Fifteen Hours to Midnight
The photo of Dante on that dock won't leave Norah's mind.
She's staring at the image on Marco's phone for the hundredth time when Marco finally snatches it back. "Looking at it won't change anything," he says, already scrolling through contacts. "We need to move. Now."
They're in the abandoned church where Marco brought her after she saw the text. It's been thirty minutes since the message arrived. Thirty minutes of Norah's brain screaming that Dante is hurt, captured, possibly being tortured while she sits here doing nothing.
"Baltimore," Marco says, phone pressed to his ear. "I've got a contact with a charter plane. We can be there in three hours if we leave now."
"Three hours?" Norah's voice cracks. "The text said midnight. That's—" She checks her watch. "—fifteen hours. If we spend three hours flying, that leaves twelve hours to find the evidence and get to the exchange."
"It's the best we can do."
It's not good enough. But nothing about this nightmare is good enough.
Marco's contact answers. The conversation is brief, tense. When Marco hangs up, he's already moving toward the door. "Plane's waiting at a private airstrip forty minutes from here. Let's go."
Norah follows him into the night, her mind racing. She keeps thinking about the last time she saw Dante— the way he looked at her, like he wanted to say something but couldn't.
She should have said something then. Should have told him—
Told him what? That she's falling for a man who was sent to kill her? That every time he touches her, she forgets how to breathe? That she's terrified of losing him before she figures out if what's between them is real?
The drive to the airstrip is silent. Marco's hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, jaw clenched. He's scared too, Norah realizes. His brother is in danger and there's nothing either of them can do except race against a clock that's ticking too fast.
When they pull up to the airstrip, Norah sees the plane—small, sleek, expensive-looking. A man in a pilot's uniform waves them over.
"You Marco?" the pilot asks.
"Yeah. This is—"
"Don't care who she is," the pilot interrupts. "Just care that you're paying cash."
Marco hands over an envelope thick with bills. The pilot counts it, nods, and gestures toward the plane. "Get in. We're wheels up in five."
Norah climbs aboard. The interior is cramped but functional. Two passenger seats, a small cargo area, cockpit separated by a thin partition. It smells like leather and fuel.
Marco settles into the seat beside her and immediately pulls out his laptop, fingers flying over the keys. "I'm tracking Emma's location. If she's really alive like the note said, she'll be somewhere in Baltimore. Sacred Heart Cemetery is the obvious place to start, but—"
"Marco." Norah's voice is quiet. "What if we don't make it in time?"
He stops typing. Looks at her.
"We will," he says.
"But what if we don't? What if we get there and Dante is already—" She can't say the word. Can't make it real.
Marco's expression softens. "He's not dead. They want you too badly to kill him before the exchange. He's leverage."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"It should. It means we have time."
The plane's engines roar to life. Norah feels the vibration through her seat, through her bones. In minutes, they'll be airborne. Racing toward Baltimore. Toward Emma. Toward evidence that might save Dante's life.
Or toward a trap that'll get them all killed.
The pilot's voice crackles over the intercom: "Buckle up. It's gonna be a bumpy ride."
Norah clicks her seatbelt into place with shaking hands.
As the plane begins to taxi, Marco says quietly, "He talks about you, you know."
Norah's head snaps toward him. "What?"
"Dante. He talks about you when he thinks I'm not listening." Marco's eyes are on his laptop screen, but his voice is soft. "He'll be doing something normal—cleaning his gun, making coffee—and then he'll just stop. And I'll catch him staring at nothing with this look on his face."
"What kind of look?"
"The kind of look a man gets when he's in trouble. When he knows he's falling for someone he shouldn't fall for."
Norah's breath catches. "He never said anything to me."
"Of course not. You're supposed to be cargo. Merchandise. He's supposed to hand you over in three weeks and collect his payment." Marco finally looks at her. "But somewhere between the church and now, that changed. You changed him."
"I didn't do anything."
"You existed. That was enough."
The plane lifts off. Norah watches the ground fall away through the small window, New Orleans shrinking beneath them.
Fifteen hours until midnight.
Fifteen hours to save a man she barely knows.
A man she's falling in love with anyway.
"Marco," she says, "what happens if we save him? What happens after midnight?"
"I don't know."
"The Calabrias will still want me dead. The blood debt doesn't just disappear."
"No," Marco agrees. "It doesn't."
"So even if we save Dante tonight, we're just delaying the inevitable."
Marco is quiet for a long moment. Then: "Maybe. Or maybe you find something in that evidence that changes everything. Maybe you find leverage that makes them back off."
It's a nice thought. Norah doesn't believe it.
The flight is smooth for the first hour. Marco works on his laptop, tracking leads, while Norah stares out the window at clouds illuminated by moonlight. Her mind keeps replaying moments with Dante: his hand on hers in the car, the way he looked at her in the mansion, the careful distance he maintained even when she could feel him wanting to close it.
She wants to close it too. Wants to know what it would feel like to kiss him without fear hanging over them. To touch him without wondering if it's the last time.
God, when did she become this person? This woman who'd risk everything for a man who was sent to kill her?
"We need to talk about what happens when we land," Marco says, breaking her thoughts.
Norah turns from the window. "Okay."
"Emma—if she's alive, if she has the evidence—we can't trust her immediately. She's been in hiding for twelve years. People don't hide that long unless they're running from something serious."
"She's my sister."
"She's a stranger who happens to share your DNA. Twelve years is a long time. She could be working with the Calabrias for all we know."
The thought makes Norah sick. But Marco's right. They can't trust anyone.
"So what do we do?" she asks.
"We verify everything. Don't take anything at face value. And if something feels wrong—"
The plane lurches violently.
Norah gasps, grabbing the armrests as the aircraft tilts sharply to the left. Marco's laptop slides off his lap, clattering to the floor.
"What the hell?" Marco unbuckles and moves toward the cockpit partition.
Another lurch. This one worse. The plane drops what feels like fifty feet in a second, Norah's stomach flipping.
Marco pounds on the partition. "Hey! What's going on?"
No answer.
He tries the door. Locked.
"Something's wrong," Norah says, heart hammering. "Marco, something's really wrong."
Marco pulls out his phone, checks their location on GPS. His face goes pale.
"We're not heading to Baltimore anymore," he says quietly.
"What?"
"Our course changed ten minutes ago. We're heading southwest." He looks at Norah, and she sees fear in his eyes. "We're heading toward Louisiana. Toward Calabria territory."
The realization hits like ice water: the pilot was bought. Or threatened. Or working for them all along.
"Can you fly a plane?" Norah asks desperately.
"Not like this. Not—"
The cockpit door unlocks with a click.
The pilot appears in the doorway, and he's holding a gun.
"Sit down," he says calmly. "Both of you. We'll be landing in Baton Rouge in forty-five minutes. I suggest you cooperate."
Marco's hand moves toward his waistband—toward his own gun.
"Don't," the pilot warns. "I've got orders to bring the girl in alive. Doesn't say anything about you being alive though."
Marco freezes.
Norah's mind is racing. They're being taken directly to the Calabrias. No Baltimore. No evidence. No way to save Dante.
"There's a parachute in the cargo hold," the pilot continues conversationally. "One parachute. In case you're thinking about doing something stupid like jumping."
One parachute. Two people.
Marco's eyes meet Norah's. She sees him doing the same math.
"The cargo hold is unlocked," the pilot adds. "Feel free to check. But we're at eight thousand feet right now. Jumping without training is suicide. Jumping with one parachute between two people?" He smiles. "That's just stupidity."
"How much are they paying you?" Marco asks.
"More than you can afford."
"I can double it."
"Can't spend money if I'm dead. The Calabrias don't forgive betrayal." The pilot backs into the cockpit. "Forty-three minutes to landing. I suggest you make peace with your choices."
The door locks again.
Marco immediately moves to the cargo hold. Norah follows. Inside, exactly as promised, is a single parachute harness.
"Can you use this?" Norah asks.
"I'm military trained. Yeah." Marco examines the chute, checking straps and cords. "But you're not. If we jump, I'll have to tandem-strap you to me. And the landing—" He stops.
"The landing could kill us anyway," Norah finishes.
"Yeah."
"But staying on this plane definitely gets us killed. Or worse."
"Probably."
Norah thinks about Dante. About the photo of him on that dock. About dying without ever telling him she loves him.
She makes a decision.
"Do it," she says. "Strap me in. We're jumping."
Marco stares at her. "Are you sure?"
"No. But I'm more sure of this than I am of letting them take me." She takes a breath. "And Marco? If something goes wrong—if we don't make it—"
"Don't."
"Let me finish. If we don't make it, I need you to know—" Her voice cracks. "I need you to tell Dante that I—"
"Tell him yourself," Marco interrupts. "When we survive this."
He pulls out the parachute harness and begins strapping Norah to his chest. The proximity is intimate, uncomfortable, necessary. Marco works quickly, checking every buckle twice.
"When we jump," he explains, "you're going to want to scream. Don't. Save your air. The freefall lasts about forty-five seconds before I pull the chute. It'll feel like forever. Just hold on to me and trust that I know what I'm doing."
"Do you know what you're doing?"
"Mostly."
Not reassuring. But it'll have to be enough.
Marco moves to the emergency exit door. There's a release handle. One pull and they're in the open air.
"Ready?" he asks.
Norah thinks about Dante. About his hands on her face in the mansion. About the way he looked at her like she mattered.
"Yeah," she lies. "I'm ready."
Marco pulls the handle.
The door explodes outward.
Wind screams into the cabin, tearing at Norah's clothes, her hair. The noise is deafening.
Marco positions them at the edge. Below is nothing but darkness and the occasional light from the ground, impossibly far away.
"Marco made me promise to keep you alive," he shouts over the wind, "because he's in love with you—he told me so!"
Before Norah can process those words, Marco jumps.
They're falling.
The wind rips the scream from Norah's throat before she can stop it. She's falling, falling, falling, the ground rushing up but still so far below.
Marco's arms are iron bands around her. His voice in her ear: "Hold on! Just hold on!"
Forty-five seconds, he said.
It feels like forty-five years.
Norah closes her eyes and screams Dante's name into the wind, terrified she'll die before telling him she loves him too.
Terrified this is how it ends.
Falling through darkness toward earth.
Falling in love with a man she'll never see again.