The turbulence is lessening. Norah only realizes it when she notices her stomach has settled. The lightning outside is less frequent. The storm is passing.
Or they're flying out of it.
"We should be landing soon," Dante says. But he doesn't let go of her hand.
Neither does she.
"Dante." His name feels strange in her mouth. Too intimate for someone she barely knows. "Why are you really doing this? And don't say absolution. There has to be more."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then:
"Because I'm tired," he says simply. "Tired of being the person who delivers women to monsters. Tired of living with ghosts. Tired of—" He stops. "Of not being able to look at myself in the mirror."
"And saving me fixes that?"
"Maybe." His eyes meet hers. "Or maybe it just means there's one less ghost."
The jet begins its descent. Dante finally releases her hand and heads back to the cockpit.
Norah watches him go, her palm still warm where his hand was.
Through the window, she sees the first lights of New Orleans.
The city where everything will either end or begin.
She's not sure which terrifies her more.
The landing is smooth. Professional. Everything the flight wasn't.
Dante parks the jet at another private terminal—this one larger, busier despite the early hour. Through the window, Norah sees other jets, luxury cars, people in expensive suits conducting quiet business in the predawn.
"Stay close to me," Dante says as they disembark. "Don't talk to anyone. Don't make eye contact. Just walk."
"Why? Who's here?"
"People who ask questions we don't want to answer."
They move through the terminal quickly. Dante's hand finds the small of her back again—not pushing, just guiding. Norah keeps her eyes down, heart hammering.
A black sedan is waiting outside. Different from the SUV in Baltimore. Sleeker.
"Get in," Dante says, opening the passenger door.
Norah hesitates. "Where are we going?"
"The French Quarter. I have a place there."
"A place."
"An apartment. Safe. Off the grid."
"How far off the grid?"
"Far enough that the Calabrias won't find you." Dante's expression is unreadable. "Not immediately, anyway."
Not immediately. That's not exactly reassuring.
But Norah gets in the car.
The drive through New Orleans is surreal. The city is waking up—delivery trucks making rounds, early risers heading to work, tourists stumbling back to hotels after Bourbon Street adventures. Normal life, continuing oblivious to the woman in a car being smuggled through it like contraband.
"You've been quiet," Dante says after a while.
"I'm processing."
"That's fair."
Norah watches the city slide by. "What's the plan? Once we get to your apartment. What happens?"
"You stay there. Don't leave. Don't call anyone. Don't go near windows."
"For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
"As long as what takes?"
Dante's jaw clenches. "For me to figure out how to keep you alive permanently."
"And if you can't figure that out?"
He doesn't answer.
Which is answer enough.
The French Quarter is beautiful in the early light. Old buildings with wrought-iron balconies. Narrow streets. History bleeding from every brick. Under different circumstances, Norah would find it romantic.
Now it just feels like a prettier prison.
Dante pulls into an alley behind a building that looks like it's been there since before the Civil War. He parks, kills the engine.
"We're here."
The apartment is on the third floor. No elevator—they take narrow stairs that creak under their weight. Dante unlocks three separate locks before the door swings open.
Inside is... not what Norah expected.
She'd imagined something sterile. Sparse. But the apartment is furnished like someone actually lives here. A couch with throw pillows. Bookshelves packed with actual books. Art on the walls—mostly landscapes, but good ones. A kitchen that smells faintly of coffee.
"This is yours?" she asks.
"Sometimes." Dante locks the door behind them. All three locks. "I use it when I'm in the city. Which is more often than I'd like."
Norah wanders to the window. Dante said not to go near them, but she can't help it. The view looks out over a courtyard—brick walls, a fountain, plants in terracotta pots. Private. Hidden.
"Your bedroom is through there," Dante says, pointing to a door on the left. "Bathroom attached. Everything you need should be in the closet."
Norah turns. "What do you mean, everything I need?"
"Clothes. Toiletries. The basics."
"How—"
"I had someone prepare the room." Dante's expression is carefully neutral. "Standard protocol."
Standard protocol. Like he's done this before. Because he has. Six times before, to be exact.
"Where will you sleep?" Norah asks.
"The couch."
"That's not—"
"I don't sleep much anyway." He's already moving to the kitchen, pulling out a coffee pot. "You should rest. It's been a long night."
It has been. Feels like a lifetime since she was praying over Enzo Ricci's body.
"I'm not tired," Norah lies.
"Then eat something. There's food in the fridge."
"Dante."
He stops, coffee pot in hand.
"What happens now?" Norah asks. "Really. No vague answers. I need to know what I'm doing here."
Dante sets the coffee pot down. Leans against the counter. For the first time since she met him, he looks exhausted.
"Honestly?" he says. "I don't know."
"That's not reassuring."
"I know." He runs a hand through his hair. "The plan was to bring you here, hide you, and figure out the next move. But the truth is, I'm making this up as I go."
"That's even less reassuring."
"I'm aware." His smile is grim. "But it's the truth. The Calabrias think I'm delivering you to them in three weeks. That gives us time to—"
"Wait." Norah's blood goes cold. "Three weeks?"
Dante's expression shifts. "I thought you understood. The debt collection isn't immediate. There's protocol. A timeline."
"You never said anything about a timeline."
"I thought—" He stops. "You're right. I should have told you. I'm sorry."
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. The number sits in Norah's stomach like a stone.
"And then what?" Her voice is barely a whisper. "What happens after three weeks if you haven't figured out a plan?"
Dante doesn't answer.
Doesn't have to.
The coffee pot starts percolating, filling the silence with a sound that's almost normal. Almost comforting.
Almost enough to make Norah forget she just agreed to three weeks of borrowed time before a debt she didn't incur comes due in blood.
She walks to the bedroom door. Stops with her hand on the knob.
"Dante," she says without turning around.
"Yeah?"
"Don't let me die like Caroline. Like Michaela. If it comes to that—if there's no other option—" Her voice cracks. "Promise me you won't let them take me alive."
The silence stretches so long she thinks he won't answer.
Then, so quietly she almost misses it:
"I promise."
Norah opens the door and steps into the bedroom Dante prepared for her.
The closet is full of clothes in her size. The bathroom stocked with toiletries. The bed made with clean sheets.
Everything she needs.
Except a way out.
She sits on the edge of the bed and lets herself shake.