Chapter 39
39
K athy Sweets - Harlem, N.Y. 1949
“Big Mama?” Brenda asked softly, concerned. “Why are you still on your feet?”
“Got these little cakes my mom and I make back home,” Big Mama replied, hands busy kneading the dough. “Want to leave some behind, so you can put ’em out tomorrow after we’re gone. Give these out free to folks passing by. Betcha business picks right up.”
Brenda smiled gently, glancing toward Claudia, who was quietly stocking a shelf. Claudia caught Brenda’s eye and winked knowingly. They both understood better than to question Big Mama’s authority when it came to her kitchen. Wherever Big Mama went, the kitchen became her kingdom. It was why the Jensens built her cabin so fine—a small token for the years she’d devoted faithfully to their plantation. She’d lived on that tiny lot of land all her life, making miracles from flour, sugar, greens, and love.
“I’s done,” Big Mama announced finally, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mary, come here and put these in the oven for me.” Turning, she gazed affectionately at Brenda and Claudia. “Now, let’s sit down and rest a minute. All this weddin’ business kept us on our feet, and we ain’t had time yet to sit together and talk things through.”
Claudia quickly pulled up a comfortable chair for Big Mama, while Brenda took her own seat at the kitchen table. Claudia fussed lovingly over the elder woman, pouring her a fresh Pepsi to drink. Brenda smiled softly at the tender scene; everyone in the family wanted to shower Big Mama with affection, including herself. It unsettled Brenda to see the strongest, most powerful woman in Butts looking tired, worn by the weight of age and family worries.
Big Mama reached over, gently taking Brenda’s hand. “You and my Henry all right, honey?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Brenda admitted softly. “We haven’t been this good in a long while. I was just hurting so bad for my baby, I couldn’t be a proper wife.”
Big Mama shook her head gently, voice firm but kind. “Well, Henry wasn’t much of a husband lettin’ you hurt all this time. He should’ve sent you with that child. Lettin’ her ride a bus alone through the South like that… just askin’ for trouble.”
Brenda bowed her head, tears suddenly overwhelming her. She gripped Big Mama’s hand tightly, crying softly. “I was so scared for her. So scared, Big Mama. I prayed so hard every single night.”
“I know, baby,” Big Mama soothed gently. “Lord knows, I know.” She gave Brenda’s hand a comforting squeeze, then looked across the room at Claudia, still anxiously fussing to fix Big Mama a sandwich. “Claudia, that’s enough now, child. You ain’t the family maid—come sit yourself down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Claudia replied softly, coming to the table and taking her seat. “Sorry, guess my nerves just on edge. I get like this whenever it’s time to say goodbye.”
Big Mama studied Claudia closely, a concerned frown creasing her brow. She reached across the table, gently touching Claudia’s cheek. “You look a little peekid to me. You feelin’ al’right, honey?”
Claudia glanced nervously at Brenda, then back at Big Mama, her eyes glistening. She lowered her gaze, struggling to find the words.
Brenda nodded encouragingly. “Go on, Claudia. Tell her.”
Claudia took a deep, steadying breath. “I’ve been having nosebleeds, Big Mama. Went to see the doctor a while back. They think... it might be cancer. Called it nasopharyngeal—some fancy word. They said it’s up in my throat, causin’ the nosebleeds. They want me to join some kind of medical study, see if they can help. Good doctors at the Negro hospital coming up with all kind of treatments.”
Big Mama’s eyes brimmed with tears, and her voice cracked slightly. “My boy know?”
“No, ma’am,” Claudia whispered, wiping at her eyes. “We had Debbie’s wedding to get through. We wanted our girl to be happy, I didn’t want it to be a burden. I ain’t told Pete or the kids out of fear. Only Brenda knows.” Claudia’s voice broke as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “I just wanna hold my grandbaby. I kept askin’ the Lord why—why Debbie got pregnant when I been faithful and had so many dreams. But I see it clear now. This baby’s special, and the Lord wanted to be sure I got to meet my grandchild before I?—”
Brenda rose swiftly from her chair, wrapping Claudia in a fierce embrace. Big Mama’s eyes fluttered closed as she began softly humming an old hymn, praying gently under her breath. “Come here, baby,” she said tenderly, opening her arms.
Claudia stepped away from Brenda and went into Big Mama’s comforting embrace. Big Mama cradled her, gently rocking back and forth as she hummed her hymn. The three women sat in reverent silence for a while, their quiet prayers mingling with Big Mama’s soothing melody. It was the strongest, most heartfelt prayer any of them had ever shared, and by the time they finished, a fragile but determined faith took hold, stronger than the pain, stronger than doubt. The Lord will have his way.
* * *
Il Gattopardo, Manhattan – November, 1949
The black Packard glided to a stop parallel to the restaurant, its chrome grille gleaming under the streetlamps. Matteo Ricci adjusted his father's fur-lined overcoat in the backseat, his fingers lingering on the hidden shoulder holster. Carmelo looked bored out of the window.
"Remember," Don Cosimo growled as the driver opened their door, and he looked at Matteo specifically. “tonight you're a prince, not a soldier. Let them see what a Ricci is made of."
Matteo glanced to Carmelo who looked his way with a bit of pride. “You got this one big brother,” he said.
The winter air carried the scent of roasting chestnuts and gasoline as they approached Il Gattopardo's smoked glass doors. A symphony of clinking crystal and jazz piano spilled onto the sidewalk, mingling with the laughter of women who sounded like wind chimes made of broken promises.
The restaurant Il Gattopardo was crouched on the corner of Mulberry and Grand like a well-dressed predator, its blood-red awnings fluttering over windows that showcased the elegance and dining inside. Owned byDon Alfonso “The Banker” Moretti, it was a temple to postwar decadence that had left an influence on New York when the Sicilians had beaten the Irish to be the richest off the bootleg empires forged by Lucky Luciano and Cappone.
Crystal chandeliers dripped from high ceilings, the light glinting off gold-leafed walls and the diamond-crusted fingers of goumadas (women who were the mafia Don’s whores) draped over leather booths. The air hummed with cigar smoke, Chanel No. 5, and the sharp tang of imminent violence around the beautiful women. Waiters in white tuxedos circulated with silver trays of oysters Rockefeller and Negronis, their eyes downcast. You didn’t meet a Don’s gaze unless invited.
At the head of the room, beneath a mural of Garibaldi conquering Sicily, Don Cosimo Ricci stepped to the head table and the seat of importance. This is how heheld court. At 45, Don Ricci was a bull of a man, with deep olive skin, dark eyes and hair, handsome but lethal features, and a Brioni suit straining over shoulders that had carried crates of bootleg whiskey in his youth.
His consigliere,DeMarco Salvatore, stood to his left, a panther in a charcoal-gray suit. But the woman on DeMarco’s arm, who drew whispers: “Livia Conti”, was introduced as the widow to a Sicilian named Conti back in New Orleans. She had ink-black hair coiled into a stylish curled waves of hair that cast to her shoulders, her emerald dress cut to reveal a collarbone dusted with rosso birthmarks. Her eyes, too gold for a white woman, lingered on Cosimo’s sons. The Don noticed.
DeMarco introduced her to him as his girl. Don Ricci gave her a respectful nod, and her sly smile in return made his brows lift in interest. DeMarco immediately turned her away, but she kept casting her gaze his way for the rest of the evening.
* * *
“ Ciao , thank you for coming,” Lucia greeted the women warmly, smiling as she opened the door.
Alice Romero stepped inside, returning Lucia’s smile. Her daughter Maria followed close behind, proudly holding a dessert she'd prepared. Lucia was already dressed for leaving, her coat buttoned tight.
“Oh, Maria, che cos'è —what is this? You are so young, and you already make the sweetest treats. I know my Carmelo loves your pies!” Lucia kissed Maria affectionately on both cheeks. “Come, let me help you.”
“No, signora Lucia, it’s okay—I got it,” Maria replied, smiling shyly. “I’ll bring it to the kitchen myself. Carmelo is here tonight?”
Lucia’s smile softened with quiet approval. Maria would make a perfect wife for Carmelo one day—she was eighteen, beautiful, educated, and from a good famiglia .
“No, cara , he’s not home now. And don't you worry for Nino—he’ll sleep well. I gave him something to make him rest tutta notte —the whole night. You and your mamma just watch the house for me, sì ? The boys had to go with their papa tonight.”
“ Va bene ,” Maria agreed cheerfully, already walking towards the kitchen.
Alice watched her daughter go, then turned back to Lucia, worry in her eyes. “ è strano —this strange, Lucia. I asked Father Chris today, and he said there is no special service tonight. Dove vai —where are you going, really?”
Lucia hesitated briefly, then quickly moved to her purse. Quietly, she withdrew a thick stack of bills—more cash than Alice had ever seen her carry, secretly taken from Cosimo’s safe, though Alice knew none of this. Lucia pressed the money gently into her friend’s hands.
“Cosimo and all the families gather tonight, they have their festa privata with their puttane —their whores. Celebrating themselves, devising more plans to destroy lives,” she said with quiet disgust, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. “So tonight, anch'io —me too, I will go out and make my own little festa. Questa è la verità —the truth.”
Alice’s brow creased deeply. “But Lucia, it’s so—so late. Cosimo, is me here. Finds out you left, he’s going to be very angry. Why do you risk enraging him?”
Lucia’s eyes softened as she touched Alice’s arm gently, a bittersweet smile forming on her lips. “I’m not afraid of Cosimo. Not anymore. And I hope you won’t be. I hope you can be better than me. I’ve done everything I can. You know why. Per favore , just promise you’ll watch my Nino and my boys, keep a good eye on them for me.”
Alice nodded quickly, squeezing Lucia’s hand tightly. “ Sì, sì, certo. But you promise me you’ll come home before he comes back. Capisci ?”
“ Sì, sì, promise, I won’t be gone long,” Lucia reassured her. “Cosimo is not home until very late. Tutto bene, Alice—everything is gonna be fine.”
The two women embraced tightly, the air heavy with words they couldn’t say aloud. Alice opened her mouth to ask more, but Lucia placed her hat carefully on her head, pulled on her gloves, and moved swiftly toward the door. Alice watched anxiously from the threshold as Lucia stepped outside into the chilly night, where a taxi waited.
If Alice hadn’t been so desperate for the money Lucia offered, she wouldn’t have agreed to any of this. She feared Don Ricci deeply and hated even setting foot into his house. But Lucia was her only true friend among all the mafia wives—the only one who still slipped her food and gave her money quietly when she needed it most.
How could she ever say no to a friend like Lucia?
* * *
“Cosimo! You dirty bastard!” Don Emilio Falcone crashed through the crowd, his ruby ring flashing as he enveloped Cosimo in a bear hug that threatened to snap ribs.
“You look like you’ve swallowed a canary,” Falcone chuckled, his black beard bristling. Behind him, two burly enforcers flanked a shaking man. “You were looking for him? No? Accused one of my boys of theft?”
Cosimo shrugged, a cool smirk on his lips. “This isn’t a parlor trick. We have business to discuss. Let’s the consigliere’s deal with petty theft.”
Matteo exchanged a puzzled glance with his brother Carmelo, who shrugged—he didn’t follow the exchange either. The two dons locked eyes in a silent challenge. Then Falcone surprised everyone by grabbing Cosimo’s father, planting a loud kiss on each cheek. “I’ll put him on ice for you. But we’ll finish our business later.”
Cosimo eased back into his chair. Around the table, the men tried to laugh it off, but Carmelo caught his father’s warning glare aimed at Falcone. Whatever words had passed were clearly an act of war.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Carmelo murmured to Matteo, slipping from the table before his brother could stop him. He half-wished he were home, on the phone with Kathy—there was so much he still needed to tell her.
Afterwards, he drifted toward the champagne tower, scanning the room. His father sat at the head of the table, other dons bending to kiss his ring—a curious sight, since everyone knew Luciano wielded more clout from Italy. Yet lately his own father’s influence seemed to be eclipsing Luciano’s. Carmelo felt a cold bitterness at the thought. He poured himself a glass of bubbly.
He hovered near the tower of champagne, tuxedo jacket tight over shoulders built for the boxing ring more than a dining hall. When would his father announce the fight? The date loomed like a gathering storm—Tony “The Hammer” Gallo, Don Falcone’s prize Bronx hitter who’d sent two men to the morgue, awaited the challenge for his title.
“Not drinking, ragazzo ?” came a soft voice like chimes. Livia materialized beside him, gardenias in her hair and a sharp almond note under her perfume. “ Che ti tormenta, campione? What troubles you, champion?”
“Oh—no, I—” Carmelo stammered, staring at his glass. “It tastes… kind of fizzy. Like gasoline bubbles.” He managed a crooked smile. She was beautiful—different from Kathy, but in a strange way, familiar.
She smiled back. “You’re Carmelo, right? The prizefighter. Don Ricci’s youngest son.” Her gaze lifted to a banner above them, his face in boxing gloves.
“That’s me,” he said.
“A tough guy,” she teased.
“I’m just a fighter.”
She bit her nail, eyes dancing. “Seems your father doesn’t like you making new friends.”
He glanced across the room at the table, where his father and DeMarco both watched Livia with intent expressions. Two dangerous men were transfixed by her presence. Yet she remained cool, focused on him alone—those melting honey-brown eyes framed by dark lashes. Suddenly, they reminded him of Kathy.
“He’s not staring at me,” Carmelo said quietly. “He’s staring at you. And that’s not a good thing, sweetheart.”
Livia’s brow rose. “Is that so?”
“Be careful,” he warned. “He’s not someone to tease. And DeMarco’s worse. If that’s possible.”
“Do you always speak so fondly of la famiglia? ” She laughed, a clear bell that drew glances from nearby guests. Unfazed, she leaned close, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, “Don’t worry—I’m the deadliest candy in the room.” Then, softer still: “Kill ’em in the ring, kid. Leave the monsters for Aunt Janey.”
She stepped away, sweeping through the crowd to the cloakroom to fetch her coat. Carmelo lingered, inhaling the fading trace of her perfume. When he finally turned back toward the dining room, he saw DeMarco rise abruptly and follow her, and his father watching every move.
* * *
The wind howled like the sirocco that used to whip through her Sicilian village as Lucia Ricci stood on the pedestrian walkway of the Triborough Bridge. Below her, the East River swirled black as thedress she’d worn to her mother’s funeral. This was the bridge that connected everything—Queens, Manhattan, the Bronx—just as she’d once connected her family from Sicily to Italy to America. Now, like the rusty girders trembling underfoot, those connections were crumbling.
She’d taken the#7 train from Corona, passing the butcher shop where little Carmelo used to beg for lupini beans. The other passengers—factory girls with their Victory Roll hairdos, drunk dockworkers—hadn’t noticed the woman clutching her precious son Nino’s First Communion medal. Nor had they seen her pause outsideP.S. 19, where Matteo’s teacher once told her, "Your boy has a mind like a stiletto—sharp but fragile."
The bridge lights flickered like the votive candles in her kitchen shrine. From this height, she could see: Hell Gate’swhirlpools where the Harlem and East Rivers met, churning like her husband’s temper. She could see Rikers Island’s silhouette, where Cosimo’s men did their "business”. Her gaze went left, where she saw the Ward’s Island Asylum —where Cosimo had sent her after she gave birth to Nino and fell into a deep depression. He often threatened to send her again if she mentioned suicide to his boys.
Lucia closed her eyes. She had no other choices left. Her sons had set themselves on a path that would get them both killed. Maybe, just maybe, this sacrifice would save all of their lives. She climbed over the railing to the screams of those walking along the bridge and honking horns to warn of the pending event.
The fall took 4.3 seconds.
* * *
Three hours later —
The restaurant erupted in cheers asCarmelo "The Sicilian Sledgehammer" Riccistepped onto the wooden block, the makeshift podium creaking under his weight. Across from him,Tony “The Hammer” Gallosneered, his lanky frame towering over Carmelo, though he lacked the dense muscle that defined Ricci’s fighter’s build. The air between them crackled—two pit bulls held back by their handlers, men fromDon FalconeandDon Ricci’screws wedging themselves between them before fists could fly.
A fisherman-turned-MC—some poor sap who owed the wrong people money—stepped to the microphone, his voice trembling as he announced:
"At just 20 years old, Carmelo Ricci—the 1947 Intercity Golden Gloves Light-Heavyweight Champion—has returned to the ring under Don Ricci’sFive Boroughs Boxing Clubbanner! After his brutal knockout of Carlito ‘Muscle Man’ Bono last month, he’s earned his shot at the reigning champion, Tony ‘The Hammer’ Gallo! The fight is set for Christmas Eve!"
The room exploded. Men from the Ricci and Falcone factions roared, slamming glasses on tables, while the other families—Scordato’s, Moretti’s—watched in silence, their faces unreadable.Don Ricciseized Carmelo’s wrist, thrusting his son’s gloved hand into the air like a trophy. Carmelo glared at the crowd, his jaw set, his dark eyes scanning for weakness in Gallo’s smirk.
Then—
The doors burst open.
Police.
A dozen uniforms flooded in, their nightsticks already drawn. The room went dead silent.
A detective—tall, with a fedora shadowing his gaunt face—marched straight forCosimo Ricci, his shoes clicking on the tile like a death knell.
"Cosimo Ricci," he said, loud enough for the whole room to hear. "You’re coming with us."
DeMarco stepped forward, smooth as a blade slipping from its sheath. "You got a warrant, detective?"
The cop’s lips curled. He glanced around the room, savoring the tension, before locking eyes with Cosimo again. "Don’t need one. This is a personal matter." A pause. "About your wife."
"Ma?!" Matteochoked, lurching forward. Carmelo grabbed his arm, his own stomach dropping like a stone.
The detective smirked. "You want me to discuss family business in front of all these people?"
"WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MA?!" Matteo roared, surging forward. Carmelo and three of his father’s men barely held him back, their arms locking around his chest as he thrashed.
Carmelo’s hands shook. His breath came too fast. He didn’t understand—none of this made sense. His mother had been fine this morning. She’d kissed his forehead before he left.
Cosimodidn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But when Carmelo met his father’s eyes, he saw it—the sheen of something raw. Something likefear and worry.
One of the men draped Cosimo’s coat over his shoulders. "Go home," he ordered his sons, his voice eerily calm. "Wait for me there. I’ll take care of her.”
"Pa!" Carmelo’s voice cracked. Tears burned his eyes. "What’s wrong with my Mama?!”
Cosimo’s jaw tightened. "I don’t know, son. But I’ll be home soon."
Then—
Matteo lost it.
He tore free, sending two men stumbling. When they caught him again, he lashed out, smashing a chair against the wall. Plates shattered. Glasses exploded. The other families—Scordato, Moretti, even Falcone—slipped out silently, their exits swift, their faces carefully blank.
Carmelo stood frozen, his body numb.
A terrible, hollow feeling spread through his chest.
Where was his mother?
* * *
Harlem —
“What you doin’ sittin’ out here by yourself?” Debbie stuck her head out the bedroom window. Kathy was perched on the fire escape, arms wrapped around her knees, staring out at the city like it could give her answers. Debbie climbed through the window, barefoot and curious.
Kathy smiled when she saw her. She scooted over, made room. They squeezed in side by side like old times, arms around each other.
“I’m gonna miss you,” Kathy whispered.
“I’m gonna miss you more,” Debbie said, hugging her tighter. “So? How was it? I want details, girl. We haven’t had two seconds to talk since the wedding.”
Kathy chuckled, a little shy. “It wasn’t like you said. Didn’t hurt much at all. I liked it, actually.”
Debbie’s eyes widened. “Then his pee-pee must be lil’—’cause Matteo nearly killed me,” she cackled.
“Debbie!” Kathy swatted her arm, laughing. “It ain’t small! He just took his time with me. Made sure I liked it, that’s all.”
They both laughed again, the kind that makes you lean on each other and forget for a moment how heavy things really are.
“You and Carmelo didn’t even say any vows,” Debbie said. “Matteo and I said ours like we were in a church. He was so sweet, trying to explain how he loves me and the baby. I could barely hold it together. It was… funny and magical.”
Kathy put her arm around her cousin’s shoulders. “I’m glad you got that. You deserve it. You need peace, Debs. For this baby, for yourself.”
“I want that for you, too. You and Carmelo,” Debbie said softly.
Kathy’s smile faded. “Me too. Leaving him again? It hurt. We had a fight, but we made up. He’s... he’s everything to me. I know you ain’t supposed to let a man be your whole world, but... he’s mine.”
“I get it. Matteo’s the same for me. He keeps talkin’ crazy about us all living under one roof—me, him, and his mamma. Like he’s already Don or something.” Debbie snorted. “I love him, but he ain’t living in reality.”
“Let him dream,” Kathy said, eyes fixed on the Harlem skyline. “Dreams are all we got right now.”
Debbie turned toward her. “So… you really leavin’? Mama said it’s your decision this time.”
Kathy nodded. “It never really was my choice. But yeah. I’m going. Y’all comin’ down for Christmas. Mama’s comin’ back for Easter. We’ll try to make it work... a year or two, maybe.”
Debbie blinked. “A year? What you mean a year?”
Kathy shrugged, voice low. “Carmelo’s got plans. Big ones. I used to believe in ‘em. But now... I dunno. It’s harder to hold on to hope.”
“Don’t say that,” Debbie said firmly. “You can’t give up, Kathy. You and Carmelo—y’all are meant for each other. Just like me and Matteo. Things are gonna work out. You’ll see.”
Kathy gave a tired but genuine smile. She leaned in and kissed Debbie on the cheek.
“You’re gonna make a great mama,” she said.
Debbie wiped her cheek like she was annoyed, but her grin gave her away. “You better write me every week, girl. You hear?”
Kathy nodded, her gaze drifting back toward the glowing Harlem streets, holding on to the last bit of warmth before the cold set in.