Chapter 15
15
T he Sit Down - Harlem, 1978
Daphne and Sandra worked in unison. They warmed up the food from the repast and set the table in the kitchen. Christopher was watching television while Debbie paced on the phone, yelling at her oldest son.
“Get your ass over here! Now! I knew you were at the arcade. I mean it, Junior,” Debbie shouted.
Daphne glanced up at Sandra and then back down to setting the table. Sandra listened as Debbie became increasingly angry. She slammed the phone down and told Christopher to turn the TV off and wash his hands. She stormed into the kitchen, went to a cabinet, and removed a bottle of E his face flushed with anger. “You cheatin’, Junior! Ain’t no way you rollin’ sevens like that back-to-back!”
Junior straightened up slowly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He counted the bills in his hand, deliberately taking his time, before tucking them into his pocket. “Man, if you can’t hang, then dice ain’t yo’ game. Simple as that, young blood.”
The circle of men erupted into laughter again, egging Earl on. “You gonna let him talk to you like that, Earl?” Leon teased. “Junior, just took your whole check, Jack!”
Earl’s eyes darted around the group, his pride stinging worse than the loss of his money. He reached for the Saturday Night Special tucked in his waistband, the gun catching the dim light of the alley as he aimed it at Junior. “I ain’t playin’ with you, Junior! You think you tough ‘cause you run what’s left of the Council? Nah, man, I know what you really about. You ain’t no kingpin. You just lucky yo’ daddy?—”
Before Earl could finish, Junior stepped forward, his smirk fading into a cold, hard stare. The laughter died instantly, the alley falling silent except for the distant hum of the city. Junior didn’t say a word, just locked eyes with Earl, his expression daring him to pull the trigger, his chest right up against the muzzle of the gun.
“Who my Daddy? Say his name muthafucka,” Junior said.
Earl hesitated, his arm and hand shaking. He glanced at the others, but no one was laughing now. No one was even breathing too loud. Earl’s bravado was crumbling under the weight of Junior’s unshakable calm.
“What you gone do with your water gun, punk muthafucka?” Junior asked through clenched teeth.
Nothing moved, not even a breeze. The distant bass from inside the pool hall seemed to hush. All of the rest of the men braced to run because if Earl were stupid enough to kill the bastard son of Don Matteo Ricci, the Butcher, every man in attendance would get carved up personally by him. Rumors all over the city said that the Butcher kept a closet full of fallen gangsters’ bones to sharpen his knives. Bullshit or not, no one wanted to test that rumor.
And Junior? He doesn't even blink. He fixed Earl with a harder stare. Slowly, Junior raises his hands halfway, palms out casually.
Earl’s gun wavers. His eyes dart to the others, then back to Junior. Sweat beads on Earl's forehead, rolling down past his temple. His chest heaves like a bellows. "Gimme my money back!" Earl barks, but his voice cracks. "All that bread mine! Y'all cheated me!"
Red speaks up softly, "Cool it, man..." He starts to raise his hands, too. “Junior ain’t cheat nobody. Ever. Those dice were just rolling hot tonight. We all good out here. It’s all in fun. Right Junior? Nobody wants no trouble . "
"Shut up!" Earl snaps, wild-eyed. The muzzle flicks toward Red for a split second — and that's all Junior needs.
Junior, in one swift move, smacks Earl’s wrist hard. BAM! The gun fires, pops free and clatters to the oily pavement. Before Earl can react, Junior grabs him by the collar and yanks him forward. Earl yelps, swinging awkwardly as Junior holds him up with one fist and punches his face ruthlessly with the other. Blood spurts from Earl’s mouth and nose as he drops like a sack of potatoes. In desperation, Earl’s free hand dives to his boot, whipping out a rusty switchblade. But Junior is quicker: he kicks Earl to sleep, and the blade is dropped immediately.
It all happens in a heartbeat. Junior stands over him, calm but coiled tight. He spits on an unconscious, bloody Earl. "Look at you," Junior says, almost disgusted. "Pullin' a piece on me like you got the juice. You ain't got nothin', Earl." Junior’s voice is ice cold. The other men, brave enough to stay, watch in stunned silence; a moment ago, they'd been jeering Earl, and now even Big-Tee and Red look a little sorry for the man.
“Get the rest of my fucking money off him,” Junior said.
“He’s empty, boss,” said Big Tee, but Leon went and checked. Earl had a wad tucked in his boot. He pulled it out and showed them all the knot of cash. It meant he was skimming.
“Fool has been skimming. And you fuckers didn’t catch it,” Junior said.
“Damn,” whistled Red.
Suddenly, bright headlights flood the alley, cutting his words off. A long black Cadillac creeps in from the street, its engine a low rumble that echoes off the alley walls. The twin beams of light are harsh and blinding; everyone squints and throws up an arm. The jovial mood is shattered in an instant, replaced by an electric fear.
"Oh, shit... Who is that?" Red whispers, already stepping away. They know who. Word on the street is you don't stick around when Italians roll up at midnight in a black Caddy.
In a split second, the alley explodes into motion. Leon tosses the bills to Junior and bolts with the rest. Only Red and Big-Tee stand side by side with their boss. They remove their guns.
Junior stands stock-still in the middle of the alley, the harsh headlights sparking embers in his dark eyes. His heart jackhammers in his chest, but he forces himself to remain steady. This is his turf, and he ain't about to run like no punk. Not even from the Butcher. Junior subtly slides the discarded Saturday Night Special Earl pulled on him and used his foot, kicking it into a shadow by the dumpster so the Italians could see he isn’t armed—no need to give Caesar any ideas.
The Cadillac’s passenger door opens with a thunk. Out steps Caesar — tall, broad, and mean as the devil. Caesar’s a well-dressed soldier who was The Butcher’s left hand. He had a thick neck bulging out of a cheap suit, the kind of cat who cracks jaws for a living. A nasty scar cuts across his neck like someone tried to slit his throat once but couldn’t finish the job. He sizes up the alley, man on the ground beaten half-dead. The men with the guns covering Junior. And Junior with bloody fists.
Junior's muscles tighten, adrenaline screaming for him to do something — run, fight, anything — but he tamps it down. He knows Caesar. And he sure as hell knows the man sitting in the back of that car.
Caesar steps forward one hand casually inside his jacket, fingers likely resting on his gun. He jerks his chin at Junior. “Get in the car Junior," he orders, voice low and gravelly, leaving no room for argument. It’s not a request. The way Caesar says his name carries a weight that prickles the hairs on the back of Junior’s neck.
Junior snorts, trying to hide his dread behind bravado. For a half-second, he considers talking back or making a break for it. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He can feel hot anger bubbling up — anger at being hunted down in his own neighborhood, anger at the man in the car, anger at his damn life. His eyes dart to Caesar's jacket, noticing the unmistakable bulge of a gun. Junior knows his boys could be bleeding out on the pavement with one wrong move.
He sucks his teeth. "Man, I ain't done nothin’ for this visit. You said to stop coming to the penthouse, and I did, Caesar,” Junior growls, voice tight. But his feet stay planted; defiance is only gonna get him killed tonight. Junior hated how small his voice sounded just then. These were his childhood friends, his brothers. It wasn’t above Caesar to make an example of them to get Junior to behave. He knew that. He hated feeling like a kid again, caught doing wrong. First, he had to put up with the Wolf reaching into his life, now this.
From inside the Cadillac, a shadowy figure shifts — The Butcher is watching. The glow of his cigar as he smokes it is all that could be seen. Junior can feel his father's eyes on him through the glare of the headlights. That old familiar presence makes Junior’s stomach knot up. He’d rather face Earl’s gun again than confront Matteo.
Caesar takes another step, impatience evident in the hard set of his jaw. "Don't make me say it twice, kid. You know what it is. He wants to speak.” He spits the words out like nails.
Junior finally nods, swallowing his pride like broken glass. He forces a smirk onto his face, trying to save a shred of dignity. "A'ight, a'ight... cool it. I'm comin'," he says, lifting his hands in surrender. The fight in his eyes dims to a sullen flicker. This battle ain't one he can win. Not here. Not tonight. “Y’all get Earl out of this alley. When he wakes, teach him a lesson for stealing from me.”
“Junior? We—” Red stammered
“Do it!” Junior commanded. “I got this.”
The men holstered their guns, tucking them into the backs of their pants. They all knew the drill. Out of respect, they picked up Earl and carried him into the pool hall, leaving Junior alone with the car.
Caesar kept his hard stare on Junior as he closed the distance. He searched him and removed his knife and piece. Junior moved with a slow swagger, masking the dread thumping in his chest. When he reached the car, Caesar roughly opened the back door the rest of the way. The interior light clicked on, revealing the silhouette of a man in an expensive suit, rings gleaming on thick fingers—The Butcher.
Junior slid into the back seat, sinking into the cold leather. The stench of his father’s cigar smoke immediately assaulted his nose. He didn’t look at the man next to him. Instead, he glared straight ahead, jaw clenched so tight it might crack a molar. Caesar slammed the door behind him, sealing Junior in.
For a moment, there was just the rumble of the idling engine. In the dark confines of the car, the Butcher’s face was illuminated in the glow of his cigar’s ember. He was meaner looking than his brother, the Wolf. His pitiless eyes and the tattoos crawling up his neck and hands gave him the appearance of a man carved from misery.
“You made your mama cry,” Matteo said, his voice low and gravelly, the accent thick but controlled.
“She’s my mama?—”
Before Junior could finish, Matteo swung his hand out and struck him hard in the center of his chest. Junior gasped for air, feeling like his ribs had caved in. His eyes watered. He fought the urge to cry out, so he coughed instead. Matteo’s fist remained pressed against his chest, a silent warning.
“Look at me! Look at me son! ” Matteo barked.
Junior turned his head, his breath ragged, and met his father’s gaze.
“No one makes her cry. Ever. Do you understand?” Matteo’s voice was like steel, but there was something else there—something lethal.
“What about you?” Junior’s voice cracked. “You make her cry all the time.”
Matteo’s glare softened just for a moment. He removed his fist, and Junior touched the burning ache in his chest, as he struggled to catch his breath.
“She’s your mother, caro. You respect her. Always, ” Matteo said, his tone quieter now, almost pleading.
Junior sniffed, tears rolling down his cheeks. “How? Why should I? Because you say so? You got her coming to your penthouse. People talking, people see her and see you and they know. You think they respect her? I’m trying to protect her! From you!”
Matteo drew on his cigar and let the window down to exhale. “I’m back now. Things are going to change for Debbie. For all of you.”
“Why did you come back? Why? ” Junior demanded. “I’m not talking about back to your family. I’m talking about back to us!”
“You’re my family,” Matteo said simply, as if that explained everything.
The car pulled up to a warehouse on the East Side, owned by Matteo. The lights were cut off as they drove through the gates.
Junior’s fists are clenched on his knees. The car shut down, and Matteo’s men got out, leaving them alone in the dark car.
“Tonight, she wanted to explain herself to you, Junior, apologize for all the lies she and José were forced to tell because of me,” Matteo said, his voice softer now. “She takes the blame on herself. But none of it is her fault. Debbie is an angel. Perfect.”
“I know whose fault it is,” Junior snapped, his voice cracking with emotion. “I saw you. I saw what you did! He is my father! Not you!”
Matteo put the cigar out with his thumb. “You’re my son. My firstborn. I wanted you to have my name, and I couldn’t give it to you. Best I could do was name you Junior. You are mine . I lost control… I fucked up. But you came from my nuts, not his. You made of me. That’s why you were able to put that man down in that alley. Yea, I saw that. We were parked up ahead, watching. That’s why you the only one left out of the Council and all these motherfuckers fear you. Me! Capisce ?”
“Fuck you, man!” Junior cried, his voice breaking.
Matteo chuckled. He flicked the cigar out the window. “I hated my father, too. I still do. I go to the cemetery to piss on his grave,” said Matteo.
Junior frowned but said nothing.
“I know a talk from your mother is not enough to cure you of years of hate for me. She wants to baby you; keep you close to her breast. I know what you really need. You a man now? Huh? I’m going to treat you like one. Starting now.”
Junior looked over to him a bit wary.
“I love you,” Matteo said, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. “I’m not going to let you go into the jungle uncovered. You’re a Ricci. You’re heir to my father’s throne, not Nicolas. You. And before this fucking world takes me out, I’m going to make it all up to my Debbie, to my boys, to my baby girl. That’s why I crawled out of hell in prison to come home. It’s the only reason I left that cell. To do it right one last time. We are famiglia.”
“Then why’d you leave us in Harlem?” Junior shot back. “Got my mama sneaking around to see you like she’s some?—”
Matteo’s dark gaze cut over to him, sharp and dangerous, and Junior fell silent. He didn’t doubt his father loved his mother, and he didn’t doubt Matteo would carve him up if he disrespected her. But he doubted everything else.
“That’s gonna change,” Matteo said, his voice firm but tinged with desperation. “You hear me, son? Everybody’s gonna know. You ain’t staying in no hole, you ain’t a street hustler, or being pushed away. You’re my blood, and they’re gonna fucking respect it. Car, penthouse, money, whores—that ain’t shit. You want an operation of your own, look at it.”
Junior’s gaze went to the warehouse and property.
“It’s yours. It’s the beginning. You’re gonna have more than that. You’re going to have my name.”
Junior’s gaze returned to Matteo, confusion and anger warring inside of him. Matteo grabbed him by the face, and Junior tried to break free. He fought hard and his dad’s grip remain firm but not harsh.
“My boy. My blood, I wish my father were alive to see who I make sure you will become, what you will do with his legacy. The remake of la famiglia ,” Matteo said, his voice breaking for the first time. He pressed his forehead to Junior’s, his breath hot and unsteady. “I don’t know how long I’ve got this time. But before they take me out, you will be my pride, and I will teach you how to respect your mama and protect your sister and brother. Nothing’s gonna stop us. Not even your anger with me. So, deal with it. No one is going to keep us apart again.”
Junior began to cry. The years of trauma and hurt exploded from him at that moment. Matteo pulled him into his arms as he once did when Junior was a young boy, confused by what he saw. He held him tight, and the last of Junior’s defenses slipped. He hugged the father he always knew he had and cried out the years of pain of wanting him to be there for him. Glad that he was home.