Chapter 34
34
S al’s Gym, Queens, New York – 1949
The air reeked of cigar smoke, liniment, and the iron tang of blood not yet mopped from the floorboards. Sal’s wasn’t a gym—it was a chapel for bruisers and bagmen, its cracked leather punching bags swaying like hanged men in the haze. A radio crackled near the register, Luciano’s name slithering through the static— “…deported but not dethroned, folks. The Five Families still dance to the Devil’s tune from Naples…” —before Sal himself killed the volume with a meaty fist.
Carmelo Ricci flexed his left hand, the knuckles still misaligned from the hammer. Click. Click. The sound echoed in his skull, a metronome to every nightmare he’d sweated through in that hospital bed. Across the ring, his sparring partner bounced on his toes—some new kid fresh off the boat from Palermo with a neck thicker than a fire hydrant.
“You’re stalling,” Matteo barked from the corner. His brother leaned against the ropes, sleeves rolled to show the serpentine scar winding up his forearm. A message from Papa, two years back. “Breathe through the foot, yeah? It’s just a step, not a fucking funeral.”
Carmelo nodded, shifting his weight. The ankle screamed. The doctors had called it a miracle he could walk; walking wasn’t boxing. He raised his gloves, the left sagging ever so slightly.
Clang!
The bell.
The Sicilian lunged. Carmelo pivoted—too slow. A hook caught his ribs, and the world blurred. His knee buckled. The gym roared, a choir of made men and money launderers perched on folding chairs: gold pinky rings glinting, Sicilian curses tangling with Neapolitan slang. In the back, a trio of button men played poker under a yellowed photo of Luciano shaking Sinatra’s hand.
“ Up! ” Matteo snarled. “You ain’t a kid anymore, Melo. Move. ”
Carmelo spat blood, tasting the ghost of his own shattered teeth. The Sicilian charged again. This time, he saw it—the twitch in the shoulder, the dropped right hand. Muscle memory flared. He slipped the punch, planted his bad leg, and drove an uppercut into the kid’s liver.
The Sicilian folded like a bad hand of cards.
A hush fell.
Then, the creak of the front door.
Don Cosimo Ricci entered like Judgment in a cashmere coat, flanked by two stone-faced capos . The room stiffened—hats doffed, cigars extinguished. Even the poker game died. The Don’s gaze swept past his sons, lingering on the wheezing Sicilian crawling from the ring.
“Again,” he said.
Carmelo’s throat went dry. The Don didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
Matteo tossed Carmelo a water bottle, his voice low, urgent. “He wants you to break, fratellino . So don’t. You fly this time, yeah? Like I taught you.”
The Sicilian stumbled back into the ring, rage flushing his face purple. Carmelo tightened his gloves. The ankle pulsed, but he let the ghost pain sharpen him.
Clang!
The kid swung wild. Carmelo ducked, weaving— left, right, pivot —his feet suddenly remembering their old rhythm. A jab snapped the Sicilian’s head back. A cross sent him reeling. For a heartbeat, the room vanished. There was only the dance: feints, parries, the sweet thud of leather on flesh.
When the bell rang, the Sicilian didn’t get up.
Carmelo sagged against the ropes, sucking air. His hands trembled. His ankle felt like shattered glass. But the Don…
The Don was smiling.
Not the warm kind. The kind a lion gives a gazelle that’s learned to bite.
“A week,” he said, turning to leave. “DeMarco, you tell my boys. In a week, he fights Alvarez. Next Friday. Try not to embarrass me.”
The door shut behind the Don. The room exhaled.
Matteo tossed Carmelo a towel, pride and pity warring in his eyes. “Told you,” he muttered. “You’re still you.”
Carmelo stared at his gloves. The leather was split, stuffing spilling out like guts.
Still me , he thought.
The boy who’d let his father swing that hammer was gone.
* * *
The bakery hummed with the brittle cheer of customers who came to stare but not speak. Kathy moved behind the counter like a ghost in her own life—smiling politely at women who sniffed and turned away, folding napkins with hands that wanted to tremble but wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
Debbie hip-checked her as a cluster of girls from their high school days slid into a corner booth, their giggles sharp as broken glass. "Don’t let it crawl under your skin," she muttered, slamming a tray of éclairs down hard enough to make the cackling hens jump. "These heifers know better than to say shit to your face."
Two of the girls heard. Their laughter stuttered, then doubled—performative, cruel—before they flounced out, noses tilted skyward.
Ely emerged from the stockroom, arms laden with flour sacks. His eyes cut to Kathy, then away. Pity lived there, crouched behind his careful neutrality. They’d been cordial since Brooklyn, two strangers sharing a life they no longer recognized.
"Hey." Debbie caught Kathy’s wrist. "Let’s take five."
"I’m fine?—"
" Bullshit. " Debbie dragged her toward the storage room—the one place Kathy had avoided since coming into the bakery. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in the dim, flour-dusted space. Kathy’s lungs locked. The attic door loomed above them like a guillotine.
"I told you I didn’t want to come in?—”
"And that’s why we’re here." Debbie crossed her arms, her belly a subtle curve beneath her apron. "You’ve been walking around like your shadow’s too heavy since Brooklyn. What happened ?"
Kathy’s throat burned. The memories surged—Carmelo’s hands in her hair when she slept, the scent of sweat and attic dust as they held each other close because it was cold. The way the world had narrowed to just them while Harlem burned to find them below. One choice led to another—choices she made based on feelings, not sensibility. One yes turned into another. That’s all it took to unravel everything she had ever known.
Did she regret loving him? Never.
But watching her father—her big, invincible daddy—laugh again, hug her without hesitation, kiss her mother’s neck when he thought no one was looking… It gutted her. She’d gambled their happiness for her own. And now Ely’s words festered: Bumpy’s watching. Your daddy’s desperate. You’re selfish.
"Kathy?" Debbie’s voice softened. "Talk to me."
"Ain’t no explaining," Kathy whispered. "I’m damned either way."
Debbie’s hand drifted to her stomach—a habit now, though the pregnancy barely showed. That small, secret joy. Kathy’s vision blurred. Why her? Why Debbie? Why not me? The thought erupted before she could cage it:
" Why you?! "
Debbie recoiled.
"I was the one who fell in love! Me! You called Carmelo every name under the sun, hated everything about him and italians—so why do you get the pretty life? The baby, the man, the respect ? Why am I the one being shipped back to Mississippi like damaged goods while Harlem treats me like some back-alley Jezebel?!"
Debbie’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t let the tears fall. "You think my life’s pretty ?" Her laugh was a razor. "My mama looks at me like I’m her greatest disappointment. She used to walk into church like she owned the pews—now she flinches when the deacon’s wife whispers— how is Debbie? We ain’t like you and Aunt Brenda. We clawed our way up from nothing, and I ruined it." She pressed a fist to her mouth. "But I’ll be damned if my baby comes into this world thinking he’s a mistake. I have to atone for trying to kill my child. That’s why I smile and rejoice. My baby is inside of me. It’ll know the truth if I don’t.”
Kathy rushed to comfort her, their arms tangling like vines. Debbie’s shoulders shook as she released deep sobs.
"I’m sorry," Kathy choked. "I didn’t mean?—"
"I know." Debbie gripped her tighter. "But we made our choices, Kathy. Ain’t no undoing ‘em."
Kathy held her and spoke softly. "Ely says Daddy’s sending me back ‘cause Bumpy threatened him. That he’s scared of losing Mama if he agrees, but there is no way to fight it." She swallowed. "He wants me to marry Ely. Get pregnant, fast. Come back like nothing happened."
Debbie's hand slammed against the shelf. "Ely's talking straight out his country ass! Your daddy made King Redmond himself think twice before crossing 125th. Nobody-not Bumpy, not those Sicilian bastards gonna touch Henry Freeman’s daughter while he's still breathing."
"Daddy told Ely to marry me. Get me pregnant. Bring me back 'proper.' That is the only way.”
The color drained from Debbie's face. "Jesus, Kathy...you can't?—"
"I gotta keep my family safe!" Kathy's voice cracked like overbaked glaze. "Carmelo says to go south and lay low while Matteo moves on some scheme they’re cooking up. Says he'll come for me when—I guess whenever convenient for him.”
“He didn’t say that,” Debbie sighed.
“It felt like that’s what he meant,” Kathy countered.
“He meant when his daddy's dead.” Debbie's laugh was bitter as burnt coffee. "And that is the fairytale Matteo keeps trying to sell me.”
Kathy's fingers twisted her apron strings into nooses. "I believe him ."
"Then answer me straight - you love Ely?"
"God, no!"
Debbie grabbed Kathy's shaking hands. "Then that's your answer right there."
"You make it sound simple," Kathy whispered.
"Ain't nothing simple about it." Debbie's thumbs rubbed circles on Kathy's knuckles. "But you can't split your heart down the middle. These men? They don't do halves. You choose Carmelo, you choose war. You choose Ely..." Her voice dropped. "You choose a different kind of dying."
Kathy pressed their tangled hands to her heart. "I'm not choosing anyone over my family, but I won’t give up without a fight," she choked out. "Lord knows I'm trying."
* * *
Carmelo limped outta the shower, his ankle throbbing like a bad tooth. The bones mighta healed, but today's sparring proved some things don't ever come back right. He was toweling off when the voices caught his ear.
Leaning over the balcony rail, he spotted his Mama saying goodbye to Mrs. Romero. This woman seem always to be underfoot lately. His gut twisted with conflict. Mrs. Romero was a victim. His father’s brutal attack on her had permanently scarred Carmelo as well. He’d never do that to his mother or any woman. Yet, she grinned and pranced around their home and his father as if nothing happened. Whether his mother suspected Romero and his father of having something between them or not, letting that lady in her home after what he'd seen... it wasn't right. His mother deserved better'n this.
He threw on his clothes quick and took the stairs two at a time, the pain in his leg be damned. The kitchen smelled like heaven - garlic frying in olive oil, fresh pasta drying on the rack. His Mama hummed at the stove while Nino banged his spoon on the table.
" Madre ?” Carmelo said.
"Eh, Melo! You eat a horse today?" She didn't turn from the gravy, her wooden spoon making slow circles.
“No, starved." He watched her carefully as he stepped closer. "Ma, we gotta talk."
"Not about that colored girl." The spoon clacked against the pot. "I ain't got the strength today."
"No, not Kathy.” He wiped his hands on his pants. "About Mrs. Romero."
Lucia's stirring didn't falter. "What about her?"
Carmelo swallowed hard. "She's no friend to you, Ma. I seen her with Pa before everything happened to me. Here. In his office.”
The wooden spoon froze mid-stir. When his mother finally turned, her eyes were black as espresso grounds. "Listen good, figlio mio . You don’t know what you saw. Your father breathes lies like other men breathe air. Matteo's got some tramp knocked up in Harlem with a child he can never bring here, pretends he can be king. That he can change all of it when he can’t. You?" She jabbed the spoon at him. "Sneaking calls to that girl like your father won't break both your hands when he gets the phone bill that I keep throwing away because they show you accepting calls from Mississippi."
Nino dropped his spoon with a clatter. Lucia never raised her voice, but the quiet cut deeper.
"You don't speak of Mrs. Romero and your father to anybody. Not your brother, not the priests, nobody." She flicked her wrist toward the hall that led out of the kitchen. "Now go wash up. Take Nino with you."
Carmelo stood rooted, his mouth dry as Sunday chicken. Mama knew. Christ Almighty, she'd known the whole damn time and remain friends with that woman? Let Pa walk around like he was some hero? Why? Why was she so willing to be miserable?
He didn’t understand her.
He secretly resented her for it.
The way she stayed with him in the hospital, making excuses for his suffering. The way she cringed at the thought of Matteo having a baby with Debbie. None of it reconciled, with the dutiful, Christian woman he knew to be so giving that she even donated to the colored and Irish families who didn’t have food or clothes in New York.
Who was she?
Really?
He hauled Nino up by his overall straps, stealing one last look at his mother, back straight, stirring that gravy like it was any other Tuesday night. The scent of simmering tomatoes suddenly made him sick.