Epilogue
EPILOGUE
M ont-Tremblant, Quebec – 1978
The crystal whiskey glass trembled in Ernesto’s grip. The deep amber liquid caught the afternoon light and turned it into liquid sunshine. He sat rigid in the ornate chair, acutely aware of the three ghosts who had occupied his position before him—each now rotting in unmarked graves from the Wolf’s hammer bashing in their skulls. A year was nothing for the consigliere in the Wolf’s world. A year was still probation.
Across the table,Don Carmelo "The Wolf" Riccistudied him with the detached curiosity of a surgeon assessing a tumor. The silence stretched, thick as the cigar smoke curling between them. Ernesto set the glass down before his sweating palms betrayed him further.
"What’s news?”The Wolf’s voice was deceptively soft, the way a garrote is soft before it bites."Do the old men still question my famiglia’s worth? Judge me and Matteo for my father’s sins?”
Ernesto swallowed. “ Don Tomasino Battaglia of the Camorra and Don Marsuvio Mancini of the Mafiosi are... aligned in their response. They want the Castellemare medallion as proof before they commit their families to your cause. Luciano told them both that the Madonna Nera would pass it on with her blessing before she died. They don’t look at American descendants as true blood. They feel you are pampered and lazy and unwilling to earn the Omerta, you claim to pledge. If you want to be recognized, then the Castellemare is the only choice.”
The Wolf’s eyebrow arched, a silent challenge."Luciano himself placed the crown on my father’s head without the Castellemare. And now these vecchietti demand trinkets?"
"It’s not about worth, padrone. You’re asking them to upend La Cosa Nostra’s entire structure in America—to make your brother king, to legitimize his son who is no more than a quarter Sicilian, future. They need?—"
"You disappoint me." The Wolf said.
The words landed like a hammer on bone. Ernesto’s mouth snapped shut as the Wolf picked up what some called “his father’s hammer,” left at the side of his chair. He rubbed the iron as if wiping.
"I spoke to Tomasino’s son, Giovanni, before my untimely death. The kid is fresh out of college and at his Papa’s side. I spoke to Mancini’s boy, Armando. These future kings are rivals. Not fond of each other. That could work to our advantage in positioning me.” The Wolf leaned forward, his wedding ring scraping against the iron handle."Neither knew of my brother’s …requests for a sit-down. Both of them think I’m a ghost now. You were to help Matteo. Make him strong enough to meet with the families men. Must I rise from the dead and do it myself?”
“ Matteo is stubborn. He refuses my counsel. Relies on Caesar and his gut, he said. Padrone, you can’t expect me to?—"
"Did I ask for excuses?"
Ernesto’s hands shot up in surrender.“You are dead to the old Don’s. Your request is a dead man’s wish. Maybe if they knew you were alive… maybe? Matteo is freshly out of prison. Anointed as the head of the family by default, not their traditions. Going behind the Dons to their heirs as an unauthorized consigliere to a dead Don—it’s suicide! The disrespect alone?—"
"Those old fucks are relics,"the Wolf said."Breathing corpses. Giovanni and Armando?Theyare the future. And if you’re too blind to see that... to help my brother see that…then what the fuck are you doing in that chair?”The Wolf’s fingers curled around the hammer’s grip.
"I’ll fix it!"Ernesto’s voice cracked."Giovanni is young but he is a pragmatist—he doesn’t give a damn about old medals or his father’s superstitions. He’s aspiring to be the capi di tutti, capi . Being trained by a consigliere named Flavio. Let me start with the Battaglias. They could understand your resurrection if need be. I will travel to Sorrento and the Amalfi and arrange for him to meet Matteo. If he sees no point in forcing a meeting with Matteo, then I’ll find a way to invite him here. Mancini’s boy could never be trusted with your truth. He’d expose you for fun, and then what? It’ll take more time, but?—"
The Wolf’s gaze drifted past him, past the gazebo where they met overlooking the garden. His expression softened, just for a heartbeat. Ernesto followed his gaze.
Kathymoved like a goddess through the bright pink rose bushes, her sheer white kimono clinging to her silhouette as the afternoon sun backlit her curves. At the wrought-iron table,Nino—still a grown man with a child’s mind—leapt up to crush her in a bear hug. Her laughter floated through the roses to reach him, bright and alive.
"My little one, bambina Cassandra, ” the Wolf murmured, more to himself than Ernesto. "How is she now that she believes her mother is dead?”
"The funeral... it was difficult for her. Matteo’s working to restore her memories, but she seems distrustful of him,” he reports. “And Matteo is distrustful of me. He thinks the medallion is lost, and I am wasting time with your death wish to have him make her remember.”
"I put that medallion in her hand the day I knew she was truly mine." The Wolf’s thumb traced the hammer again. "She called it her ‘shiney ting ting.’ Hid it like a magpie—under floorboards, in garden soil. Box in all. Would run and hide, wait to see me at the safe, looking for it. Then followed me with her small hand covering her mouth and giggles while I looked for it. After the accident..." His jaw tightened. “I realized she had played our game one last time. Now I need the fucking thing to save them all. And it’slocked away in her mind."
“Why not tell Signora Kathy the truth? She doesn’t even know that her family thinks she’s dead,” said the consigliere.
“I plan to tell her tonight,” The Wolf said with dread. “She’ll cut my throat for this one.”
"We’ve turned the safehouse you used to take her to inside out. Dug up every inch of—" Ernesto said.
"I’m out of time. Matteo is out of time. The feds are thirsting for blood, Harlem is smoldering, and those fucking families all the way to Jersey and Philly s are circiling. I planned this for years. My freedom. Kathy. She’ll understand. She will, eventually. This had to be the way. I’m not turning back.”
“Understood,” said Ernesto.
“Is it?” The Don’s cold stare slid over to him. “The enemy is within my family. The boy I raised as my own son, and the daughter who hates me, are selfish and reckless—protecting a legacy that isn’t theirs. They will take down Matteo without the medallion, and then destroy themselves with their greed. Starting a war that could kill them all.”
Kathy blew a kiss toward him. The Wolf didn’t react, but his knuckles whitened around the hammer.
"The Battaglias," Ernesto blurted."Let me go to Giovanni directly. Let’s tell him you are alive, my padrone . Let me bring him into the fold. He is the answer. I believe it?—.”
“You are a believer now?” The Wolf smirked.
“I am. I am sworn to your cause; forgive any perception of doubt. We should pull in Giovanni.
“Hmmm, a man of faith?” Carmelo said and stared at the hammer. “I used to be. I used to have a lot of faith.” His gaze climbed from the hammer to Erensto’s face. “Do you swear?”
Ernesto made the sign of the cross, ready to pledge. But the Wolf’s cold voice blew out that flame. “….On your son’s life? What is he, nineteen now? In school at Stanford.”The Wolf’s smile was glacial.Ernesto looked up to see men who had sworn their lives to their Don in the shadows, in the rose bushes, their gazes alert and focused on him. One snered. Ernesto’s gaze returned to the Don.
“Do you swear? Because that’s the currency we trade in now,” said the Don.
Ernesto’s throat worked." Sì . On my boy’s life I will convince Giovanni Battaglia to align with you.”
"One week."The Wolf stood abruptly, tossing the hammer to the table. “Make Matteo a believer. I am dead. I stay dead. Fail again, and I’ll let you watch as I collect your debt.”
Ernesto was up and nodding profusely, then fast walking away.
The Garden
"What are we doing today?" Carmelo clapped his hands, his voice suddenly buoyant as he stepped over to the terrace where his family waited.
Nino grinned, holding up a paintbrush dripping cerulean blue."Painting!"
"Ah,perfetto!" Carmelo ruffled his brother’s hair before pulling Kathy away from him. Kathy looked from him to Ernesto, who was fleeing from their meeting earlier. The man looked distressed.
"Everything okay? Did he show up because we don’t have a phone? Hadn’t heard from you?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s why he came.”
“Oh?” she murmured. “He didn’t even say hi.”
“He told me to tell you hi. Ciao Kathy.”Carmelo reached for her hand and pulled her in closer. If he hadn’t been so selfish, he’d have been honest with her. Given her a choice, he would have found a way to bring Cassandra as well. But he’d trusted in her love for him in doing the right thing too many times in the past. So many lives lost, so many consequences they suffered for their love. He could not risk another person or another failure, or their daughter’s life. This was his last chance.
He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering."Ernesto’s having a phone installed tomorrow. Can you stop busting my balls and let me worship you, take care of you, cook for you, read to you, just us, one more day?”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile was fond. “You’re such a baby. So dramatic, Carmelo. I just want to call home, and you’re acting like I’m asking for a divorce.”
“Think of what it took for you to be my wife, to accept me as your husband. Cassandra still doesn’t know who I am. If she even remembers me at all.”
Kathy looked away. He turned her chin to bring her eyes back to his. “No judgment, cara , I put you through a lot. I was not always able to accept your caution or your wisdom. I’m sorry for the past, my mistakes.”
“I know Carmelo. I know you can’t help who you are. But I see through it. I do. That’s why I came. I’m your wife, now and forever. Stop reaching into the past. Let’s just start again. Cassandra is ready. We can tell her the truth. Ely would want that too.”
“I want it,” Nino said.
Both looked at him, surprised. He pointed at the paintbrush in Kathy’s hand, dripping red on her white kimono as she held it at her side. Kathy gasped and then laughed. She gave him the paintbrush. “Sorry, sweetheart. I was busy taking care of your baby brother,” she teased Carmelo. “Now I have to take care of two babies.”
Carmelo’s laughter was dark velvet as he nipped at her earlobe. "No,cara. I’m a man. You made me that way."
Behind them, Ernesto was already sprinting for the car, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat.
* * *
Harlem (Debbie's Beauty Palace) - September 1978
When Debbie killed the engine, the bronze Cadillac Seville’s leather seats still held the morning’s warmth. For a long moment, she just sat, fingertips resting on the steering wheel, savoring the impossible lightness in her chest. Happiness—real, uncomplicated happiness—felt foreign after so many years of waiting and worrying. Dangerous, even. Like the hush before a thunderstorm.
Earlier, the breakfast smells woke her in the penthouse - bacon crisped just how Matteo liked it, the sharp tang of onions Christopher had clumsily diced under his father's patient instruction for Matteo’s jailhouse eggs, since he was a cook in prison. She could still hear Daphne's laughter bouncing off the walls as her daughter chatted loudly on Christopher’s cordless phone, gossiping with God-knows-who about the Jackson 5's concert tickets. Junior was awed, “Whoa!” when he discovered his father’s penthouse had a new RCA with a big screen and a cable box that could show three different cartoon channels without static.
Debbie's thumb traced the car key's jagged edge. Her mother's final words surfaced in her mind like a prayer:
Claudia's frail hands, paper-thin but strong as roots, clutching hers as Debbie gave her last confession. Secrets kept about the day Matteo saved her life and the baby she carried in East Harlem from Magdalena. She confessed that the real father was Matteo and not José. She shared all the heartbreak and the truth about her fake marriage. How Matteo's ring was hidden in her shoe the day she married José. The baby swell no one questioned. The way she was shattered when she had to pretend with José’s family that Junior was his.
"Blood don't lie," Claudia had whispered, the morphine drip ticking like a metronome beside them. “I knew my baby Junior was not José’s, I didn’t know who he belonged to, but I saw it in your eyes. You carried a secret. It is okay, baby, Mama understands. And true love ain’t no sin. I’m sorry, baby, you had to lie. To hide. Your father, if he were alive, would apologize too. WE only wanted to protect you from a hard life. He grew up dirt poor and in the cotton fields. HE never had tenderness from Big Mama. He was the oldest. He had to be reared strong. So he was hard on you, but he thought it was love.”
“It was love, Mama. The purest love. I swear it. Daddy was my hero. He died a hero, saving people’s lives,” Debbie wept.
“Shhhh... don’t cry. He in a better place, and I’ll be with him soon.”
Debbie wept harder.
“My grandson would never have been a mistake to me or your father. He blood. True blood. A Freeman. The lord kept me here long enough to see you through and remind you of that truth. I’ll see your whole family whole from glory one day. You and this Matteo happy, whole. José, happy, whole. Because it will happen one day, Deb, I feel it in my soul.”
A tear hit the steering wheel. Not the acid tears of her shame years, but the sweet, stinging kind that turned the sunlight fracturing through her windshield into church window patterns.
As she stepped onto the pavement, the salon’s neon sign was off overhead. Inside, past the "CLOSED" sign, she typically flipped over to say “OPEN” when she went inside, her appointment book lay open to tomorrow's page - Mrs. Johnson's perm at 10, little Shanice Davis's braids at 2. She needed that book to cancel the appointments and set up her staff to take her clients. Matteo wanted her home now, wanted them all within arm's reach, but business was business.
The key scraped against the lock and then halted. Her reflection in the glass door confirmed what her instincts already knew—a silhouette slicing through the Harlem morning like a razor through silk.
A woman clad entirely in black, a veiled pillbox hat perched atop her head, sunglasses mirrored Debbie's stunned expression back at her. The dress—oh, that dress—knife-pleated and as rigid as a funeral shroud, yet as elegant as if it had just graced a Paris runway. It probably had.
"Debbie Cakes?” The voice was unchanged, the same slow-molasses tone concealing sharp, deadly edges. "Where's my niece? And why is every hustler in Harlem claiming my baby-girl’s gone?"
Debbie's breath caught in her throat. The keys fell to the ground with a metallic clang.
Janey.
Time seemed irrelevant with Janey. The same high cheekbones that made people whisper “exotic” and question her whiteness were unchanged, and the same striking red lips were now curled in something too sharp to be a smile. The mourning veil couldn't disguise what twenty years hadn't altered—not a single auburn-dyed hair out of place, no crow's feet daring to disturb her flawless face.
"You're..." Debbie's words stuck. "Here."
Janey removed her sunglasses with deliberate care, revealing eyes the color of honeydew. "I'd know if Kathy was dead. She my blood and bone. The sisters would know. There’s still enough of us, so you be smart, girl.” Janey moved closer, enveloping Debbie in a wave of Creed perfume. "Just like I know you are always one step behind her, waiting for your time to shine out of her shadow. Not telling the sisters about our Kathy being dead and gone is a bridge you know better than to cross. So then what is the truth?”
“I—I—” Debbie stammered.
Janey picked up the key to the door with her gloved fingers. She handed them back to Debbie. “Open up, I want to hear this story.”
Debbie nodded and turned the lock. Janey’s gloved hand pressed against Debbie's back, searing through the cotton. “Calm down, suga, we’re family, cousin."
The door was pushed open. Debbie went inside. Janey glanced back to the street and then walked in behind her. Darkness enveloped them. Somewhere, a soap bubble burst. The world exhaled, and Harlem continued its rotation.