Norah runs for three blocks before her lungs give out.
She collapses against a building in an alley that smells like piss and beignets, trying to catch her breath. Her hands are shaking. Her clothes smell like garbage. And she has absolutely no idea what to do next.
Think. She's trained for crisis. This is just a different kind of crisis.
She needs help. But who can she trust? Dante's family. The cops might be on Calabria payroll. The FBI might use her as bait.
Her mother.
The thought hits her like a physical blow. Her mother, who's in a nursing home in Baltimore with advancing dementia. Who barely remembers Norah's name most days. Who definitely doesn't need to know her daughter is running from mobsters in New Orleans.
But her mother's nurse, Carol. She might help. She's—
"Looking for a phone?"
Norah spins.
A young man stands at the mouth of the alley. Mid-twenties, wearing jeans and a Saints t-shirt. Friendly smile. Holding out a cell phone.
"I saw you running," he says. "Figured you might need help."
Every instinct screams trap.
But Norah's desperate.
"Thank you," she says, reaching for the phone.
His hand closes around her wrist.
"Not so fast." The friendly smile doesn't change. "First, you're gonna tell me why Dante Carusi's houseguest is running through the Quarter like her ass is on fire."
Norah tries to jerk away. His grip tightens.
"I don't— I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you do." He pulls her closer. "You're Norah Sutherland. Vincent Chamberlain's daughter. And you're supposed to be locked in my brother's apartment, not playing tourist."
Brother.
Oh God.
"You're Marco," Norah whispers.
"Wrong Marco." His smile finally fades. "I'm the other brother. The one Dante never mentions because I'm the reason he's in this mess."
He pulls her toward a black SUV parked on the street. Norah tries to scream, but his other hand clamps over her mouth.
"We're just gonna have a conversation," he says calmly. "Nice and quiet. Nobody needs to get hurt."
He shoves her into the SUV.
Inside, it smells like leather and cologne. Expensive. Clean.
The door locks automatically.
Marco—the real Marco, apparently—slides into the driver's seat. Doesn't start the engine. Just turns to look at her.
"So," he says. "Want to tell me why you jumped out a third-story window?"
"I want to go home."
"Can't do that."
"Then what do you want?"
Marco studies her for a long moment. Then he does something unexpected.
He laughs.
"You really don't know, do you?" He shakes his head. "Dante didn't tell you shit. Jesus, he's even worse at this than I thought."
"Tell me what?"
"That I'm dead." Marco's smile is bitter. "According to the Calabria family, Marco Carusi died seven years ago in a gambling debt gone wrong. The man you met in Dante's apartment? That's my cousin, also named Marco. Convenient family naming tradition. The real me has been living under a fake name in Atlanta, completely off the grid."
Norah's head is spinning. "Then why are you here?"
"Because Dante called me yesterday. Told me he had a problem. A woman he was supposed to deliver but couldn't go through with. Asked if I had any ideas."
"And do you?"
"Maybe." Marco starts the engine. "But first, you need to understand something. My brother—Dante—he's not family to the Calabrias. Not by blood, not by marriage. That was a lie the other Marco told you to see how you'd react."
"How did you—"
"Dante called me right after you ran. Filled me in on everything, including how badly he fucked up by not being honest from the start." Marco pulls into traffic. "So now I'm here to fix his mess. Again."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere we can talk without Dante's cousin showing up. The Quarter's too hot. We need to get you out of sight."
"I'm not going anywhere with you. For all I know, you're lying too."
Marco reaches into his pocket. Pulls out his phone. Hits a number on speed dial and hands it to her.
A voice answers on the second ring. Dante's voice.
"Marco?"
"It's Norah," she says.
Silence. Then: "Thank God. Are you okay? Where are you?"
"With your brother. The real one, apparently. He says you've been lying to me."
"Not lying. Omitting. There's a—"
"Is he your brother?"
"Yes."
"And you're not related to the Calabrias?"
"No. I work for them because they have leverage over me. Over Marco. But I'm not family."
"Why didn't you tell me that from the start?"
Dante's quiet for a moment. "Because I thought if you knew I was working for them—that I've delivered six women before you—you wouldn't trust me at all. And you need to trust me, Norah. I'm trying to save you."
"By lying?"
"By keeping you alive long enough to figure out the truth."
Norah wants to throw the phone. Wants to scream. "What truth?"
"Your father didn't just witness a murder. He participated in it. The USB drive doesn't just have evidence against the Calabrias. It has evidence against him too. That's why he hid it. That's why they want you—they think if you find it and see what's really on there, you'll destroy it to protect your father's memory."
"Would I?"
"I don't know. Would you?"
Norah doesn't answer.
"Listen to me," Dante says urgently. "Marco—my brother—is the only person I trust completely. He's going to help you. But you need to trust him. Can you do that?"
Can she? Trust the brother of a man who's lied to her repeatedly?
But what choice does she have?
"Fine," she says.
"Norah—" Dante's voice cracks slightly. "I'm sorry. For all of it. But I meant what I said. I'm going to save you. Even if it costs me everything."
She hands the phone back to Marco without responding.
They drive in silence for ten minutes. Finally, Marco pulls into a parking lot behind what looks like an abandoned church.
"Here's what's going to happen," he says, killing the engine. "I'm going to help you find that USB drive your father hid. We're going to figure out what's really on it. And then we're going to decide whether to use it as leverage or destroy it entirely."
"And if the Calabrias find us first?"
"Then we both die." Marco shrugs. "But that was probably going to happen anyway, so we might as well go down swinging."
He gets out of the SUV.
Norah sits there for a moment, trying to process everything that's happened in the last—what? Twelve hours? Fifteen? Time has become meaningless.
Her phone buzzes.
Wait. Her phone?
She looks down. Marco's phone is still in her hand. And it's buzzing with a text message.
From a number she doesn't recognize.
But the message makes her blood run cold:
"TELL YOUR BROTHER THE TIMELINE JUST MOVED UP. HANDOVER IS TONIGHT AT MIDNIGHT. IF HE DOESN'T DELIVER THE GIRL, WE TAKE HIM INSTEAD. - M."