Chapter 2 - THE ALTAR OF CONVENIENCE
The interior of St. Aurelia’s Cathedral smelled of beeswax, frankincense, and old marble.
Five minutes after Amara parked the bakery van in a delivery alley, she found herself standing in a vaulted side chapel while a doctor in a cashmere coat stitched Daniel’s arm without anesthesia. Daniel hadn't made a single sound. He simply sat on a wooden bench, his shirt off, exposing a torso covered in old silver scars and intricate black tattoos depicting saintly figures and barbed wire.
Standing near the main altar was Valeria Moretti, Daniel’s mother. She was a woman of sixty, dressed in black silk that looked like armor, her silver hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful.
"The Rinaldis are expanding their territory in Southie," Valeria said, her voice dropping into the quiet cavern of the chapel. "Dominic Rinaldi sent those men today, Daniel. He wanted to test you before the wedding."
"He tested my tires," Daniel said calmly, flexing his arm as the doctor finished the final suture. "He failed."
"He wants to know if the alliance is real," Valeria insisted, stepping closer, her heels clicking on the marble floor like small hammer strikes. "Isabella is waiting at the hotel. Her father has brought three hundred guests from New York. If this wedding does not happen on Sunday, the entire North End becomes a firing range."
Daniel didn't answer his mother. His eyes shifted across the chapel floor, past the rows of stained-glass windows, stopping at the corner where Amara was sitting on a folding chair, trying very hard to blend into the shadows.
She had wiped the blueberry filling off her coat, but her hair was still damp from the rain, curling in wild, dark waves around her shoulders. She looked utterly out of place among the gilded Saints and marble angels—a real, solid woman sitting in a house of expensive illusions.
"Who is she?" Valeria asked, noticing her son’s gaze. She turned, her sharp blue eyes sweeping over Amara with cold, analytical judgment. "A witness?"
"She saved my life," Daniel said, standing up and pulling his white linen shirt back over his shoulders.
Valeria let out a short, dismissive breath. "Give her ten thousand dollars from the slush account and have Marco drive her home. We have a rehearsal in an hour."
Daniel walked past his mother, stopping in front of Amara. He reached into his pocket, but instead of pulling out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, he pulled out a gold-embossed ivory envelope.
"What is that?" Amara asked, looking from the envelope to his face.
"An invitation," Daniel said.
"I don't go to mob weddings, Mr. Moretti. I prefer my weekends without collateral damage."
"It's on Sunday at four," Daniel said, his voice dropping so low only she could hear it over the quiet hum of the cathedral’s organ. "If you come, sit in the back pew on the left. Beside the statue of St. Jude."
Amara looked at the envelope. Her fingers brushed his as she took it. His skin was warm, calloused, and steady.
May you like
"Why St. Jude?" she asked.
Daniel smiled—a real, genuine smile that transformed his harsh features into something dangerously human. "Because he’s the patron saint of hopeless causes, Miss Hale. And I think I’m going to need one."
