Page 75 of The Killer Cupcake
"Melo,cazzo! They're yours! Your blood!"
Carmelo spun, and for a second, Matteo saw rage in his brother’s eyes. The kind of eyes his father had. Then it vanished, replaced by that terrible, innocent hope.
"I have one wife, Matteo.Una sola. One family. Kathy. That's it. Those kids—Maria—they're nothing.Niente.You understand? They don't exist!"
Matteo felt his stomach churn. Had Carmelo’s sanity snapped? The sweet kid brother he knew would never blame innocent babies or their mother for existing. He did his best to avoid betraying the vow to maintain the deception. But the man in him wanted to knock some fucking sense into his brother.
Matteo forced his features into something like brotherly understanding, even as his heart broke. "Okay.Va bene,I get it. You win tonight,campione, and tomorrow you're gone. The world is yours."
"Fanculo il mondo." Carmelo's voice went reverent as he made the sign of the cross in front of him and then kissed his fingers, like in prayer. "I don't want the world. Just her. Just Kathy."
Matteo nodded, not trusting his voice. He escaped into the hallway before Carmelo could see the truth written on his face. Behind the door, he could hear his brother humming—some Sinatra tune about flying to the moon—throwing punches at shadows.
Dancing like a man set free.
Matteo pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. In two hours, Carmelo would win his fight. In three, he'd be waiting for a woman who was already gone. And Matteo would have to watch his little brother's face when he finally understood that some lies cut too deep to heal.
Inside the dressing room, Carmelo kept dancing, kept humming, kept believing.
Outside, Matteo stood guard over his brother's last happy moment, knowing he'd helped orchestrate its end.
"Get up, Malone! Get up!"
The crowd roared as Irish Tommy Malone struggled to find his feet, blood streaming from his split eyebrow. Nine rounds in, and the Memphis boy was finally showing cracks.
From the colored section high in the rafters, Kathy gripped the railing, her knuckles tight. "Come on, Carmelo! Finish it!"
Below, Carmelo circled like a wolf, his body glistening under the harsh lights. His left eye was swelling shut, his ribs screamed with each breath, but he could taste it now—victory, redemption, everything.
Malone staggered upright at eight, raising his gloves just as the referee stepped back. The Irish fighter had fifty pounds on Carmelo and a reach like a telephone pole, but he was hurt. Bad.
"BOX!"
Malone charged, desperate, throwing wild haymakers. Carmelo slipped left, the punch whistling past his ear. Then right, another miss. The crowd was on its feet.
"Now, baby! Now!" Kathy screamed, her voice lost in the thunder of two thousand voices.
Carmelo saw it—the opening he'd been setting up all night. Malone's right hand dropped just an inch after each wild swing, leaving his jaw exposed for half a heartbeat.
Time slowed…
Carmelo planted his back foot, torqued his hips, and threw the cleanest left hook of his life. It connected with Malone's jaw with a crack that silenced the arena. The big Irishman's eyesrolled white. His legs went rubbery. He toppled backward like a felled oak, crashing to the canvas with a thud that shook the ring.
The referee didn't even count. Malone was done.
"WINNER BY KNOCKOUT—CARMELO 'THE WOLF of BROOKLYN' RICCI!"
The arena exploded. White folks in their pressed suits, Negroes in their Sunday best up in the rafters—everyone screaming, money changing hands, history being made.
But Carmelo heard none of it. His eyes searched the colored section frantically until—there.
Kathy was on her feet, laughing and crying at the same time, waving both arms above her head. Her lilac dress swirled as she jumped up and down, her face bright with what looked like genuine joy. For this moment, in the lights and noise and glory, she was his Kathy again. Not the hollow girl who'd been going through the motions for two days, but the woman who'd believed in him.
He raised his glove toward her section, and she blew him a kiss. The gesture hit him harder than any punch Malone had landed.
He'd won. Against all odds, against the whiskey and despair and the weight of his lies—he'd won. The Marcellos would get their money. His father would get his reputation. Matteo would get them out of Memphis alive. And Kathy would get in a car and drive away with him to their future. Forever his.
Carmelo closed his eyes and let the victory wash over him, memorizing the sound of her laughter floating down from the rafters. It would have to last him a lifetime.
