The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,112

all of them. Spines straightened and eyes widened. Bernard had taken his place by the door again, but he moved quickly away from it.

The latch on the big steel door clanged, making everyone jump and Tommy wince.

The door swung open and three wise guys—all brandishing guns—stepped inside.

“Come on, boys.” One gestured with his shotgun. “On your feet.”

Exchanging terrified glances, they did as they were told. Tommy leaned heavily on Danny, but they got to their feet.

The man with the shotgun stepped aside and waved toward the doorway with the shotgun. “Let’s go.”

The lads glanced at each other again, but they did what they were told, filing out into a dimly lit hallway. A few more wise guys waited for them, all holding weapons, and fear had icicles forming around Danny’s heart as he tried to hold up Tommy while the crew followed the wise guys deeper into the tunnel.

He tried not to think about how similar this network of passageways was to the one beneath the butcher shop leading to Carmine’s office. It couldn’t be the same tunnels, though. He was sure they were still on Long Island somewhere.

And anyhow, Carmine wouldn’t have flipped on them like this. Danny and his boys were working for him, for God’s sake, and a gangster’s word was surprisingly reliable. There was no reason Carmine would’ve turned on them, especially not when the crew had been making him so much money.

Unless this wasn’t him at all, but it was his men. Some of the Sicilians were suspicious of Carmine since he wasn’t full-blooded, and God knew they didn’t like Irishmen. Maybe they’d taken this into their own hands. Maybe they’d…

No.

No, he refused to consider it.

This had all been more hell than he could handle, and there was no way he could cope with Carmine also being dead.

God, no. Danny had already lost Francis and Giulia and quite possibly Liam. Carmine… He would be one body too many.

At the end of a tunnel, another big metal door swung open, and they were led out into an alley. In that alley, amidst several men standing around in overcoats and holding big guns, were four cars, their engines idling. Some fancy and expensive make, Danny thought, though it was too dark and he was too scared to be sure.

One of the men stood in front of the six Irishmen. “Which one of you’s Danny?”

Danny’s heart dropped into his feet.

No one responded.

The Italian huffed a frustrated breath. “Don’t play games. Tell me who’s Danny, or we start shooting—”

“I am,” Danny said quickly. Heart racing and stomach threatening to come up his throat, he looked the man right in the eye. “I’m Danny.”

“All right.” The man grabbed Danny’s arm. “You’re riding with the boss.”

Danny dug his heels in and looked at Tommy, then back at the wise guy. “But what about him? He can’t even walk?”

“I got him,” Bernard pulled Tommy’s other arm around his shoulders.

Danny gave Tommy a worried glance, then exchanged nods with Bernard before he gave in and let himself be dragged in another direction.

He was shoved into the fourth car, which was longer and had two rows of seats in it. Facing each other, too, so this must’ve been something custom-built. And expensive. Very expensive.

And he wasn’t alone.

Slowly he lifted his gaze and looked right into the eyes of an older Italian gentlemen, who watched him with an icy expression. A gangster. He had to be. The suit, the hat, the car, the glare—he was all gangster.

Oh, dear Jesus…

Two wise guys slid in on either side, sandwiching Danny in between their broad frames as they shut the doors. Up ahead, the cars began to move. Then this one followed. Scared out of his mind, with no possible escape, Danny stared at the man sitting across from him.

After several painfully long minutes, the man said, “According to your friends, you’re the leader of this band of miscreants.”

What point was there in denying it? That would only mean more pain for his friends, so he nodded.

The man went silent for another minute or two before he spoke again. “Do you know who I am, Daniel?”

Danny’s mouth had gone dry, so he just shook his head.

“My name is Agosto il Sacchi.”

Danny almost choked. The name il Sacchi had been in his nightmares for months as it was, but Agosto il Sacchi? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Agosto il Sacchi was one of those wise guys everybody knew unless the cops asked, and then you didn’t know nothing. He was