Chapter 2 - THE TUNNEL UNDER THE INN
My grandmother had known about the tunnel for forty-six years.
I had known about it for approximately nine seconds.
“Grandma.”
She pretended to examine the rolling pin.
“Don’t ‘Grandma’ me.”
“There is a tunnel under our inn?”
“Technically, several.”
Vincent looked interested.
“Several?”
She glared at him.
“You stay out of this.”
One of Vincent’s men coughed to hide a laugh.
I sat down before my legs stopped cooperating.
Grandma finally explained.
The inn had originally been built in 1891 beside an old freight road.
During Prohibition, smugglers dug underground storage passages connecting the basement to barns and a river landing two miles east.
Most collapsed.
One survived.
My grandfather discovered it in the 1970s.
“What did he do with it?”
“Locked it.”
“Why?”
“Because men came asking questions.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“What men?”
Grandma looked at him for a long moment.
“Morettis.”
Silence.
Vincent’s expression changed.
“My family?”
“Your grandfather.”
That landed harder than I expected.
“Anthony Moretti?”
“Yes.”
Vincent looked toward me.
I stared back.
Apparently our families had history.
Wonderful.
Grandma continued.
“Anthony wanted the tunnel because it gave private access to the river.”
“What did Grandpa say?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“He offered money.”
“How much?”
“More than the inn was worth.”
“Grandpa still refused?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
Grandpa had died when I was fourteen.
I remembered his laugh.
His pocketknife.
The way he always locked the basement storage room and told me mice lived inside.
Apparently the mice had organized crime connections.
Vincent asked:
“Why did he refuse?”
Grandma’s face softened.
“Because Anthony wasn’t the only man who wanted it.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“Who else?”
“Frank Cavallo.”
The same family behind the development company.
Vincent exhaled slowly.
“That explains the mortgage.”
I looked between them.
“Can someone please explain it to the waitress who thought her biggest crisis was unpaid propane?”
Vincent sat across from me.
“The Cavallo organization and mine have been competitors for decades.”
“Competitors sounds like you’re selling insurance.”
His mouth twitched.
“Fine. Enemies.”
“Better.”
“The tunnel creates discreet access from inland property to the river.”
“For smuggling?”
“Historically.”
“And now?”
“Information. Movement. Leverage.”
I folded my arms.
“You are not using my tunnel.”
“Our tunnel,” Grandma corrected.
I stared.
She shrugged.
“Technically yours now.”
Of course it was.
Vincent leaned back.
“I don’t want the tunnel.”
That surprised me.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because Cavallo does.”
“And they think you want it because of me?”
“Yes.”
“So my drunk proposal painted a target on our house.”
“Possibly.”
“Fantastic.”
My grandmother walked toward the basement.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“To show you.”
The basement smelled like apples, dust, and seventy years of secrets.
Grandma pushed aside an old shelving unit.
Behind it was a steel door.
Not antique.
Modern.
Vincent noticed immediately.
“That lock is new.”
Grandma frowned.
“I didn’t install it.”
Every man in the basement reached for a weapon.
I stopped breathing.
Vincent moved in front of me.
One of his men examined the electronic keypad.
“It was installed within the last year.”
“Can you open it?”
“Probably.”
Grandma whispered:
“No one should have been down here.”
The keypad clicked.
The steel door opened.
Cold air moved through the basement.
Vincent switched on a flashlight.
The tunnel stretched into darkness.
Then we saw the footprints.
Fresh.
Mud.
Several sets.
And beside them, one object.
A red scarf.
I recognized it instantly.
It belonged to Tess.
I spun around.
“Tess?”
No answer.
I ran upstairs.
Her phone was on the kitchen table.
The front door stood open.
My cousin was gone.
Then Vincent’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A man laughed.
“Congratulations on the engagement, Moretti.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“Where is she?”
“Bring us the girl you promised to marry.”
My blood turned cold.
May you like
The voice continued:
“Or her cousin becomes the first wedding gift.”
