Chapter 7 - The Blood on the Tunnel Stone
The tunnel beneath the Moretti estate was old—built during Prohibition to move crates of illegal spirits from the bay up to the house storage vaults.
The air was wet, thick with the smell of wet earth, iron, and old brickwork. Single yellow bulbs spaced twenty feet apart threw long, dancing shadows across the damp walls.
Marcus walked ahead, his weapon raised, his boots splashing through shallow puddles of water on the concrete floor. Clara followed, supporting Rico, whose breathing was becoming increasingly shallow and ragged with every ten yards they covered.
Leo was quiet now, his face buried deep in Clara’s neck, his small arms wrapped tightly around her collar.
“Fifty more feet,” Marcus grunted, checking his watch. “The carriage house door opens behind the tool shed on 84th Street. My man Johnny should be sitting in a grey van with the engine running.”
Rico stumbled, his knees buckling under him.
Clara caught him, her back slamming against the damp brick wall as she absorbed his full weight. His head fell onto her shoulder, his hot, sweat-soaked forehead pressing against her neck.
“Clara...” Rico muttered, his voice barely a whisper now. “If... if I don't make it...”
“Shut up, Mr. Moretti,” Clara said sharply, her own voice trembling with exertion as she held both him and his son against the wall. “You don't get to die in a dirty cellar after making me promise to fix your house.”
A faint, breathless chuckle escaped Rico’s lips despite the agony in his shoulder.
“You are... the most terrifying woman... I have ever met,” Rico murmured.
“Good,” Clara said. “Now use your legs.”
Behind them, deep in the dark curve of the tunnel, a loud metallic thud echoed.
Someone had forced open the iron vault door in the medical suite.
Heavy footsteps began to echo down the brick corridor—the sound of three, perhaps four men moving fast through the dark.
“Keep moving!” Marcus ordered, turning around and dropping to one knee near a stone support pillar. He raised his weapon, aiming down the barrel toward the shadows behind them. “I’ll hold the turn! Get the boss and the kid to Johnny’s van!”
“Marcus—” Rico tried to say.
“Go, Boss!” Marcus yelled over his shoulder. “I owe your father my life! I’m not letting Rossi’s dogs touch the boy!”
Clara didn't argue. She wrapped her arm tighter around Rico’s waist, pulled him forward with every ounce of strength remaining in her legs, and dragged him toward the green metal door at the end of the tunnel.
She threw her body against the latch.
The door burst open, spilling them out into the cold, rain-soaked interior of an old wooden carriage house.
Outside the double doors, a non-descript grey Ford transit van was idling in the dark alleyway, its headlights off, its side door sliding open instantly as Johnny—a young Moretti soldier with frantic eyes—looked out.
“Miss Vance! Get him in!” Johnny yelled.
Behind them, inside the tunnel, the sudden, deafening roar of automatic gunfire erupted—Marcus holding the line against Rossi’s men.
Clara shoved Rico onto the floor of the van, scrambled in behind him with Leo, and slammed the heavy side door shut.
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“DRIVE!” Clara screamed.
Johnny slammed his foot onto the accelerator. The van’s tires screeched against the wet asphalt, swerving violently out of the alleyway and disappearing into the dark, storm-swept streets of Brooklyn.
