Chapter 13
13
D ebbie’s Place - Harlem, New York, 1978
Matteo sat in his car outside the beauty shop, his men fidgeted nervously beside and behind him. At the golden hour, Italians in Harlem who were just lingering were at risk. Even Don Matteo Ricci. These were hard times for this community, with Nicki Barnes gone and the federal raids continuing.
He didn’t care.
He never cared about his own safety.
It was always, and forever, about his wife, Debbie.
Matteo’s eyes were closed. His mind drifted back to Debbie’s promise to return to him that day when he left her in Mama Stewart’s diner. A promise she’d broken. When she hadn’t come back to Mama Stewart’s the next day, he’d grown desperate and depressed. He even drove through Harlem for days looking to catch her on the streets. Something that she eventually learned when he passed her, and her mother was carrying laundry back to their tenement. She saw him but pretended she didn’t. Just as she pretended, he hadn’t been out of prison for over a month, and he’s only touched her once. Matteo did not give up then, and he would not give up now.
He was home, and she was pushing him away. Mentally, he couldn’t handle it. If she would just be his, if they could just be back to normal, maybe his rage wouldn’t cloud his judgment, especially when the Ricci family needed him sharp, when his brother’s family and their lives depended on it.
But it always came back to Debbie.
Did she love him enough to do it all again?
Did he love her enough to let her go if she couldn’t?
Did he deserve any of the things he wanted?
Could he ever make up for the trauma he’d brought back from Vietnam and into their lives? He wanted to atone. He saw a priest regularly, but salvation wasn’t in his Hail Marys. It was Debbie. He needed his woman, and that was just how it was. She’d come home with him, or he’d burn New York to the ground and take her by force.
* * *
Inside the shop, Debbie stood behind Dhara, her hands expertly finishing the last touches on her client’s hair. Her feet ached; her ankles swollen from a full day of styling.
“Ms. Debbie, oh my goodness. You’re a magician, girl!” Dhara gushed. She admired her reflection in the mirror.
Debbie smiled. “That’s all you. I just put a little seasoning on it for ya.”
“Girl, get up out the chair! I’ve been sitting here waiting for almost an hour!” Peggy shouted from across the room, her voice sharp but playful. The women started a back-and-forth banter that soon became a bit too personal. Debbie did her best to shut it down.
The door swung open. Matteo walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like a boxer who never lost. His leather jacket clung to him, cut sharp enough to suggest Savile Row, but the scars and tats on his knuckles told a different story. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but not the strong line of his jaw, the kind that made women lean in to see if he’d smile. Tattoos coiled up his neck—faded ink, prison-grade—disappearing under his collar, only to resurface on his hands.Every mark tells a story. Every glance at the customers sends a warning.
Debbie froze.
Heads turned.
Eyes in the shop volleyed to him, then to her, and then to him again. Everyone fell silent, including the bird that Minnie kept in the cage. The mob funded Debbie’s Place from the start, a beauty shop at first in her home, then it expanded and doubled as a front for Matteo Ricci operations, even while he was in prison and the Wolf was around. When you consider how Matteo never missed a payment to Debbie, he had every right to walk in. From his prison cell, he kept up with her demands to keep her beauty parlor modern and trendy, to fund her little business ideas that often failed. In exchange, Debbie cursed out his men and refused to let them do the business he wanted them to do from her workplace. He eventually gave up and started making payments to his brother out of his own pocket to cover the expenses and disrespect. It just wasn’t worth it to piss her off.
Matteo had sworn to her he’d stop having his men check in on her when he went to prison. Now that he was out, all the rules had changed. Every day, she could see them following behind her as she drove the city, or lingering too long around her neighborhood. She’d avoided his calls. She should have known this was coming.
“Ah, Ms. Debbie,” Minnie stammered, breaking the tension. “I can take Peggy and get her ready for you.”
Dhara was already out of her chair, shoving bills into Debbie’s hand before hurrying toward the door. The other customers sat in silence and remained watchful. Debbie rolled her eyes at Matteo and marched to the back of the shop. Her office was her only refuge. He followed. His men were now stationed at the salon’s entrance like sentinels.
“Shit,” Debbie huffed as she threw open her office door. “Mutherfucker!”
Matteo stepped in behind her, closing the door gently. He walked straight toward her. She turned on him, ready to unleash her anger, but he pressed a hand to her mouth, stopping her before the argument could begin. She blinked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. Slowly, he lowered his hand.
“You made me come when you wouldn’t call me back,” he said, his voice low, raw with hurt. Then he kissed her.
Debbie hesitated for a moment, pushed at his crushing embrace before melting into him, her arms wrapped around his neck. She kissed him back, her anger dissolved under the weight of his touch. She had forgotten what it felt like to belong to someone—physically, emotionally. Their relationship had been a series of starts and stops, but this? This was new.
He pulled away, his eyes searching hers.
“We okay now?” he asked.
“You’re in trouble,” she said, her voice sad with concern. “You know you can’t just roll around Harlem like this. With the Black Council gone, it’s too soon. The men around here are trigger-happy. Even your son.”
“Tonight,” he said firmly. “You’ll be with me tonight. We agreed.”
“Right. We agreed,” she said, her gaze drifting away from him as she fought to find a plausible excuse.
“Debbie, stop fucking with me. You’re pushing me away. Why? It’s not the kids. It’s not your clients. You don’t give a damn about what anyone thinks. That’s what I love about you,” he said.
“It’s Kathy, Matteo!” She pushed him away and moved to her desk, her voice rising. “Ever since you said they could be alive. That she and Carmelo planned this, it’s like it’s 1959 all over again. Those two are playing with people’s lives. For what? They had their chances to be together. They could never do it. Now this? Why this way? Putting a target on your back. You have the government, the Mafia, and the council, what’s left of it, gunning for you. We don’t have time for romance. Do we?”
“Stop,” he scratched his brow.
“Carmelo was supposed to do the witness protection play, but instead he ran. Now it’s you. Only you. How the hell are those diaries and making Sandra read them going to stop any of this? We find them, then what? And what if… what if you are wrong? What if he did die in that car crash, and so did she? What if she’s dead? Then I have to grieve her all over again. All of it makes me sick.”
“ Cara , I swear on my life they are alive. Carmelo planned this; he’s always planned for this and prepared for this. It took him a long time to rebuild with Kathy. But he did. And then they disappear? Bullshit. My brother would never turn rat and enter witness protection. He’s the Wolf. He’s out there watching us. Waiting for my enemies to make a fatal move. I need to figure out something only Sandra can help me with.”
“What? You said we needed to him,” she said.
“Ah, yeah, find him. That’s right. It’s not Sicily, or Africa like they used to say. It’s close, it’s somewhere they can be close, and Sandra is the key. You know why she’s the key to them both.”
“It’ll take too long to get inside of that head of hers. You know she doesn’t have a memory,” said Debbie.
“She does. It’s just buried, different. Carmelo said—” he began.
Debbie sighed. He stopped her from leaving him.
“I also know something else,” he said.
“What?” she asked.
“How to protect you and our family. So let me.”
Debbie paced away from his reach.
“Don’t start sweet talking me. It won’t work. now,” she mumbled.
“I’m not going to quit. You need to give me an answer,” he insisted. “Marry me. Publicly claim me. To them and the kids. Marry me.”
“I’ve got to think about it,” she scratched her brow.
Matteo stared at her, his jaw tightening. “Prison, Debbie. Do you know what prison is?”
“You’re not listening to me,” Debbie rolled her eyes and turned away. He turned her back to him. She blinked, caught off guard by his hard look of desperation. She snatched her hand from his and glared, ready to bare her claws and go on the attack. He had to smile. She refused to smile. A feeling of hopelessness came over him. Thirty years of fuck-ups, how can he make her believe now. She wasn’t always this way. She would defend him no matter what. Believe his lies. Forgive his crimes. Go for her own knife or his gun if a woman came close to him. Always. It wasn’t until José died that she lost faith in him. Punished him. But never, ever abandoned him. So, the love was there. Somewhere buried deep. And he needed to gain it back.
“Fuck it,” he said, his tone hardening. “If you don’t want me, just say it. Say it to my face,” he said in defeat.
“And then what?” she shot back, crossing her arms. “You’ll go away? You’ll leave us alone? Stop telling everyone I’m your goddamn wife when you know I’m not!”
Matteo smirked, a dark glint in his eyes. “No.”
“See!” She pointed at him. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
“You know me, Debbie. I’m not going to give up on my family or my wife. I’ll just try even harder until you change your mind.”
“How is that fair to me?” she groaned. “I got my own thing going on, you know?”
“What thing?” Matteo narrowed his eyes at her.
“Expanding my business. I’m considering opening a beauty shop in Chicago, then Detroit, like a chain. And funding other businesses. Expansion. I got Madame CJ Walker’s plans.”
“Madame who?” he frowned.
“Never mind,” she huffed.
“Okay, I will give you the money and help,” he agreed.
“No!” she stomped her foot. “It’s my idea, Matteo! No mob ties! I’m not paying no fucking mob dues to you either, so tell Ceasar to fuck off!”
Matteo groaned. He put a hand to his forehead, battling against the ache throbbing from his inner battle to keep his cool. “Damn it Debbie… I.” He paused. He sighed. “Okay, Debs. Whatever you want,” he tossed his hand up in defeat. “I won’t help. Better?”
Debbie sat on the edge of the desk and looked him over. “Did you eat today?”
“No one to cook for me,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “There are plenty of women who will cook for you, Matteo. Don’t think I don’t know those whores are buzzing around Staten Island. Minnie said she heard things about the women all trying to get close to you now that you are out of prison. One of her clients said a bitch named Sofia was in her store talking about hooking up with you because you like black women.”
“That’s a lie and you know it,” he waved it off.
Debbie narrowed her eyes on him. “If I catch you with another woman, Matteo?—”
“Debbie, stop. Stop the bullshit okay! I’m not fucking no one else. I can barely fuck you!” he snapped.
She smirked. “You liked it, though, the other night. Didn’t you?”
“Stop it, Debbie. I’m not in the mood for games. I’m being serious. I want my fucking family back.” He sighed and tried again, feeling even more desperate for her to give in a little.
“Close the salon early and let’s go,” he said. “I’ll prove it to you. Or better yet, let’s go to the courthouse. Get it on paper. Married. Done. Then you can run the island if you want. Put a hit on Sofia for lying on your husband.”
“No,” she chuckled. “We’re too old to get married.”
“We are married!” he raised his voice. “You need the more paper to prove it to yourself, but we got married that day and you damn well know it!”
“If you raise your voice at me again, I’m throwing your ass out!” she warned.
“Then stop busting my balls,” he groaned.
“Why not try to earn my trust back? Huh? Before you come around here bossing me around,” she asked.
“So, you can put up another barrier between us? I’ve never cheated on you, never betrayed you. Can you say the same?” he countered, his tone edged with frustration.
“How could I cheat Matteo? Even in my dreams, you jump out and stop me. I swear to God, even from prison, you made sure that wouldn’t happen,” she shot back. “Do you remember what you did to Chester?”
“Fuck Chester! He’s lucky he’s got his left leg.”
She sighed.
“I’m sorry,” he lied.
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m sorry,” he said softer.
“Stop it, don’t touch me like that,” she knocked his hand off her breast.
“I fucked up many times. But never about what’s important. The family. Me, you, and the kids. I never fucked up when it counted,” he reasoned.
“Your point?” she asked.
He could see the conflict on her face. He pointed a finger at her. “Stop bringing up the mistakes of the past. Stop finding excuses to push me away. You pulled that shit with me in prison, Deb. Not anymore. I’m home. Time is up. You will marry me.”
“Or what?” She held his gaze, stubborn and unwavering, her silence as defiant and unwinnable as the games she played with him. Now he’d have to fund one of her crazy business ideas to have some peace with her. He knew her game.
After a long standoff, Matteo broke the tension with a grin. “I like your hair like that. It reminds me of Aretha Franklin or Marilyn Monroe.”
Debbie narrowed her eyes on him.
“But you are sexier,” he winked.
She rolled her eyes, but a faint smile tugged at her lips despite herself. She blushed for him.
“And look at you,” he continued, his voice softening. “You’ve got curves everywhere. You think I’m going to let anyone else near you? You know me, Debs. You are the only woman for me. The only woman I’ve ever touched.”
“You don’t own my body, Matteo,” she said, standing again and placing her hands on her hips. “Besides, I’ve gained weight, and my feet are swollen. I’m not pretty and petite like I used to be.”
“Let me see,” he said, his tone gentle but insistent.
Reluctantly, she lifted her foot to show him her swollen ankle.
“Why are you wearing these shoes with the heels?” he asked with a deep frown. “You need something more comfortable, bambina .” He knelt in front of her, carefully removing her shoe. His hands began to massage her foot, his touch firm but tender. Debbie sighed; the relief immediate as the tension in her muscles eased.
Matteo’s gaze slowly rose to meet hers, his eyes dark and insistent. She opened her eyes and looked down at him, her breath catching as his hand slid up her leg. Before she could protest, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and gently tugged them down.
“Matteo,” she said, her voice a mix of warning and amusement, but it was too late, he had already taken control.Debbie relaxed and let him touch her.
“Lock the door,” she said.
“Already locked,” Matteo replied.
She touched the top of his hair and then ran her fingers through it. “I’m sorry I was mean to you, my baby,” Debbie said. “I hurt for you all the time, Matteo. Sometimes I want you to feel that pain too.”
His gaze lifted. He stood before her. “I do feel it. I always have.”
“You’re right. You do. I was avoiding us. Not because I want you to buy me a new shop, not because of any jealousy I have over Kathy. I’m scared of the Wolf, Matteo.”
“Scared?” he asked.
“If he is alive, he could take you from me, or make you do something that sends you back to prison. And I’m scared of you. Trusting you again, getting my hopes up and losing you again. I lost you to the war. I lost you to your illness. I lost you to prison. I lost you more times than I’ve had you. I know you want me to bring the kids into our thing… but they have lost you to. They lost José because of you. I can’t undo that, baby, and neither can you. We can’t erase the past and start over. We are not Kathy and Carmelo.”
“You’re right. We lost. They lost. We all paid because everywhere we turned, the world told us we shouldn’t be together. I went to prison to atone. I paid with my life to love you, Debbie. I can’t die, I can’t live, I can’t do anything without you,” he said.
Debbie’s tears spilled. He wiped them from her cheek with his thumb. She turned her face to kiss his palm.
“Don’t you understand?” she pleaded. “All the things that have happened to us. I have scars. Carmelo and Kathy have scars. And the one with the deepest scars is you.” She touched his chest. “The things you suffered. Going to prison, taking care of me and the kids when no one was there to take care of you. How many nights I cried for you. Wanted to heal you, Matteo. I never could. Sometimes in life, we don’t get a do-over. Sometimes the life you want isn’t the life meant for you. We can’t turn back the clock. We aren’t those kids anymore.”
“ Cara , you’re right. You’re always right. I died a little each day in that cell without you. I may die still. I don’t deserve anything, especially after what I put you through. You gave me chances. A hundred chances. I can never blame you. And I never do. I just… I don’t have anything but what’s in my heart for you, Debbie.”
She dropped her head on his chest and cried. He held her to him.
“I love you so much,” she said. “I could have died that day at Magdalena. You saved me. I love you. I always have, always will. I love you and only you. I tried to fight it, stop it, ignore it, and run from it. But from the beginning, it’s always been this. Me and you. I am your wife. I was on that day we said our vows in our new home. I meant them. I’m sorry for punishing you. José’s death was an accident. I believe that now.”
He lifted her face and kissed her until she smiled. He never wanted to see her cry. She pushed him away playfully. Debbie unzipped her skirt, letting it fall around her heart-shaped hips. To him, any hint of excess was nonexistent—she was perfect, every curve a testament to the womanhood within her that had birthed his children. Next, she removed her blouse and bra, revealing the body he loved most, the one that had haunted his dreams and anchored his soul to the world, keeping him from checking out of this world long ago.
She gestured toward the sofa in her office, and Matteo followed without hesitation, taking off his belt and dropping his trousers. Even in their most bitter arguments, he remained obedient to her. No one else could see his vulnerability the way she did. No one would believe it if they were told it. Though she held power over him, she never abused it—not even when faced with his darkest deeds. No one in his life had ever shown him such unwavering loyalty other than this dear departed mother.
He sank onto the sofa, his palms damp, heat spreading beneath his skin. He craved her love—it was the only thing that cleared his mind and soothed his sickness. The echoes of gunfire and men’s screams from the jungles of Vietnam to the violent turbulence in the mental institution to prison all faded, along with the memory of his brother Nino weeping at their mother’s coffin. In her presence, he felt whole. Absolved of all sin. He once told her he never killed a man who didn’t deserve it. It was true except for the one man who had ever occupied her heart legitimately. The one life he took, he regretted.
Debbie moved closer, her body an invitation. He cupped her full, enticing buttocks, bringing her sex to his mouth. With a gentle push of her foot, she placed it on his knee, she parted her thighs and granted him access, her fingers threading through his hair as he teased her. Her hips gyrated like a gypsy, her breath hitching as she reached an early climax, his name spilling from her lips in a whispered chant.
“You got this, baby, then we can…” she began, but he cut her off.
“It’s not enough—It’s never enough,” he declared, pulling back, his lips glistening with her essence. Debbie laughed softly, the sound warm and mystical to him.
A funny thing happens to a man caged away from society for years. His mind adapts. To survive it hibernates and takes memories to immortalize and drink from. If he got shanked, he fought for survival for the memory of his sweet Debbie; if he shanked a man over disrespect, he did it in Debbie’s honor. He spat on the inmate’s battered body, cursed him in Italian, and made the sign of the cross to the front of him in Debbie’s name not the Virgin Mary. He could feel her. Her standing at his side with her hand to his shoulder giving permission. If he got a letter or a photo of her, he’d sometimes cut out the kids for privacy. The things he did to Debbie’s photo would make the most brazen of men blush. He made love to her in his cell, alone, with only her pictures for inspiration and petroleum jelly. Over and over again until she felt real.
Debbie was his .
When she straddled him, she took him inside of her slowly and easily; the sensation sent shudders through her pelvis and currents of striking heat through her body. A strong surge of anger hit him like a sledgehammer to the gut. How could she be so good, so good at it when it had been years for them both? But he knew his irrational jealousy was a remnant of his mental issues, so he talked himself down and relished in the truth. Her body was made for only him.
For a moment, she held control, but Matteo soon took over. He buried his face between her breasts, his hands gripping the cheeks of her ass tightly. In one fluid motion, he flipped her onto the sofa, pinning her down with her right leg pressed against her shoulder. He thrust slowly at first, then with increasing urgency as her body accommodated him, his movements raw and primal.
Debbie grasped his ball sack, her touch firm but gentle, ensuring he wouldn’t fuck her to hard and hurt her. As his aggression subsided, she released his testicles and cupped his face, her hips moving rhythmically to meet his down strokes.
“Tell me again,” he panted.
“No one baby, no one has had this pussy but you,” Debbie groaned.
Matteo groaned.
“I’m coming home with you tonight,” she whispered in his ear and flicked her tongue at it, her voice tender, her body cushioning his hardness. The words made him dizzy with his obsessive passion for her. “I’ll cook for you, take care of you. I’m yours. All of me, baby, only yours. Welcome back, my Matteo.”
Matteo smiled against her skin, kissing her again. After years of hiding, of pretending their love was secondary, he finally felt at home. There was no one else between them. Soon, she would break the news to Christopher—they were moving into the penthouse with his father, and Daphne and Junior would have to accept it. Because they were flesh of his flesh, and bone of his bone. He didn’t give a fuck what the Mafia had to say. He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t his brother. He was Matteo Ricci, and this time, he was in control.
Exhausted, Matteo collapsed against her, his breath ragged. Debbie gently stroked his back, her touch soothing.
“The Penny Man is home,” she chuckled, her voice soft with affection. He preferred the nickname to the Butcher.
He looked up at her, a sad smile playing on his lips. “You still love me?”
“Stop playing with me, Matteo,” she laughed. “You know the real.”
“Finally,” he murmured. “I got my girl back. This is real.”