Chapter 6 - THE TUNNELS OF THE NORTH END
The crypts beneath St. Aurelia’s were not just a place for dead bishops; they were part of an ancient network of colonial smuggling tunnels that ran beneath the North End all the way to the Boston harbor.
Daniel led Amara through the damp brick arches, holding a small tactical flashlight he had pulled from his suit lining. The sounds of gunfire above them gradually faded into a low, rhythmic thumping, like distant thunder underground.
"Where do these go?" Amara asked, her shoes clicking softly on the muddy cobblestones.
"To a fish packing plant on Pier 4," Daniel said. "My family built these access points in the twenties during Prohibition."
Amara kept walking, her hands tucked back into her pockets to keep them from shaking. "Your mother is going to kill me, isn't she?"
"Valeria?" Daniel chuckled softly, the light flicking across the damp brick walls. "She’s going to try. She thinks in terms of territories, alliances, and tax ledgers. She’s spent three years arranging my marriage to Isabella to secure the New York shipping routes."
"Then why did you do it?" Amara stopped in the middle of the dark tunnel. The flashlight beam caught her face—her high cheekbones, her wide dark eyes, the soft, curved strength of her body framed by the navy jersey fabric. "Why throw away an empire for a woman you met six days ago in a bakery van?"
Daniel turned around. He lowered the flashlight so it pointed at the floor, filling the brick archway with a soft, warm glow.
He stepped closer to her, closing the distance until she could feel the heat radiating from his broad chest.
"Because for thirty-two years, my life has been a transaction," Daniel said, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made the air in the tunnel feel thin. "Every meal, every suit, every conversation, every woman... everything was chosen for me by people who wanted a piece of what the Moretti name controls."
He reached out, his long, scarred fingers gently touching the side of her jaw. His skin was warm against her cold face.
"And then a rainstorm happened," he whispered. "And a woman sitting in a stolen van looked at me—not at my name, not at my money, not at my guns—and yelled at me for ruining her blueberry muffin."
Amara felt a laugh escape her lips—a small, breathless sound that died in the dark tunnel. "It was a very good muffin, Daniel."
"I know," Daniel said gently. "And when I saw you standing under St. Jude today... wearing a simple dress... looking at me like I was a man instead of a cartel boss... I realized I’d rather burn the whole city down than spend another day living a lie."
Amara stared at him, her heart thumping in her throat. She was a practical woman. She understood budgets, records, and cause-and-effect. This man was dangerous. His world was full of violence and blood.
But as his thumb stroked her cheek, she realized she had never felt more alive than she had in the last six days.
Before she could speak, a metallic scraping sound echoed from the tunnel behind them.
CREAK.
Daniel instantly pulled her behind a brick pillar, his pistols raised, the gentle light vanishing as he clicked off his flashlight.
"Moretti!" a voice called down the dark tunnel.
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It wasn't a Rinaldi gunman.
It was Valeria Moretti, accompanied by two silent, heavy-set men wearing tactical vests.
