Chapter 21
21
M agdalia’s - East Harlem, 1949
The train car rattled like bones in a coffin. Debbie sat stiffly back on the wooden bench, her fingers twitching. Around her, the people of Harlem shuffled in and out. Men in porkpie hats flipping through the Amsterdam News , women balancing baskets of groceries, boys scuffing their knickerbockers on the floor. Their noise felt distant as if she were watching life through greased glass.
Out the window, fire escapes zigzagged, holding the neighborhood together. Businesses and their signs blinked by, like Lucky’s Bar and the Divine Mission Church. A group of girls laughed, their voices swallowed by the screech of brakes.
96th Street.
Debbie stood too fast, her knees buckling. The address was burned in her pocket.
Magdalena knows how to fix things, Suga said. But be careful. She’s old now, and her hands aren’t steady.
The whispered conversation had happened in her school bathroom. The girls had slipped into a stall to talk. Outside of it was cigarette smoke and other girls gossiping between classes.
She uses a hook, long and thin. Or I heard she sometimes gives pennyroyal tea. Either way, you best bring cash and a strong stomach. You’ll bleed and cramp afterwards, but then things will be okay. You’ll be okay. I promise.
Debbie hurried out of the train car. The platform stank of urine and pretzels. Debbie clutched her coat tighter, though it was a warm day; she chose to wear one. A sidewalk preacher bellowed about Jezebel’s sins as she passed. A group of men loitered outside a social club and turned to stare. She ducked her head, her heart hammering.
Don’t let anyone see you, said Sugar. You’d be surprised at how people know each other.
Three blocks. Two. The brownstone hunched between a bodega and a boarded-up tailor’s, its stoop littered with bottle caps. Debbie’s hand hovered over the rusted gate. Somewhere inside, Magdalia waited with her solutions. Her consequences .
A shadow moved at the corner of her vision.
“Debbie.”
José materialized from the alleyway, his face drawn. The sight of him—his too-big peacoat, the way his brows knotted—unlocked something in her chest.
“You came,” she breathed.
He grabbed her wrist, yanking her a step back. “Christ, hermana , you were just gonna walk up? Mira. ” He jerked his chin toward the window. A silhouette passed behind the curtain. “That’s her . You don’t knock till I check the street.”
Debbie’s laugh came out shaky. “What you are you afraid of?”
José didn’t smile. He cupped her face, his palms rough from the docks. “You getting hurt. That’s what I’m afraid of. We agreed. You let me handle everything. Okay?”
“Just don’t leave,” she whispered.
José pressed his forehead to hers. The preacher’s voice swelled down the block: “And the Lord shall strike down the wicked ? —”
“Not even if hell freezes over,” he swore.
Magdalia’s Basement
“ Estás bien? Are you okay?” José asked softly, gripping Debbie’s hand so tightly it felt like desperation had fused their fingers together.
Debbie shook her head, unable to speak. Her body trembled so violently that she struggled to breathe, let alone answer. Her gaze remained fixed downward, heavy with shame. Around her, José’s questions, filled with concern, collided in rapid Spanish with Magdalia’s impatient replies. The older woman’s voice sliced through the room—sharp, cold, irritated by José.
Debbie didn’t move, didn’t wipe away the silent tears slipping down her cheeks. Her eyes were pinned to the cracked cement floor as if ignoring the truth could make the whole ordeal vanish.
José gently squeezed her hand again, his voice dropping even lower, more hesitant.
“Debbie, the bracelet—did you bring it?”
With a sorrowful nod, she slowly reached into her purse, fingers clumsy, and withdrew her most treasured possession. A deep ache bloomed in her chest as she placed the sapphire bracelet in José’s palm. Handing it over felt like surrendering the last piece of hope—the last link to Matteo, and the death of the life she’d imagined for them.
Magdalia snatched the bracelet from José’s hand, holding it up greedily to the thin sunlight streaming through the small basement window. A toothy grin formed on the old woman’s lips.
“ Sí, es suficiente, ” Magdalia announced, satisfied. She launched into a rapid-fire Spanish exchange with José, the words harsh, clipped, and unrelenting.
Debbie’s eyes remained locked on her shoes, refusing to comprehend the exchange, until José gently touched her chin, raising her eyes to meet his. In his gaze, Debbie found a tortured mix of guilt and compassion. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“She says…you have to undress, Debbie.” He swallowed hard, clearly struggling. “Then lie down on that table.”
Debbie fully absorbed the horror of the surroundings for the first time since entering the basement. A chill ran down her spine. Her eyes caught sight of the medical instruments arranged ominously on a tray, the stained buckets in the corner, and the contraption lowered from the ceiling—a sinister metal bar designed to keep her legs forcibly apart. Nausea surged through her stomach. She stepped back instinctively, gripping José’s arm.
“José, I can’t,” she whispered, terror crackling in her voice. “ I can’t! I’m scared. I can’t do it! ”
Magdalia began cursing at Debbie, insisting she go through with it. José snapped at the old woman and threatened her in Spanish, causing the woman to blanche and step back with a look of fear. He hugged Debbie. He whispered in her ear. “Let me talk to her upstairs, Debbie. Estaré justo afuera. You stay in here. Okay. I’ll handle it.”
Magdalia shoved a thin robe roughly into Debbie’s trembling body. Almost certain that Debbie had no choice and would go through with the procedure.
Rápido! ” Magdalia barked, dismissing them both with indifference. She opened the basement door and went up hurriedly.
Debbie’s tears streamed unchecked now. Every part of her screamed to flee this terrible place, run back to Matteo, and beg forgiveness for even considering it. But the shame, the fear of what awaited them all if she didn’t go through with it, held her feet frozen in place.
José gently pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, whispering in a voice thick with remorse, “ Lo siento tanto. I’m so sorry, Debbie.”
Debbie clutched the robe against her chest, watching José’s retreating form with desperation. The basement door closed quietly behind him, leaving her trapped, alone beneath that oppressive contraption. Tears cascaded freely as she stared upward at the bar that would soon hold her captive.
It felt like a judgment hanging over her head, sealing her fate in that cold, dark basement, as she struggled against the sobs threatening to tear her apart.
* * *
Magdalia stormed up the stairs, furious, reaching beneath her apron for the revolver she kept tucked at her waist. She’d had enough. It was time to rid herself of this meddling boy. She swung the basement door open with a sharp curse, ready to unleash her wrath on the boy when he joined her.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
Matteo Ricci stood in front of her, flanked by Caesar to his left and Angelo to his right. Every instinct screamed for her to keep the gun out of sight. Matteo’s presence sucked all the air from the brownstone, filling it with tension thicker than smoke. His gaze targeted Magdalia, sliding slowly, menacingly downward until he spotted the sapphire bracelet glittering in her hand.
His voice was calm—too calm—as he took a step forward. "Is that my fucking bracelet, puttana ?”
Magdalia’s eyes widened, fear and confusion twisting together. She stared down at the precious jewels with dawning horror. It couldn't be. That young colored girl in the other room… She couldn’t possibly belong to Matteo Ricci. Yet suddenly, it all fit into place. The extravagance, the secrecy, the quiet desperation of the girl who had begged her to take the bracelet—it had Don Cosimo Ricci and his men written all over it. Of course, his son would be no different.
Matteo flipped open his switchblade with a practiced, menacing flick, the glint of steel cold and threatening. "I've never hurt a woman," he said, his voice dark, brittle. "Never. But if you touched her— ti ammazzo , I’ll kill you for it.”
“She didn’t!” José quickly interjected, stepping forward from the shadows. “I did what you asked, Matteo. Like I told you, nothing happened yet. Debbie is downstairs in the basement. She hasn’t been touched.”
Matteo’s chest rose and fell heavily, the blade glinting ominously in his hand. His gaze stayed locked on Magdalia, every muscle coiled with murderous intent.
Magdalia trembled, extending the bracelet with a shaky hand. “ Mi dispiace tanto , Signor Ricci,” she whimpered, tears of desperation spilling down her face. “I swear, I didn’t know. She never said the child belonged to you. Ti prego , forgive me.”
Caesar stepped forward swiftly, snatching the bracelet from Magdalia’s trembling fingers and reaching into the apron to take her gun. Shocked that they even knew she carried it, she did nothing but gasp. Matteo remained rooted in place; his dark eyes fixated on the closed door behind which Debbie waited, alone and frightened.
“Everyone get out,” he growled.
Caesar roughly grabbed Magdalia by her hair, clamping a calloused hand over her mouth as she shrieked in terror. She kicked and struggled, but he dragged her toward the door to leave her home. Her muffled screams echoed faintly as she was forced away.
José hesitated. He needed Matteo to understand. “We just got here. Debbie didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t blame her, Matteo—she told me before I left her that she couldn’t go through with it. So don’t blame her!”
Matteo turned his head slightly, eyes glinting with something José had heard whispered but never seen himself in the young hoodlum: the ruthless, deadly fury of a Ricci. José felt his heart quicken in primal fear. Matteo would truly kill anyone who stood between him and the woman and unborn baby he loved.
“I said get out,” Matteo repeated softly, each syllable dripping with quiet menace.
José nodded slowly, backing away. He turned and went to the door, then paused as Matteo spoke again, his voice softer this time, yet oddly sincere.
“José.”
José waited. Matteo hadn’t moved; his gaze was fixed on the door, beyond which Debbie was in the basement waiting. But his voice betrayed the turmoil churning inside him.
“Thank you. Grazie. For coming to me. For protecting my Debbie. For saving my child. My life for your life, from this day forward. You will always have my protection. My respect. My life for your life.”
“Ah, okay? I care for Debbie and?—”
Matteo put up a hand and stopped him from speaking. “I know what people say about me. Debbie is the only one who has faith in me. That was until you took a risk and trusted me. Trust me now. With this vow, I will always honor our agreement. I will always protect her and my baby. I swear it on my soul.”
José couldn’t respond. He knew Matteo meant the vow.
“You are a good friend— un buon amico. I owe you everything for what you have done for us today.”
José drew in a slow, trembling breath. “I do love her,” he said honestly, quietly. “Maybe not in the same way you do, Matteo—but I love her. Debbie’s special. I see you know that.”
Matteo gave a tight nod, acknowledging José’s words without looking back. “Now get out. I’ll take care of her.”
José did as he was told. He heard Magdalia’s shrill screams growing fainter, but Matteo’s heavy, labored breaths echoed through his memory, haunting him. The basement door slammed shut behind him, sealing Matteo Ricci alone inside with Debbie—and the deadly, unresolved tension lingering in the air.
Matteo opened the door slowly to the basement. The sound hit him first—Debbie’s choked sobs, raw and desperate, slicing through the damp basement air. Matteo went down the stairs, then stepped inside, and the room seemed to shrink around the horror before him.
A flimsy wooden table dominated the space, its surface scarred and stained. His gaze snagged on the stirrups, the leather straps coiled like snakes, waiting to pin her down. Above it, a metal bar hung from the ceiling, cruel in its purpose— to force legs apart, to make resistance impossible. His stomach lurched.
Debbie stood trembling in front of it, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her dress. She hadn’t heard him enter. Every shuddering breath she took was a knife twisting in his chest.
She would do this. She would lie back on that table and let them take their child—theirchild, the one thing made purely of him and her from love. The thought ignited something feral in him.
He crossed the room in three strides. At his approach, her sobs turned frantic. He froze and stood just a breath away from her. He was so close that he could smell the grease on her scalp and the fresh press of her beautiful hair.
Debbie yanked at her collar as if stripping faster could outrun the pain she carried.
Sobs wracked her body as she fumbled with the buttons of her dress, fingers trembling against the fabric. The robe lay discarded on the table, a silent witness. She didn’t hear Matteo enter or hear his footsteps or the hard breathing as he saw her. She realized she would be rescued only when his arm wrapped around her waist, grounding her.
Matteo’s hand caressed her tummy. “Don’t cry, mio cara .”
She turned. His eyes were glazed, raw with suppression of tears. Something inside her splintered to have an ally. Someone to know her desperation and not blame her for it. Without thought, she buried her face in his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat and cigarette smoke, the familiar starch of his shirt. He held her tighter, his grip almost painful, and then— his sobs shook her. Matteo, who never cried. Not even over the discovery of his brother’s broken body, or after witnessing his mother’s pain, sobbed.
She pulled back, stunned. Her fingertips brushed his damp cheeks. “I didn’t know what to do,” she pleaded for understanding.
“Not your fault.” His voice was gravel, and his cool was restored. He ran his thumb over her cheek and smeared her tears. Matteo then pressed his forehead to hers. “No one’s taking our baby. Ever. You hear me?”
“But—”
He kissed her nose, then her lips, then eased his tongue into her mouth. Not gentle—a claim, a vow. When he broke away, his hands were steady as he redid her buttons, one by one. Silent, dazed, she let him lead her back upstairs toward the light, toward freedom. And then past Magdalena’s shadowed walls, into the glare of daylight. A car idled at the curb. José sat stiffly in the passenger seat; a stranger gripped the wheel.
Magdalena was officially out of business. If she ever resurfaced in East Harlem again, even to collect a toothbrush from the home Matteo now claimed he owned, she’d get the final death sentence from the Butcher herself.
Debbie stopped. “Matteo—what is happening?”
He didn’t pause. His fingers laced with hers, his stride relentless, and she stumbled behind him to the car and then into the backseat. The door slammed like a verdict.
“Where are we going?”
“Just go ,” Matteo ordered the driver.
The car lurched forward. Debbie let Matteo pull her close; her ear pressed to his thudding heart. The silence thickened. Her mind turned over the possibilities— How did he know? How lord? —and then her gaze landed on José’s profile. Her best friend stared straight ahead, jaw set.
He told him.
No anger came. Only relief, so sharp it burned away any need for regret.
The Fabric Store
The car eventually stopped outside of the fabric store. Debbie’s brow furrowed with apprehension as she murmured under her breath. “What’s happening?”
Matteo tossed open the door and pulled her gently but determinedly outside the car. With an iron grip on his hand, he marched toward the store. She was left with a fleeting glance at José—before the car disappeared into the distance.
“Matteo, what’s going to happen?—?”
“Explain. Later.” His hand in hers, he ushered her inside, up a narrow staircase she’d never noticed, into a cramped tenement that smelled of tobacco and old newspapers. The place he told her about more than once at Mama Stewart’s. The door slammed behind them.
Matteo whirled on her. “Don’t ever do that again.” His voice cracked with emotion. “You could’ve died. Our baby—” He choked, fists clenching.
She sank onto the bed. Her heartbeat had slowed to nervous flutters. His rage was a living thing, pacing the room—kicking aside baseball carts of cards, rattling the knives he collected. The space was him : faded magazines, a pinned-up Rita Hayworth smirking in her bikini poster.
Matteo paused over his words. He fixed his gaze on Rita’s poster. Her sultry pose against a distant beach evokes forgotten glamour. Debbie joined his glance, the image a stark contrast to their grim reality.
“I will never be her. Never,” Debbie spat.
“What did you say?” he turned and looked at her.
She pointed at the poster as tears slipped down her cheeks. “Her! That’s who you want. That’s not me! That will never be me!”
“I came in this room night after night, to escape my father and my family. I lay in that bed and stared at that poster. Pretended that she was my girl and we were on that beach, living life. No problems, Debbie. No obligations. Just free.”
Debbie looked away.
“Then Carmelo got hurt, and the world turned to greater shit, and I lay here, and I looked at that poster and realized she wasn’t my girl, that was not my beach, and that would never be my life. Life is shit. And Rita is a bitch!” Matteo spat.
“I don’t understand? Why are you angry? Are you mad at me? Or a poster?” Debbie asked.
Matteo went to the poster and ripped it from the wall. “I don’t fucking want her, Debs. I don’t fucking want beaches and fake shit! I want you! You! My baby!” he shouted and ripped up the poster in front of her. Confused and scared, Debbie said nothing. She just wiped away her tears.
“I want you too,” she said. “I do, Matteo. I only ran away because I knew I couldn’t have you or our baby.”
“You’re having the baby,” he said.
“Okay,” she sighed with the roll of her eyes.
He didn’t hear or wouldn’t hear her. She looked away.
“And you’re marrying José.”
“ What? ” her head swiveled back to look at him.
“He’ll say it’s his,” Matteo said. “You’ll tell your families tomorrow. You’re of age—they can’t stop you.”
Debbie shot up. “No! What about us ?”
Matteo’s glare softened. “It’s temporary. I’ve got plans, but I need time .” He reached for her, and she knocked his hand away. “He agreed.”
“You forced him too. He would never?—”
“José’s got a life—a boyfriend , you know that?”
She recoiled. José, in love? Guilt prickled her heart. How had she missed it? His life was changing, and all she did was go to him with her problems. As a kid, he had dreams that he never believed would come true. His family would never accept the fact that he loved men. How could it all be happening for him, too, without her being the keeper of his secrets? She didn’t know.
“He’ll marry you for show,” Matteo said. “Then, when I replace my father, we go public. You’ll be my wife. Our child will be legitimate. ”
“Matteo, this is a crazy plan,” she reasoned. “It’s not fair to José.”
“He wants the deal. He can please his father, have his life with his boyfriend, and protect you.”
“And you want me to marry another man?” she frowned.
Matteo’s eyes darkened. “He isn’t a man. Not a real one.”
The slap rang out like a gunshot. Matteo’s head snapped to the side, his cheek hot and burning. He touched the sting slowly, disbelief hardening into ice in his veins.
Debbie stood her ground, chest heaving. “He is a man. Maybe not my boyfriend, but my friend —and you will treat him with respect. You won’t be one of those guys, Matteo, who beats him up because he isn’t man enough. Or bully him into doing what you want because you think you’re superior. You hear me?”
Matteo lowered his hand. His glare could’ve cut glass, but he said nothing.
Debbie closed her eyes, exhaling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay. Today has been… too much.” When she opened them again, Matteo hadn’t moved. Rage simmered behind his eyes, caged but barely contained.
She reached for his face. He bristled. Undeterred, she cupped his jaw, forcing his gaze to hers. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I know you don’t like disrespect. You never hit me; I should never hit you. I’m sorry. But I need you to see us, Matteo. Not the version in your head. Us. ”
Her arms wound around his neck, and after a heartbeat, his locked around her waist, crushing, possessive. She smiled against his shoulder.
“I’ll do whatever you say,” she whispered.
“I love you, Debbie.” His voice was gravelly. “Don’t ever hit me. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
He kissed her and she smiled. He got all rough and urgent, wanting to undress her, but she slowed him down. She pulled back, tears glistening. “I know. Now tell the baby.”
“Tell the baby?” he panted.
“That you love it, silly,” she chuckled.
Matteo’s cheek still flamed red where she’d struck him. She brushed her thumb over it, soothing, before guiding his hand to her belly.
“Tell the baby,” she urged, smiling with joy.
Matteo sank to his knees. His palms framed the swell of her stomach that hadn’t risen yet as if he could already feel the life beneath. “ Ti amo, bambino, ” he murmured, voice thick. “I’m your father. I love you. I will protect you. Always. ”