Chapter 7 - The Blood on the Cobblestones
“Well, well,” a raspy voice echoed through the stone tunnel. “Look what the storm washed down.”
The man leading the trio was tall, thin, and possessed a jagged scar across his throat—Sully O’Connor’s primary lieutenant, a mercenary known on the streets as Red.
Dante didn't hesitate. He pulled Mia behind his back, pressing her against the wet brick wall, his body acting as an impenetrable shield.
“Red,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a register that held no fear, only absolute, lethal promise. “You’re on Moretti territory.”
“Not anymore, Don Moretti,” Red sneered, raising his automatic shotgun. “Sully says the North End belongs to South Boston now. And the widow comes with us.”
Before Red could pull the trigger, Dante moved with terrifying speed.
He ducked low, firing two precise shots through the flashlight’s glare. The lead mercenary dropped instantly, his shotgun discharging into the stone ceiling, showering the corridor with dust and sparks.
The second man fired wildly into the dark.
A bullet struck Dante’s left shoulder, spinning him back against Mia.
“Dante!” Mia screamed, reaching out to catch him as he stumbled.
Dante didn't falter. Ignoring the blood soaking through his charcoal suit jacket, he raised his weapon with his right hand and fired three quick rounds, dropping the remaining two men where they stood.
Silence returned to the tunnel, heavy and thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood.
Dante leaned against the brick wall, panting heavily, his face pale in the faint light. He pressed his gloved right hand against his left shoulder, dark blood seeping between his fingers.
“Dante!” Mia cried, dropping to her knees beside him. She grabbed his lapels, pulling him down so she could examine the wound. “You’re hit!”
“It’s... a flesh wound,” Dante gritted out through clenched teeth, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed his pain. “The heavy wool took most of the force.”
“You’re an idiot!” Mia yelled, tears bursting from her eyes as she ripped off her wool scarf and pressed it tightly against his bleeding shoulder. “You jumped right in front of him!”
Dante looked down at her face—at her furious, tear-streaked eyes, her flushed cheeks, and the absolute devotion in her hands as she applied pressure to his wound.
Despite the pain, a slow, breathtaking smile spread across his lips—the scar at the corner of his mouth curving sharply.
“There it is,” Dante murmured softly, his voice gravelly and intimate. “The Sicilian temper.”
“Shut up!” Mia sobbed, pressing harder against the wound. “Hold this!”
Dante placed his large hand over hers, holding the makeshift bandage in place. “We have to keep moving. Marco won't be able to hold the tailor shop forever.”
He pushed himself up off the stone floor, leaning heavily on her shoulder. Mia wrapped her arm around his waist, supporting his massive weight as they navigated the final stretch of the bootlegging tunnel.
They pushed through the exit grate, stepping out into a narrow, snow-covered alley behind Saint Stephen’s Church.
The storm was reaching its peak, cold wind whipping snow into wild spirals across the empty streets.
A black armored SUV pulled up to the alley entrance, its tires screeching against the ice.
The driver’s side door opened, and Marco stepped out, bleeding from a minor cut on his forehead, but holding an automatic rifle.
“Boss! Mrs. Bell!” Marco yelled, throwing open the rear passenger door. “Get in! The safe house in Gloucester is prepared!”
Dante helped Mia into the back seat before climbing in beside her, slamming the heavy reinforced door shut just as three black sedans rounded the corner of Hanover Street.
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“Drive, Marco!” Dante ordered, sinking back into the leather seats.
The SUV roared to life, its heavy tires tearing through the snow as it sped away toward the highway, leaving the chaotic war zone of the North End behind them.
