Page 112 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
I answer it immediately. "Yes."
"Fire at the docks," Callahan reports, his voice tight with tension. "Big one. Patrick just left with twelve men. The compound is down to four guards, all of them watching the perimeter."
"And Erin?"
"I am moving her now. Give me twenty minutes."
I hang up and look at Gabriel. "We are on."
The drive to the speakeasy takes eighteen minutes—Gabriel drives like a demon, weaving through Manhattan traffic with reckless precision. The old bar is exactly where it should be, tucked into a basement on a street corner that has seen better decades. The door is locked, but Gabriel produces a key and we are inside within seconds.
The tunnel entrance is behind a false wall in the storage room. Gabriel finds the latch, pulls, and the wall swings inward to reveal a narrow brick passageway that smells like mold and old secrets.
We descend into the darkness.
Luca is already waiting for us at the tunnel entrance, having circled back after setting the docks ablaze. His face is smudged with soot, his eyes bright with adrenaline.
"It is done," he says simply. "Patrick took the bait. The fire is big enough to keep him occupied for at least an hour."
"Good," I say. "Now let's get Erin."
The tunnels are exactly as claustrophobic as I expected—barely wide enough for us to walk single file, the ceiling low enough that I have to duck in places. Gabriel leads with a flashlight, navigating by memory and instinct through twists and turns that all look identical to me. Luca brings up the rear, his weapon drawn and ready.
"How do you know where we are going?" I ask after the fifth turn.
"When the alliance was formed, I made it protocol to map and memorize their tunnel system," Gabriel says without looking back. "Can't protect allies if you don't know their escape routes. Basic tactical intelligence."
We walk in silence for another ten minutes, the only sounds our footsteps and breathing echoing off the brick walls. Then Gabriel stops abruptly, holding up a hand.
"We are here."
The basement entrance is a metal grate set into the ceiling—rusty and old but still functional. Gabriel climbs up, tests the grate, and pushes it open with a soft scrape of metal on stone.
We emerge into a dark basement that smells like gun oil and concrete. Callahan is waiting for us, and beside him?—
Erin.
She looks like hell. Her red hair is matted and tangled, her face bruised on one side, her eyes hollow with grief and trauma. But she is alive, and when she sees us, recognition flares in her expression.
"Dante," she breathes. "You came."
"Of course we did," I tell her, moving forward to quickly assess her condition. Bruises, yes, but nothing obviously broken. Pregnant belly still rounded and intact. "Can you walk?"
"I can run if I have to," she says, and there is steel in her voice despite everything. Seamus's daughter, through and through.
"Good. Because we need to move fast."
Callahan hands Gabriel a rifle. "For the perimeter. I am coming with you—I need to make sure she gets out safely."
We move through the tunnels faster on the return trip, urgency driving us forward. Erin keeps pace despite her condition, her hand protective over her stomach, her jaw set with determination.
We are almost to the speakeasy exit when we hear it.
Footsteps. Behind us. Multiple sets, moving fast.
"They found the tunnel entrance," Gabriel says grimly, already turning to face the threat. "Go. Get her out. I will hold them off."
"Gabriel—" I start, but he cuts me off.
