Chapter 1 - THE BLUEBERRY RUN
The rain hitting the windshield of the stolen bakery van sounded like handfuls of gravel thrown against glass.
Amara Hale gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white, her thumb accidentally hitting the horn every time they bounced over a pothole on Tremont Street. The smell of fresh rye bread and diesel exhaust filled the cabin, mixed with the metallic copper scent of blood dripping from the charcoal suit of the man sitting next to her.
"Left on Boylston," Daniel Moretti said, his voice terrifyingly calm for a man whose leather holster was visible beneath his torn jacket. "Then take the alley behind the theater."
"There is a delivery truck blocking the alley!" Amara yelled, swerving around a stagnant yellow cab. "And I would like to repeat my question before my heart ruptures through my ribcage! Who are you, and why are those men in the black sedan treating my afternoon commute like an action movie?"
Daniel didn't answer immediately. He looked down at his arm, then at Amara’s coat, where a smear of dark blue fruit preserve was slowly drying. He pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket, reached across the center console, and gently wiped a speck of muffin crumb off her cheek.
"I’m Daniel," he said.
"Daniel who?"
"Moretti."
Amara slammed her foot on the brake. The van skidded sideways on the slick asphalt, tires screaming before she caught the wheel and corrected the turn into a narrow, brick-lined lane.
"Moretti?" she gasped, her eyes darting to the rearview mirror. The black sedan was turning into the alley behind them, its headlights blinding in the rain. "As in... the North End Morettis? The people who own half the waterfront and three-quarters of the city council?"
"We don't own three-quarters," Daniel corrected smoothly, leaning out the passenger window, raising his heavy silver pistol, and squeezing the trigger twice.
BANG. BANG.
The front left tire of the black sedan blew out with a violent pop. The car swerved violently, clipping a dumpster and slamming into a row of industrial brick pillars, its radiator bursting into a cloud of white steam.
Amara stared at the mirror in horror and fascination. "You just shot a car!"
"I shot the tire," Daniel said, rolling the window back up and tucking the weapon into his shoulder harness. "And you just drove a five-ton delivery vehicle through three red lights without hitting a pedestrian. What did you say your name was?"
"Amara. Amara Hale. I work in municipal archives. I file land deeds and zoning permits!"
"Well, Miss Hale," Daniel said, turning his head to look at her fully for the first time. His eyes were a dark, stormy gray, surrounded by thick lashes and framed by a jaw line that looked like it had been carved from Italian granite. "You have exceptional instincts under pressure. Where did you learn to spot a driver's line like that?"
Amara blinked, her face warming despite the freezing rain. She was thirty-two, wore a size 18, and usually spent her evenings reading historical fiction with her cat. Men like Daniel Moretti—men who looked like tailored suits and dangerous money—did not look at women like her. They certainly didn't look at them while bleeding on bakery van seats.
"I have three older brothers who drove like maniacs in South Boston," she said, her voice dropping a register as she pulled the van onto a quiet side street near the river. "And I don't like being shot at. Where am I taking you?"
Daniel looked out the window, watching the city rain wash away the smoke from the highway. "Take us to St. Aurelia’s Cathedral. The back entrance."
May you like
Amara paused, idling the van by a fire hydrant. "The cathedral? Are you going to pray or hide?"
"Neither," Daniel said softly, his dark eyes fixing on hers with a sudden, intense concentration that made her breath catch. "I'm supposed to be practicing my wedding vows."
