Chapter 9
9
A ugust 1949 - Mama Stewart’s Diner (Brooklyn, New York)
Debbie stepped out of the cab onto the sidewalk. She stood there staring at the diner her cousin Kathy had written about in her letters. Mama Stewart’s .
It was the place where Kathy and Carmelo had shared their stolen moments. Kathy had begged her to come there months ago to see if Carmelo had left any messages. But Debbie’s anger had won out. Why should I go begging to the Ricci family? She’d thought back then. If Carmelo cared, he’d have found a way to reach her.
Now, standing here, she wished she’d come sooner. She had no idea Carmelo had been hurt and was unable to contact Kathy. And she hadn’t known how bad things had gotten for Matteo.
Debbie glanced both ways before crossing the street, her hands clutching her purse tightly. The diner was open, its warm light spilling onto the sidewalk. Through the window, she could see patrons laughing and eating. Debbie took a deep breath, straightened her dress, and pushed the door open.
The bell above the door jingled, and a smiling couple brushed past her on their way out. The man was white, his arm draped casually around an Asian woman’s shoulders. He tipped his hat to Debbie, and the woman gave her a friendly smile. Debbie watched them walk down the street, hand in hand, unbothered by the world around them. She smiled faintly and stepped inside.
A young black man near the door stood up, grabbing a menu. “Just you, miss? Or are you expecting someone?”
“Ah, yes, I am,” Debbie said, her voice soft but steady.
“Booth or table?” he asked, his tone polite but detached.
“Booth, please,” she replied, forcing a smile.
He led her to a booth near the back, and Debbie slid into the seat, her eyes darting around the room. The diner was alive with chatter and laughter, the clinking of silverware against plates, and the faint hum of a jukebox playing a Nat King Cole tune. Her gaze landed on Mama Stewart, who was holding court at a nearby table. The woman was exactly as Kathy had described her—portly but curvy, with medium brown skin that glowed under the diner’s warm lights. Her hair was thick and perfectly groomed, swept into a stylish updo that framed her round face. She had a smile that could light up a room, and though she looked to be in her fifties, there was a youthful energy in the way she moved and spoke.
Mama Stewart caught Debbie staring and gave her a nod. Debbie quickly looked away; her cheeks were hot with shame. She picked up the menu and pretended to study it, though she read it upside down.
“Hi there, sweetheart,” Mama Stewart’s voice rang out as she approached the booth. “Welcome to Mama Stewart’s.”
Debbie kept her eyes glued to the menu. “Hi,” she mumbled.
“Do I know you, sugar?” Mama Stewart asked, her tone light but probing.
“No, ma’am,” Debbie said, still avoiding eye contact.
“Well, then it’s rude to act like you don’t want to know me. Look me in the eye, please,” Mama Stewart said, her voice firm but not unkind.
Debbie’s gaze slowly lifted. Mama Stewart’s eyes were warm but piercing, as if she could see straight through her.
“Sorry,” Debbie whispered.
“Don’t be sorry, honey. Now that we can see each other, we can speak to each other. What brings you to Mama Stewart’s? A sweetie?”
“Uhm, yes ma’am. I’m meeting someone,” Debbie said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Mama Stewart studied her for a moment, her head slightly tilted. She plucked the menu from Debbie’s hands, turned it right side up, and placed it back in front of her.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Debbie said.
“Maybe we have met. You look familiar,” said Mama Stewart.
Debbie glanced away, then back at her. “You know my cousin.”
“Do I? Who’s your cousin?” Mama Stewart asked, her eyebrows raised with surprise.
Before Debbie could answer, a couple approached Mama Stewart, thanking her for the meal. Mama Stewart turned her attention to them, her laughter filling the diner as she hugged them and reminded them to come back in October for the Halloween party. But as the couple left, Mama Stewart’s jovial demeanor faltered. Her eyes locked on something-or someone—near the door.
Debbie followed her gaze and saw Matteo.
He stood there, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, his dark wavy hair slicked back beneath a flat cap. His sharp jawline was shadowed with stubble, and his eyes—those intense, brooding eyes—scanned the room until they landed on Debbie. Mama Stewart marched over to him, her finger already raised in warning.
“What are you doing here, Matteo Ricci?” Mama Stewart asked, her voice low but sharp.
Matteo’s gaze switched to Debbie, then back to Mama Stewart. He said something too quiet for Debbie to hear, but it made Mama Stewart glance back at her. The older woman’s expression shifted from anger to something softer—sadness, maybe.
Matteo approached the booth, his movements deliberate but calm. He slid into the seat next to Debbie, removed his cap, and set it on the table.
“ Cara ,” he said.
She looked up, her heart pounding.
“You okay?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.
“Did you hurt him? The boy? Did you?” she asked.
“No. Not yet. But I will if he does anything that hurts you,’ Matteo replied.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” she mumbled, her hands twisting in her lap.
“I’m glad you did,” Matteo said, his tone sincere. He put his arm up and over the top of the booth seat. She was cornered. There was no escape. But she didn’t feel threatened, just unsure.
Debbie glanced up at him. “You are?”
“Thank you,” he said, his voice softening. “For stopping me at the Espositos’. Grazie. ”
Debbie’s cheeks warmed. “You wouldn’t have killed anyone, Matteo.”
“I shot a man right over there,” he said, pointing to the jukebox. His voice was calm, but there was a weight to his words that made Debbie’s stomach twist. “I did it to keep DeMarco—my father’s consigliere—from taking Kathy. That man was a friend of Mama Stewart’s. He died.”
Debbie’s breath caught. Kathy had never told her that.
She reached under the table and placed her hand on his knee. “Mama Stewart wants us to leave? Is that why?”
“No,” Matteo said, shaking his head. “She knows why I did what I did. She doesn’t want me here, that’s true. But where else can I go to see you?”
Debbie smiled faintly, her heart flutteringlike a moth caught in lamplight.The waiter, a lanky redhead in a starched white apron, slid their salads and frosty Pepsis onto the table. Before she could pick up her fork, Matteo—ever the provocateur—stuck his fingers into her salad, plucking a wedge of boiled egg dripping with homemade dressing. He popped it into his mouth with a smirk. Shocked Debbie punched him in his side.
“ Mannaggia! You hit harder than my Nonna,” he laughed, rubbing his side where she’d swatted him. His hand darted out again, this time tickling her ribs until her gasps turned to giggles that drew stares from the elderly couple at the next booth.His cologne—bay rum and Lucky Strikes—drowned out the diner’s grease-scented air as he leaned in.
The kisswasn’t fire. Wasn’t stolen desperation like the garden behind Esposito’s home.This was slow, honey,a confession without words.His lips lingered, warm and insistent, until her fingers curled into his shirt sleeves. When he pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to hers.His thumb brushed the rose-petal lips of hers.
“I’m glad you’re my friend, Debbie,” he whispered.
“I am your friend, Matteo,” she said,her voice steadier than her racing pulse.
“ Bene. Friends don’t let friends make stupid stronzate like my brother.” His smile faded.The mob prince reemerged, sharp as a switchblade.“They can’t know about us; our friendship I mean. Not my old man. Not your folks. Trust me. I will protect our friendship, from anyone who wants to hurt you. I still don’t like the fact that your Pa hit you,” he mumbled. “This place is now for us.”
“ Us? ” She recoiled,but his hand slid up her skirt, calloused fingers branding her inner thigh through her stockings.His gaze never wavered.
“ Sì. Mia ragazza. Us. You. You, my girl.”
“Matteo, are you insane? I don’t even know you.” She pushed his hand away and shut her knees.
Matteo blinked at her confused. “But at Esposito?—”
“I was just being a friend. The kind you need. That’s all,” she said, and her eyes darted nervously around.
He turned her chin to make sure her eyes connected with his. “Are you this friendly with every boy. I don’t kiss girls I don’t like. And I sure as hell wouldn’t give her all my earnings.”
Debbie stared at him uncertain. “I’m not Kathy.”
Matteo let go a deep chuckle. “So, what. I’m not Carmelo. A girl like you needs more than puppy love. You need a protector. A real man.”
Debbie rolled her eyes and turned away. “Well, if you want to be my boyfriend…”
“I am your boyfriend,” Matteo announced.
“I mean it. If you want to be my boyfriend, you got to earn it. I’m not that kind of girl, okay? You got to treat me special. And that don’t mean money,” she said and started eating her salad.
“You a virgin?” Matteo narrowed his eyes on her.
Debbie cut him a side glances. “I am. So don’t even think about it.”
Matteo laughed. He grinned. “What is it I got to do?”
“I told you. Make me feel special,” Debbie shrugged and slurped her Pepsi-Cola.
Matteo slouched back and stared straight ahead. “Sure. I can do that. We can go to the show today. I know a theater that would be cool. Make you feel special and safe. Cause nobody fucks with me. Okay.”
“Oh brother,” she sighed. “I am not going to do that. We could get in real trouble if we try?—”
“You. My. Girl.”The command hung between them, velvet over steel. “That makes you special. Not just to the world. But to me. And whatever you want or need Debbie, you got it.”
“Why?” she asked.
“What do you mean why?” he asked.
“A day ago, you weren’t even thinking about me. You got angry when you saw me at Esposito. Pushed me out of the house like I didn’t belong there,” she said and pushed her frozen soda aside.
“ è questo che pensi davvero? Is that what you really think?” Matteo asked, genuine surprise crossing his features.
“It’s what happened,” she said, turning fully now to look him straight in the eyes.
“That’s not what happened, Debbie,” Matteo stammered.
“And in the alley. By that fabric shop you brag about. You called me names. Threatened me. Made me scared of you for a week,” she said, and lowered her gaze.
“Debbie—”
“I only came here because you needed a friend,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because I do like you, Matteo. And when you attacked that boy, I felt sorry for you. But I know exactly who you are and how boys like you think about girls outside your own community. I’m not here for you to have a good time or play games.”
“ Madon , you’re right about me. I am a scoundrel who needs a lesson, a good girl to teach me a lesson,” he said. Matteo reached out gently, cupping her cheek and turning her face carefully back to him.
“When I saw you in the alley, ero terrorizzato —I was afraid, Debbie. Not for me, for you. I killed a man that night. And I knew our families could tear each other apart again. I wanted to scare you off—not because I hated you, but perché avevo paura per te —I was scared for you. Dio mio , what if I hadn’t been there? What would have happened to you then?”
“You’re not listening. You hurt my feelings!”
Matteo took a breath, struggling to express himself. “ Cara , please listen to me. When I saw you at Tony’s house, sì, ero arrabbiato —I was angry. Furious. You could never be mine. But you damn sure didn’t belong as Tony’s mother’s servant. I wasn’t angry at you. I was angry at myself, at my father, my life, my world. Perché volevo proteggerti —I just wanted to protect you. I swear it on my soul. I wanted to help you, protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection,” she frowned. “I got my daddy and my brother to protect me. And why do you keep telling me you kill people? That is not what I want to know!”
“And you got another man. You got me,” he said, ignoring her last statement. He had to cool it on the confessions. It was clear she wasn’t that kind of girl. She stared at him as if he had said the words in Italian instead of English. She couldn’t conceive the concept of him and her united, but it was a reality, a real promise he felt he could make. And he was terrible at trying to be humble.
Matteo loved her defiance. For him, the problem was simple. Strong women were the kind of women the men in his world preyed on. When they couldn’t break them, they destroyed them—not him, not Carmelo. Their mother was a treasure, and loving her instilled in them both what love means.
“ Lo so, bella mia —I know, my beauty. You’re not Kathy. You’re Debbie. I got my chance now. Like a friend, you came here for me, like you did at Coney Island. Ma io voglio di più —All I am saying is let’s do more. You are already special to me, Debbie. I want to be special to you.”
Matteo looked her over with a level of desire Debbie didn’t welcome. Chester was her boyfriend. They’d just made it official a few days ago. But Chester wasn’t Matteo. Chester was always quick and hurried with his attempts to seduce her. And she had solid defenses. Nothing more than a kiss and little feel until marriage. Matteo’s conquest was something entirely different. It felt exciting, new, even possible because he was so tough. She could feel her defenses crumbling just from him saying over and over again that she was his. Was this why Kathy chose Carmelo? Did he make her feel this way too? Was this how Eve felt in the garden when she took a bite of the forbidden fruit?
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she sighed. “I got a boyfriend.”
Matteo narrowed his eyes on her.
“I mean, I had one, she stammered. Not anymore,” she quickly added.
Matteo smiled. “You know, I own that fabric store. Yeah, the old man runs it, but it’s mine—mine and the apartment above it. Mio padre thinks I’m counting bolts of fabric and scratching the register, but I’m really…” He leaned closer, voice lowering intimately, “… qui con te —right here with you. My boys hustle the corners, bring me cash. Soon, I’ll buy my own building and get my mama and brothers somewhere nice and safe, away from my father. Until then, tell your mama you’re scrubbing floors at Esposito’s. We’ll have Tuesdays or Thursdays, you can decide… here, instead. No one will know.”
A bolt of nervousness shot through Debbie, hot and intense. She picked up the fork, hoping to steady her shaking hand. Spearing a tomato, she fed it to him with exaggerated calm. If he kept chewing, she wouldn’t have to hear any more of his dangerous plans for her. Her daddy would bury her alive if he knew she’d even considered such a thing with a Ricci. Debbie knew too well the risk—Kathy had paid dearly for playing this same game.
Matteo swallowed, licking his lips. “ Hai capito? You heard me?”
“Ah, yes. I heard you. Matteo, East Harlem is two blocks from my church. And Deacon Jones lives and works in Brooklyn. He could easily see me. He will sing like a canary if he sees me coming and going from this diner place,” she joked. “Stop talking crazy.”
“Let him.”Matteo’s teeth closed over the fork, eyes glinting.“I’ll buy his silence with a case of sacramental wine.”
“I’m serious!” she protested.
“Shh…” he turned her chin and kissed her lips. “I’m not Melo. I’m not stupid. I know how this goes. That’s why I wanted you to come here. See the place. We won’t go to East Harlem, Debbie. Are you listening? We come here. We need to convince Mama Stewart to help us. To give us a room like she did for Melo and Kathy. Simple. I wanna be alone with you.”
“I told you I’m not like that, I’m not doing anything like that,” she stammered. “I don’t want to have sex.”
“Sex?” he frowned.
“You keep mentioning a room,” she rolled her eyes.
He laughed. Not to have sex. For us. A place for us. That’s all. You don’t have to do anything. Let me touch you a few times is all I want. But you my girl, Debbie. Can’t you see it?” he asked. “You and me. We can just be normal.”
She glanced over at him and then back at the salad. “I guess.”
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. She softened, and this time when his hand went to her knee and up under her skirt she didn’t mind. They ate like that—her feeding him bites of liver and onions, him spinning plans to dismantle his father’s empire between swallows. Talking Italian in his mumbles. His laughter rang rich and dark as espresso, but Debbie tasted the lie beneath during their frequent kisses.When she excused herself to the ladies’ room,the jukebox played a new Ink Spots melody. It followed her, along with Matteo’s eyes. He turned all the way in the booth to watch her. The songs dreamy harmonies and his hopeful grin clashed with the dread coiling in her gut.
When Debbie finished, she flushed and washed her hands at the sink. The door opened behind her, and she turned, surprised that she had forgotten to lock it. The bathroom’s single bulb flickered, casting shadows that made Mama Stewart’s face look older, harder, like the ghost of the girl she’d been decades ago.
“What’s your name again, baby?” Mama Stewart asked, shutting the door with a soft click . The diner’s muffled laughter died abruptly.
“Debbie, ma’am.”
“Debbie.” Mama Stewart’s voice softened, but her eyes were flint. “Kathy’s cousin. Sweet as peach cobbler, that girl. Came in here all dreamy smilin’ like the sun. You got her heart. That’s why I’m gonna tell you what I should have told her. What I wish someone told me.”
She stepped closer, her perfume—gardenias and fried grease—mixing with the sharp tang of bleach. “You think Matteo’s different? That he ain’t his father’s son?”
“I-I-I-I—” Debbie stammered.
“Of course you do. They ain’t different baby. Not for us, not even for their own women. Trust me.” Mama Stewart warned.