Dante's looking at the screen over her shoulder, close enough that she can feel his breath on her neck. "This is leverage. Real leverage. If this got out, the Calabrias would be finished."
"So we give it to them. Trade the evidence for my freedom."
"It doesn't work like that." Dante straightens, runs a hand through his hair. "They'll take the evidence and kill you anyway. You've seen it. You know what's on it. You're still a loose end."
"Then what do we do?"
"We copy it. Send it to multiple sources. Law enforcement, journalists, everyone. Make it public enough that killing you would draw more attention than letting you live."
"But won't that—" Norah stops. "If you help me do that, the Calabrias will know you betrayed them."
"Yes."
"They'll kill you."
"Probably."
"Then we can't—"
"Norah." Dante crouches in front of her, eye level. "I've been a dead man walking for seven years. Ever since I made the deal to save my brother. This—" He gestures at the laptop. "This is the first time I've had a chance to do something that actually matters. Something that might save someone instead of delivering them to monsters."
"You'd die for me? You barely know me."
"I'm not dying for you." His voice is fierce. "I'm dying for Michaela. For Caroline. For all the women I couldn't save. You're just the one I finally get to fight for."
Norah stares at him. At this man who's upended her life, who's carrying more ghosts than should fit in one person, who's looking at her like she's worth sacrificing everything for.
"Okay," she says. "Let's do it. Let's burn them all down."
Dante almost smiles. "That's my girl."
He reaches for the laptop.
The apartment door explodes inward.
Not unlocked. Not picked.
Kicked in, the frame splintering as three men in black tactical gear flood through, weapons drawn.
Norah screams.
Dante is already moving, pushing her behind him, reaching for the gun under his jacket.
"DON'T!" one of the men shouts.
Dante freezes.
The lead man pulls off his balaclava. He's young, maybe thirty, with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. And he's smiling.
"Hello, cousin," he says to Dante. "The family sent me to check on the merchandise. Make sure you're keeping her safe."
Cousin.
The word lands like a bomb.
Norah looks at Dante. At the man who's been helping her, protecting her, who just moments ago promised to save her.
"Dante?" Her voice is small. "What is he talking about?"
Dante's face has gone carefully blank. The expression of a man who's just had his worst nightmare confirmed.
"Norah, I can explain—"
"You're family?" She takes a step back. "You're a Calabria?"
"Not by blood. By marriage. Distant—"
"You lied to me." The betrayal is a physical pain, sharp and immediate. "This whole time. Everything you said—"
"I didn't lie. I just—"
"Didn't mention you're related to the people who want me dead?" Norah's vision is blurring with tears. With rage. "That's a pretty fucking significant omission!"
The cousin laughs. "Oh, this is good. You didn't tell her? Dante, you stupid bastard. Did you really think you could play savior and keep your position in the family? That's not how this works."
"Marco." Dante's voice is low. Dangerous. "Leave. Now."
"Can't do that." Marco gestures with his weapon. "Boss wants eyes on the girl until handover. Which is—" He checks his watch. "Three weeks from yesterday. So I'm your new roommate. Won't that be fun?"
Dante's jaw clenches. His hand is still near his gun, but three weapons are trained on him. The math doesn't work.
"It's fine," he says finally. "You can observe. But you don't touch her. You don't speak to her. You don't—"
"I'll do whatever I want." Marco's smile widens. "Unless you want to tell the family you've grown attached to the merchandise? That'd be an interesting conversation."
Norah feels like she's watching this from outside her body. The apartment that felt like a cage now feels like a tomb. And Dante—the man she was starting to trust, to believe in—is standing there looking guilty as hell.
"I need air," she says.
"You can't leave," Dante says quickly.
"Then I'll go to the bedroom. You and your cousin can sort out your family business without me."
She walks to the bedroom on legs that don't feel like her own. Closes the door. Locks it.
Then she slides down to the floor and lets herself shake.
Behind her, she hears raised voices. Dante and Marco arguing in Italian. Rapid-fire words she doesn't understand.
But she understands enough.
Dante is family.
Which means everything he's told her could be a lie.
Which means she's alone.
Again.
Her father's laptop is still on the couch. The evidence still sitting there, accessible to anyone who knows the password.
Which Dante now does.
Norah pulls her knees to her chest and tries to think through the panic.
Three weeks.
A man she can't trust.
Evidence that could save her or destroy her depending on who uses it.
And somewhere out there, a family that wants her dead.
Her hand finds her pocket. Feels the outline of her phone—the one Dante said was tracked. The one he had her leave behind in Baltimore.
Except.
Norah frowns.
She didn't have her phone when they left Sacred Heart. It was in her locker. So why did Dante say—
"Oh God," she whispers.
If he lied about the phone being tracked, what else did he lie about?
She stands, moves to the bedroom door. Presses her ear against it.
The arguing has stopped. Now there's just the murmur of conversation. Too quiet to make out.
Norah looks around the room. The closet full of clothes in her size. The bathroom stocked with everything she needs.
Standard protocol, Dante said.
But standard protocol for what? Keeping a prisoner comfortable? Or making sure she doesn't want to leave?
Her eyes land on the window.
Dante said not to go near the windows.
But Marco's presence changes things. If Dante is family, if he's been playing her this whole time, then his rules don't apply anymore.
Norah moves to the window. It's old, original to the building, with a latch that looks like it hasn't been opened in years.
She unlocks it. Pushes.
The window swings open.
Below is a narrow alley. Maybe fifteen feet down. A dumpster sits directly beneath the window.
It's not a great escape route.
But it's an escape route.
Norah looks back at the locked bedroom door. Hears voices on the other side. Dante and Marco, discussing her like she's cargo.
Which, apparently, she is.
She looks at the window again. At the alley below. At freedom, however temporary.
Then she hears it.
A sound she recognizes from five years of hospital chaplaincy.
A phone buzzing. Not the generic buzz of a modern phone. The specific, rattling buzz of an old flip phone.
Marco's voice, muffled through the door: "Yeah, I'm here. Dante's got her secured. The girl has no idea about the connection. Yeah, she found something on a laptop but I'll handle it. Three weeks, like planned. No complications."
A pause.
"What do you mean, move up the timeline?"
Norah's blood goes cold.
"Two days? That's not— Okay. Okay, yes, I understand. I'll inform Dante."
The conversation ends.
Silence.
Then Marco's voice again, speaking to Dante: "Change of plans, cousin. The family wants her delivered in forty-eight hours, not three weeks. Something spooked them. They think she might have found evidence."
"She hasn't—" Dante starts.
"Doesn't matter. Orders are orders. Two days, then we hand her over."
Two days.
Norah doesn't think. Doesn't plan.
She climbs out the window.
The drop is shorter than it looked. She lands in the dumpster, garbage bags cushioning the impact. The smell is horrific but she barely notices.
She's out.
She's free.
For now.
Norah scrambles out of the dumpster, drops to the alley floor, and runs.
Behind her, she hears a shout.
The bedroom door, being kicked in.
Dante's voice: "NORAH!"
But she's already at the end of the alley, turning onto a busy street, disappearing into the morning crowds of the French Quarter.
She has no phone. No money. No plan.
And she has forty-eight hours to figure out how to survive a debt she never agreed to pay.