The next ten minutes are a blur. Dante drives like he's done this before—taking corners at speeds that should be impossible, weaving through narrow streets, somehow staying just ahead of their pursuers.
Finally, they pull into an underground parking garage. Private, by the looks of it. Dante swipes a card and the gate lifts.
He parks in the darkest corner and kills the engine.
For a moment, they just sit there. Breathing. Listening to the silence.
"Are we safe?" Norah asks.
"For now." Dante is already unbuckling his seatbelt. "But we need to keep moving. There's a private airstrip forty minutes from here. We can be in New Orleans by dawn."
Norah doesn't move. "I haven't said yes yet."
Dante turns to look at her. In the dim light of the parking garage, his face is all shadows and sharp angles.
"You got in the car," he says quietly. "That was your yes."
"I got in because you said people were chasing me."
"They are."
"But maybe—" Norah's voice cracks. "Maybe if I went to the police—"
"The Calabrias have cops on their payroll," Dante cuts her off. "Baltimore, New Orleans, half of Louisiana. You walk into a police station, you're dead within an hour."
"The FBI, then. You said my father had evidence for them. Maybe they'd protect me."
"Maybe." Dante nods slowly. "Or maybe they'd use you as bait to draw out the Calabrias. Put you in a safe house, wait for an attempt on your life, then swoop in and make arrests. You'd be alive, technically. But you'd be a prisoner. A lure. Is that what you want?"
Norah doesn't answer.
Because she doesn't know what she wants. Except to wake up from this nightmare.
"Look," Dante says, and his voice has gone softer. "I know this is a lot. I know you don't trust me. I wouldn't trust me either, in your position. But right now, I'm the only option you have that doesn't end with you in a casket or a federal witness protection program for the rest of your life."
"What about you?" Norah hears herself ask. "What do you get out of this?"
Dante is quiet for a long moment.
"Absolution," he says finally.
"For what?"
"For the last woman I couldn't save."
The words land like a punch.
Norah stares at him. "What are you talking about?"
Dante's expression has gone carefully blank. "Four years ago, the Calabrias wanted someone. A woman. She'd seen something she shouldn't have. I was supposed to bring her to them. I was supposed to deliver her."
"Did you?"
"No." Dante's voice is flat. "I tried to hide her. Tried to negotiate for her life. I thought I could save her."
"What happened?"
"They found her anyway." He's not looking at Norah anymore. He's looking at something she can't see. "They made me watch. Made sure I understood what happens when you disobey the Calabrias."
Norah's throat is tight. "What was her name?"
"Doesn't matter now." Dante blinks, and the blankness cracks just enough for her to see pain underneath. "She's dead. And I've had to live with that for four years."
"So this is about guilt," Norah says slowly. "You're trying to save me to make up for not saving her."
"Maybe." Dante turns back to her. "Does it matter why, if the result is you staying alive?"
"It matters to me."
"Why?"
"Because I need to know if you're actually trying to help me, or if I'm just..." Norah trails off, searching for the words. "A stand-in for your guilt."
Dante considers this. Then he reaches into his jacket—the movement makes Norah flinch, but he's not going for the gun. He pulls out a photo. Different from the one he showed her earlier.
This one shows a young woman. Early twenties, blonde, smiling at the camera. Pretty in a wholesome way. She's wearing a sundress and standing in front of a lake.
"Her name was Michaela," Dante says quietly. "She was twenty-three. Kindergarten teacher. Wrong place, wrong time. The Calabrias wanted her gone. I was supposed to make it happen."
"But you didn't."
"I tried not to." He stares at the photo. "I thought I was strong enough to say no. Turns out I wasn't."
"What happened to her?"
"They drowned her in Lake Pontchartrain," Dante says, voice still quiet. Still flat. "Weighted her down with chains. It took three weeks for her body to surface. By the time it did, there wasn't enough left to identify through anything but dental records."
Norah feels sick.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
"Don't be." Dante puts the photo away. "Just understand that I won't let that happen again. Not to you. Not to anyone."
"Even if it costs you?"
"Especially if it costs me."
They sit in silence for a moment.
Then Norah takes a deep breath.
"Okay," she says.
"Okay?"
"I'll come with you. To New Orleans. But—" She holds up a hand when he starts to speak. "I want ground rules. I want to know where we're going, who we might run into, what the plan is. I want agency in this. I'm not just going to be... cargo."
Something shifts in Dante's expression. Respect, maybe.
"Deal," he says. "Anything else?"
"Yes." Norah meets his eyes. "If I decide I want out—if I want to go to the FBI, or go back to Baltimore, or anything else—you let me. No arguments. My choice."
Dante hesitates. For just a second.
Then he nods. "Your choice," he agrees.
"Good." Norah exhales. "Then let's go before I change my mind."
Dante's almost-smile returns. "Smart."
He starts the engine again. They pull out of the parking garage, heading for the highway. For the airport. For New Orleans and whatever fresh hell awaits there.
Norah watches Baltimore disappear in the side mirror for the second time tonight.
"One more thing," she says.
"What?"
"The woman who refused to come with you. The last one." Norah's voice is steady. "What was her name?"
Dante's hands tighten on the steering wheel.
"Michaela," he says again. Quieter this time.
"No." Norah shakes her head. "You said there was a woman before me. Four years ago. But you also just said Michaela was the woman you couldn't save."
Dante doesn't answer.
And Norah realizes, with a cold certainty that settles in her bones:
"There have been others," she says. "Haven't there? How many women have the Calabrias wanted dead? How many have you been sent to collect?"
Dante is quiet for so long she thinks he won't answer.
Then, finally:
"You're number seven."
The number hangs in the air between them.
"And the others?" Norah's voice is barely a whisper. "What happened to them?"
"Three came willingly. They're alive. Living under new names, new lives. The Calabrias think they're dead."
"And the other three?"
Dante's jaw clenches. "One of them is Michaela. The other two..."
He doesn't finish the sentence.
He doesn't have to.
Norah turns to look out the window. At the dark highway stretching ahead. At the future she's just chosen—running with a man who's delivered six women to either salvation or death, and she has no way of knowing which fate awaits her.
"Smart," Dante said when she agreed to come.
But Norah doesn't feel smart.
She feels like she just signed her own death warrant.
"The last woman who refused," Dante says into the silence. His voice is different now. Rougher. "Her name was Caroline. She told me she'd rather die on her own terms than live as a prisoner. She walked away."
"What happened to her?"
Dante's knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
"Three days later, I found her body in a bayou outside Baton Rouge," he says quietly. "Alligators had gotten to her. Barely enough left to identify. But I knew. The Calabrias made sure I knew."
He glances at Norah. His eyes are dark, haunted.
"So when I said you made the smart choice?" He turns back to the road. "I meant it."
The highway stretches ahead. Empty. Dark.
And Norah Sutherland realizes she's not just running toward something.
She's running away from becoming a body in a bayou, waiting for the alligators to finish what men started.