry the brute past him.
The crowd roared as the Mauler’s second swing cratered the air where Carmelo’s ribs had been. But the third? A sledgehammer left hookcrackedinto Carmelo’s shoulder.
THUD.
Kathy’s teeth rattled in her skull as ifshe’dbeen hit. Carmelo staggered, the impact vibrating through his spine—but as the Mauler wound up for the decapitating right haymaker, Carmelodropped. Not away.Down and through.
The Mauler’s fist swung over his ducked head, hitting empty air with enough force but nowhere to land.
Carmelo rose, smiling through split lips.
First blood drawn: the giant’s balance tested. Now for the rest.
Round 3:
Blood trickled from Carmelo's nose; each breath he took sent fire through ribs that felt like cracked glass. The plan was working—barely.Wear down the giant, then unleash hell.That is what Matteo said to him on the phone before the fight. It’s what Caesar coached him from the corner of the ring. But Christ, every blow from those sledgehammer fists felt like it was crushing his bones to powder.
The Mauler's breathing had turned ragged, his massive frame finally showing cracks in its armor. Sweat poured down his face like a river, but his grin remained vicious as he taunted in a drawl thick from his swollen jaw:"That all you got, little meatball? My mammy hits harder than you."
Carmelo's left eye was swelling shut, his shoulder screaming from absorbing punishment that would have flattened lesser men. But he'd felt the giant's punches losing their snap, seen the hesitation creeping into those wild swings.
Now.
Carmelo answered with his finesse. He feinted left and caught the Mauler leaning. It was then his right cross-hookcrackedagainst the giant's jaw like a rifle shot. The big man's eyes rolled white for a heartbeat, his knees buckling.
The crowd gasped as over 300 pounds of fury swayed like a falling tree, barely holding firm.
“Your mammy’s a bitch!” Carmelo spat, and the bell rang, and he walked away.
Round 5:
Pure savagery. The Mauler drove Carmelo into the ropes like a battering ram, his massive fists hammering kidneys with sickening thuds that echoed through the arena. Each blow sounded like meat hitting concrete.
Kathy sobbed openly now, mascara streaming down her cheeks. This wasn't boxing—it was execution. The giant was trying to kill him, and the referee was letting him.
Even Janey, who'd been languidly fanning herself with bored sophistication, sat frozen in her seat, her usual mask of indifference cracking to reveal raw terror.
The Mauler unleashed everything—two decades of rage, oppression, subjugation at the hands of the Klan on Carmelo. Every ounce of his 300-pound frame behind punches that would have shattered ribs. Carmelo's body folded like a broken doll.
He wentdown.
The referee leaped over him, counting. Carmelo's chest heaved against the stained canvas, blood pooling beneath his face.Get up. GET UP!Kathy screamed silently, her nails drawing blood from her palms.
At seven, he pushed himself up on trembling arms. At nine, he stood—swaying, glassy-eyed, but upright. The ref grabbed his face, checking his pupils, searching for signs of a man too broken to continue.
The fight resumed.
Then Carmeloexploded.
Like a switch had been thrown, like a survivor of Cosimo’s hammer, he became a whirlwind of calculated violence—elbows carving through the giant's guard, pivots that turned defense into attack. He drove the stunned Mauler backward step by bloody step until the ropes trapped the beast, who moments before had seemed unstoppable.
The bell rang. Salvation.
Round 8:
Carmelo's left eye had swollen completely shut, a purple grotesquery that turned half his world black. The Mauler's nose was pulverized meat, blood streaming down his chest like war paint. They circled each other like wounded predators in a gladiator’s ring, breathing fire through shattered mouths.
In the VIP seats, Don Marcello's sons exchanged cold, calculating nods. Money was about to change hands. Klansmen spat tobacco-stained curses into the smoky air. The end crackled through the arena like electricity—everyone felt it pressing down like a storm about to break.
