Chapter 27
27
Q ueens, New York, 1949
[SOUND: A PAYPHONE’S STATIC CRACKLE. DISTANT HIGHWAY NOISE.]
CARMELO(whispered, tense)
…Kathy? You there?
KATHY(breathless, rushed)
…Melo? It’s me. I’m sor?—
CARMELO(cuts in, voice rough with relief)
—Christ, Kathy. Ten minutes. I’ve been worried; you are never late on a call.
KATHY(exhausted, hushed)
…Had to beg Ely to borrow the Jensens’ truck just to get to this payphone. He’s… well, he ain’t happy. Things’ve been bad, weird Aunt Janey…(swallows)Nevermind. Listen—I’m comin’ home. Was s’posed to leave tomorrow, but Big Mama’s sugar’s up. Doctor won’t let her travel yet. Gotta wait another week. Don’t worry, the wedding won’t happen without us. ButMelo?—
CARMELO(sudden, bright hope)
—Mama mia, you mean it? Finally. You’re coming back to Harlem. For good?When?The wedding—shit, it’s thewedding isn’t it—when is it?
KATHY(laughs, tearful)
Matteo didn’t tell you? Soon. As soon as Big Mama’s well.(lower, fierce)Ain’t no nightmare lasts forever. When I see you, hold you—(voice cracks words garbled, states where it’s legal)—Melo.Paris. New Orleans don’t give a damn. We’ll get married?—
CARMELO(sharp, urgent)
—Gotta go. Love you.
[CLICK. SOUND: THE LINE DIES. A LONG, HOLLOW DIAL TONE.]
Kathy double-blinked. The phone was dead. She hung up the receiver, her fingers lingering on the cold metal, then wiped the tears of joy from her eyes. Through the smudged glass of the phone booth, she watched Ely pace by the truck, his boots kicking up dust. Ever since he’d learned about Debbie marrying José— because of Matteo —he’d been sour with her. Convincing him to drive her to the five and dime and then dashing across the street to the payphone hadn’t been easy.
She hated exploiting his feelings.
But she needed him. He was her best friend. Her salvation in Butts.
And yet—Carmelo was her heart . Ely had to understand that.
Kathy pushed open the phone booth door, stepping into the humid afternoon. The sun glared, forcing her to squint. Ely stopped pacing and stared, his jaw tight. Before he could turn away, she rushed forward and threw her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I never meant to hurt you. Please stop being angry with me.”
For a heartbeat, he stood rigid—then his arms locked around her, crushing her close. She could hear his heart hammering beneath his shirt, a wild, unspoken profession of his feelings for her.
“Kathy, you—” His voice cracked. “You deserve the world . But?—”
She lifted her head, touching his face. The conflict in his eyes—love, frustration, helpless want—made her own pulse spike.
“I love you, Ely,” she said softly.
His brows raised.
“I love you so much .” Her thumb brushed his cheekbone. “You’ve been in my heart so long, I can’t even remember life before you. Ido love you.”
“I love you too,” he rasped, the words raw with relief.
“But I’m not in love with you. And that’s not your fault. Or mine.” She held his gaze, unwavering. “Maybe this dream with Carmelo is just a fantasy?—”
Ely tried to interrupt, but she pressed a finger to his lips.
“—And if it is, then I’ll learn that lesson. But you have to let me . No more anger, or spite. No more trying to give me doubt about my future. No more trying to control me with kindness and then rejection. Just… be my friend .”
Ely exhaled hard, her eyes squeezing shut. When he opened them, he pulled her into another embrace as she pulled away, his lips grazing her forehead and temple and then drifting toward her mouth. She turned her face away at the last second. His sigh was heavy against her skin, where his lips connected with her cheek instead.
“I’ll help you,” he muttered. “But if he hurts you—if this breaks you—I’m done playing. I’ll fight for you, Kathy. I’ll show you love doesn’t have to hurt. You hear me?”
His determination sent a shiver through her. Before she could reply, he kissed her—hard, possessive, not what she wanted —but she let him. A small price to pay for his surrender. When he pulled back, satisfaction darkened his gaze. Kathy forced a smile, swallowing the bitterness, and what her heart felt was a betrayal.
Ely took her hand, leading her to the truck. As she climbed inside, she said a silent prayer:Let Carmelo have a plan. Let this work. Please, Lord, g ive us a chance.
Because loving him wasn’t about pain.
It was her destiny .
Queens, New York – 1955
The moment Carmelo set the phone down, he felt the weight of his mother’s stare burning into him. He turned slowly, meeting her gaze—dark eyes glistening with a mix of fury and devastation.
Lucia Riccistood rigid, her knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the counter. The crucifix around her neck caught the light as she exhaled sharply through her nose.
“Madre? I?—”
“ Stai ancora parlando con lei? ”You’re still talking to her?Her voice was low, quivering—not with surprise, but with the quiet horror of a woman who already knew the answer.“ Dopo tutto, Melo? Dopo che sei quasi morto ?”After everything? After almost dying?
Carmelo’s throat tightened. She knew . Not just about the call, but more. Maybe everything. The way her lips pressed into a thin line told him she’d been holding this in, waiting.
The hurt in her eyes cut deeper than any blade. He and Matteo had sworn an unspoken oath: Protect her. Shield her from the blood, the deals, the lies—even the good ones. But this? This betrayal was personal.
“ Posso spiegare —I can explain,” he said.
She didn’t let him finish.“ Tuo padre… ”Her voice cracked. “Non è un uomo che perdona due volte.” Your father isn’t a man who forgives twice.A single tear escaped, tracing the lines of her worn face.“I’ve done all I could to protect you. Maybe it’s my fault. For giving you Cosimo Ricci as a father.”
Carmelo’s chest ached.“ Ma, per favore… ”He reached for her, but she was already moving, slipping past him like a ghost, her dark green mourning dress whispering against the floor as she retreated toward the basement—her sanctuary, where the rosary beads and Nino’s quiet devotion offered some semblance of peace.
Before he could follow, the front door groaned open.
“Eccolo! Il mio ragazzo!” There he is! My boy!
Don Cosimo Ricci’s voice boomed through the house. Carmelo turned just as his father andConsigliere DeMarco—a gaunt, hawk-faced man with a smile like a straight razor—closed in on him.
Cosimo seized Carmelo’s face in his calloused hands, patting his cheek with a force just shy of a slap before planting a wet kiss on his forehead.“Look, DeMarco! Ricci blood doesn’t bend!”
Carmelo stiffened, fighting the urge to shove him away. His father only laughed, throwing him into a headlock like he was still a child. The scent of cigars and expensive cologne choked him.
“His mother wept for months,”Cosimo crowed, switching to English for show.“Thought he’d never walk again. But look at him! Took the bullets, took the pain— just like I did in the old country .”
DeMarco’s smirk widened. “Havi ’i cugghiuni!” He’s got brains and balls. “è vero sangue. Più disciplinato di Matteo.” True blood. More disciplined than Matteo.
Cosimo’s grin turned wolfish.“Ah, Matteo…”He lit a cigarette inside Carmelo’s mother’s house, knowing she hated him smoking outside of his office. He exhaled slowly with defiance in his stare.“Tell me, Melo—how’s your brother’s little plan to steal my family out from under me? He still thinks Don Lucciano will back him because of your mother’s Sicilian sangu ?”
Carmelo’s jaw clenched. He knows. Of course, he knew. Matteo’s secret meetings, the money he’d been stashing—even the way he’d been buttering up Debbie with gifts. All of it laid bare.
DeMarco leaned in.“Maybe it’s time we teach him a lesson, no? I hear he’s been… fraternizing with a negro girl .”The word dripped with venom.“Another negri in Harlem.”
Carmelo’s breath hitched. He stared into his father’s eyes that simmered with rage, and then his consigliere. Neither seems to register or even hint at the knowledge of Debbie’s pregnancy. But if they knew this information, how long before they learned the rest?
Cosimo waved a dismissive hand.“Let him play with the niggers. I stuck my dick in a few. Just like Carmelo,” he chuckled.
Carmelo’s hands clenched into fists.
“Every boy needs to test his teeth. My father taught me that.”He clapped Carmelo’s shoulder, grip tightening.“Besides, he’ll need to be strong—to stand at your left side when you take the throne.”
Carmelo didn’t blink.
“When I was a boy,”Cosimo continued,“my father threw me into the ring. Lotta libera —Sicilian freestyle wrestling. Then pugilato —real fists, real pain. Hardened me. Turned my rage into something useful .”His eyes gleamed.“That’s what I’ll do for you. While Matteo learns the price of omertà , you’ll learn to channel that fire in your blood. With your brains and the anger, you will take down the Sicilians and put the Italians on top. Do you think Papa doesn’t see the anger in you? Papa has made you into a man.”
DeMarco’s chuckle was ice.“I’ll arrange the sparring partners.”
As they strode toward the door, Carmelo’s chest tightened. The moment they were gone, he was moving—taking the basement steps two at a time, testing his healing leg. Kathy was coming back. And this time, he wouldn’t fail. But it was time to do damage control.
The basement was cool, dimly lit by a single bulb dangling over a small altar to the Virgin Mary. Lucia knelt before it, rosary beads slipping through her fingers. Beside her,Nino—the oldest Ricci brother, broad-shouldered and devout—murmured prayers in unison.
“Melo!”Nino barked, breaking mid- Ave Maria .
Lucia crossed herself and rose, smoothing her dress. Carmelo approached, voice low. “Ma, mi dispiace. Non voglio farti del male.” I don’t want to hurt you.I won’t harm the family.”
Nino surged forward, lifting Carmelo clear off the ground in a bear hug. “Stai migliorando!” You’re getting stronger! He told his brother.
Carmelo laughed, patting his brother’s back until he was set down. Lucia studied him, then offered a fragile smile. “C ome to Mass with us. We’ll pray on it.”
Relief flooded him. “Sì, Ma-ma.”
Her next words froze his blood.“Do you remember Rebecca Romero? She and her daughter Maria will join us.”
Carmelo’s smile died. Maria. The girl whose mother his father had taken into his office—the muffled sobs through the door, the way Rebecca had avoided his eyes for weeks after.
“ I don’t think?—”
Lucia patted his jaw. “Maria è una brava ragazza. Dovreste essere amici.” Maria is a good girl. You should be friends.
He swallowed the protest. For his mother, who had spoon-fed him through broken teeth, who had held his hand as he relearned to walk, he would endure this. He would sit through Mass, suffer through dinner, and even smile at Maria Romero.
But he would not give up Kathy, not for any of them. He found the phone and called the fabric store. With Matteo on the phone he told him everything.
Mama Stewarts
The diner’s fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped fly as Matteo stepped into Mama Stewart’s office. The room smelled of old coffee grounds and cigarette smoke, the walls papered with yellowed receipts and a faded photo of Lucky Luciano shaking hands with a younger Mama Stewart, her curly hair haloed by the neon glare of a 1940s reopening of the diner. She didn’t look up from her ledger, her gold-hoop earrings catching the dim light as she scribbled numbers with a chewed pencil.
“You ain’t here to apologize, are you?”she said flatly, still writing.
Matteo hovered by the door, his leather jacket creaking as he shifted.“You said come back when I was ready to listen.”
“Mmhmm.”Mama snapped the ledger shut. “And you listenin’ now? Or you just here ’cause you’re scared?”
He flinched, the truth hitting like a slap. Debbie’s face flashed in his mind—the way she’d cupped her still-flat stomach that morning, her smile brittle as glass.
“I ain’t scared of my father,”he lied.
“Sit.”She gestured to the chair opposite her desk, its vinyl cracked like desert earth.“Your daddy’s consigliere ain’t just some bookkeeper, Matteo. DeMarco’s a uomo d’onore —a man of honor. You know what that means?”
“Means he’d slit my throat if my father told him to.”
“Means he’s got a code,”Mama corrected, leaning back in her creaking chair.“Same code my Emilio lived by. Same code, Luciano breathed . You think this life’s about who’s got the biggest gun? Nah. It’s about who’s got the longest memory.”
Matteo’s jaw twitched.“My father’s got no code.”
“Your father’s a stronzo with a temper,”Mama shot back, the Sicilian slur sharp on her tongue.“But DeMarco? He’s old country. Respects tradition. You wanna survive, you gotta speak his language.”She tapped her temple.“ Sicilian .”
“And how the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“You ever learned about the President and how he stays in power in this America?” Mama Stewart asked.
Matteo shook his head no.
“He does it through his men, who ultimately keep him in power. The cosigliere isn’t a footstool. That role is for soldiers. He isn’t a counselor; that role is for the priests. He is the neck that turns the head. Your father is not turning his head on his own. He needs DeMarco to keep him in line with the Mafioso traditions, and to teach him how to turn when he needs to. Just like the President needs those men called the Congress. It is a unit. Do you understand?”
Matteo nodded.
Mama hesitated, then reached into her desk drawer. She pulled out a small, velvet box, its hinges rusted. Inside lay a silver medallion etched with a thorned rose—the symbol of the Castellammarese clan.“My Emilio gave this to me the night he took down Joe “The Boss” Masseria,”she said quietly.“Said it was a reminder— every rose grows from dirt . It is the secret and proof to the Mafioso that Emilio was the one to step over his body. The true killer. He gave me the power to destroy him if I ever wanted to. He gave me the power to prove that the Mafioso isn’t all loyal and traditional. Something Luciano has wanted from me since the day Emilio died. You think Luciano walked into that funeral for Masseria to stand before the men grieving their Don to kiss the ring of my Emilio ’cause he was brave? Nah. He went ’cause he knew Masseria’s own men were already bought by Emilio arranged by the consigliere. Patience , Matteo. That’s the dirt you grow in. Your father is only powerful because of DeMarco. Remove him and see what the head does?”
Matteo reached for the medallion, but Mama snapped the box shut.“Not yet. You ain’t earned this level of power. And you ain’t in your father’s chair. Because whoever takes the Castellammaese medallion before La Cosa Nostra will rule New York. And I ain’t passing it down to a kid who likes to play with knives.”
“What’s it gonna take?”he growled, frustration boiling over.“You want me to kiss DeMarco’s ring? Beg my father’s forgiveness?”
“I want you to think , ” Mama said, her voice rising.“You think I survived thirty years in this world ’cause I was tough ? I survived ’cause I knew when to kneel and when to stand firm. I knew that the day I pass on the medallion, I need to do so in a man worthy of my Emilio’s legacy.”She stood abruptly, her chair scraping the floor.“Come here.”
She led him to a framed photo on the wall—Luciano and her, young and defiant, standing in front of a Harlem jazz club.“See that?”She pointed to Luciano’s hand, discreetly gripping her waist.“He didn’t touch me ’cause he loved me. He touched me ’cause I knew things, and I had that medallion. He knew I had power. I knew which cops took bribes, which judges liked bourbon. I was his strategia —his strategy. You wanna be more than a dead boy with a pretty girl? Be necessary . Be the neck. Make your brother the head. Turn the Mafia in the direction you want.”
Matteo stared at the photo, the weight of her words settling like stone.“Debbie’s carrying my kid, Mama. I can’t… I can’t just play games while they’re in danger. DeMarco is going to find out.”
“You think I don’t know what’s at stake?”Mama’s voice cracked, rare and raw. She turned to a smaller photo on her desk—a toddler with her eyes, laughing in the arms of a Sicilian man.“Salvatore,”she whispered.“My son. Your Nonno’s son. They took him when he was six. Said a Black woman don’t raise no mafioso . You know what Luciano did?”
Matteo shook his head, breath caught.
“Nothing.”Mama’s laugh was bitter.“ Niente . ’Cause power’s a ladder, boy. You gotta climb it before you can pull anyone up.”She gripped his shoulder, her nails digging in.“I’m giving you the ladder. But you gotta climb slow . Make DeMarco trust you. Make the capos need you. Then, when your daddy falls…”She shrugged, eyes glinting.“You catch the crown.”
“And Debbie?”
Mama softened, thumb brushing the photo of Salvatore.“You protect her by becoming untouchable. Right now, you’re a spark. But sparks die. You wanna be a storm .”
Matteo exhaled, the fight draining out of him.“How do I start?”
“First?”Mama smirked, slipping the ledger into his hands.“You gain your father’s favor. Stop the family warring and become the son he wants. Whisper in his right ear, as his consigliere whispers in his left. Learn the loopholes of the business and prepare your brother. Start with the family. Luciano didn’t build his empire on blood—he built it on numbers . Simple.”
She put the betting papers in his hands. As Matteo flipped through the pages, Mama walked back to her desk. Her hand lingered on the medallion box. Soon , she thought. But not yet , he’s not ready yet.
Outside, a train rattled past, its whistle echoing through Harlem like a warning.
Sandra’s Dream - Harlem 1978
Sandra shot upright in bed, the diary tumbling to the floor.
Something. Something felt familiar. A memory—no, a feeling —it rose like a soap bubble in her chest: She was small. So small the office ceiling yawned like a starless sky, the desk a mountain of dark wood, its edges sharp as grown-up voices.
A hand held hers. Warm. Rough. She liked the hand. It felt familiar and strong. It smelled like cigars and lemons. The man, the person, the big shadow above her, reached down and she began to lift. She swung her legs, feet dangling above carpet that swallowed her shoes as she was lifted higher and up into his arms.
Up-up-up!
The man’s laugh was low and rumbly, like distant thunder. He tickled her and she hugged his neck. She liked the man. She couldn’t see his face—only the glint of a gold chain at his throat, a chain, a thing that caught the light like Mama’s Sunday brooch.
“Bambina. My little one, my bambina,” he murmured, but the word melted, sticky-sweet, into the hum of the ceiling fan. The desk waited. They were at the desk; they sat at the desk. The drawer screeched ( creeeak! ), making her toes curl.
Inside: a box, velvet-soft, the color of night.
Open it, he said.See Papa’s treasure. His fingers seemed to say, guiding hers.
And there—it was.
A treasure.
A sun .
The medallion glowed, its golden rose twisting with thorns she ached to touch.
Jewels winked: red as lollipops, blue as the pond where tadpoles danced.
She reached, thumb still wet from having sucked it and then pulling it out of her mouth?—
Cold.
The metal shocked her skin when her little fingers touched. Heavy. Too heavy.
Our Secret, said the man’s voice. He closed the lid, and she began to cry. She wanted it—it was so pretty like the sun. She had to have it. She cried louder and louder, reaching for the velvet box.
Shhh, bella. His thumb brushed her cheek, calloused but gentle. He put her against his chest and rubbed her back as she cried in protest with her head over his shoulder. He spoke a language she didn’t understand. Then hummed a melody from his language that soothed her. She put her thumb in her mouth and closed her eyes.
Then—
Gone.
The office dissolved like sugar in rain, leaving only the taste of lemons, the ghost-weight of gold in her palm. Sandra frowned and looked around her room. “What the hell was that?”