They left within the hour.
Dante moved through the apartment like a machine, packing only what they needed. Clothes. Money. Weapons. A first aid kit. His hands were steady and his mind was sharp, but underneath the calm exterior, his heart was pounding like a war drum.
Fifteen years, he thought as he stuffed cash into a duffel bag. Fifteen years of loyalty. Fifteen years of killing. Fifteen years of being Don Vitale's good soldier. And it all ends today.
He had known this day might come. Every man who worked for Don Vitale knew that the blood oath worked both ways. You gave your loyalty, and he gave you protection. But the moment you broke that loyalty, the protection vanished. And Dante had broken it the moment he decided not to kill Sloane.
Sloane stood by the door, watching him pack. She had changed back into his clothes because hers were still damp, and she looked small and lost in the black fabric. Her arms were wrapped around her body like she was trying to hold herself together.
"Where are we going?" she asked for the third time.
"I don't know yet," Dante answered, his voice tight. "Somewhere Don Vitale won't think to look."
"Does such a place exist?"
Dante paused, a shirt in his hands, and looked at her. "It has to."
Because if it doesn't, he thought, we're both dead.
He zipped the bag and slung it over his shoulder. Then he walked to the window and looked down at the street. The black car was still there, parked across from his building. Tinted windows. No license plate. Watching.
Don Vitale's men, Dante thought. Or maybe Commander Bennett's. Either way, they're not here to wish us luck.
"We can't use the front door," he said, turning away from the window. "They're watching the building."
"Then how do we leave?"
Dante walked to the bedroom and opened the window. The fire escape was old and rusted, but it would hold. It had held him before, on nights when he needed to disappear without being seen.
"We go out this way," he said, swinging one leg over the windowsill. "Follow me. Stay close. Don't look down."
Sloane's face went pale, but she nodded and climbed out after him. Her hands were shaking as she gripped the railing, and Dante could see the fear in her eyes.
She's scared, he thought. But she's still here. She's still following me. She trusts me.
That thought should have terrified him. Trust was dangerous in his world. Trust got people killed. But looking at Sloane standing on that rusted fire escape with the wind blowing her hair across her face, Dante felt something he had not felt in years.
He felt like he had something worth protecting.
They climbed down in silence, their footsteps echoing off the brick walls. The alley behind the building was empty, shadowed, and smelled like garbage and old rain. Dante took Sloane's hand and pulled her into the darkness, away from the street, away from the watching eyes.
"Stay low," he whispered. "Stay quiet. And stay behind me."
Sloane nodded, her fingers tightening around his.
They moved through the back alleys of Brooklyn like ghosts, weaving between dumpsters and parked cars, avoiding the main streets where cameras watched and people remembered. Dante knew these alleys like he knew his own reflection. He had spent years learning the secret paths of this city, the places where a man could disappear if he needed to.
And right now, he needed to.
They walked for twenty minutes before Dante stopped. They were standing in front of a small garage, the kind of place that looked abandoned but was not. Dante pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, pulling it open just wide enough for them to slip inside.
Inside the garage was a car. Black. Old. Unremarkable. The kind of car that no one looked at twice.
"This is yours?" Sloane asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"This is ours now," Dante replied, opening the passenger door for her. "Get in."
Sloane climbed inside, and Dante walked around to the driver's side. He started the engine, and the car purred to life, quiet and smooth. He had tuned it himself, replacing the muffler with something quieter, making sure that the engine did not sound like much of anything.
Because sometimes, he thought as he pulled out of the garage, the best way to hide is to be boring.
They drove for hours.
Dante took back roads and side streets, avoiding highways and checkpoints. He drove through neighborhoods that blurred together, past rows of houses that all looked the same, past strip malls and gas stations and empty fields.
Sloane did not speak. She sat in the passenger seat with her knees pulled up to her chest, staring out the window at the passing world. Her face was pale and her eyes were tired, but she did not complain. She did not ask where they were going. She just sat there, trusting him to take her somewhere safe.
Don't trust me, Dante wanted to say. I'm not safe. I've never been safe. I kill people for a living. I've done things that would make you sick.
But he did not say any of that. He just kept driving.
The sun was setting when he finally pulled off the road and into a small motel parking lot. The building was old and run down, with peeling paint and a flickering sign that read "Vacancy" in red letters. The kind of place where people went to hide from their pasts.
Dante turned off the engine and sat in the silence for a moment, his hands still on the steering wheel.
"We'll stay here tonight," he said. "Just one night. Then we keep moving."
Sloane nodded, her eyes still fixed on the window. "Okay."
Dante went inside and paid for a room in cash, using a name that was not his. The man behind the counter did not ask questions. That was why Dante had chosen this place. No questions. No cameras. No memories.
The room was small and smelled like cigarettes and bleach. There were two beds with thin blankets and a bathroom with a shower that dripped. It was not much, but it was safe. For now.
Sloane sat down on the edge of one of the beds, her hands in her lap. She looked smaller than she had this morning, more fragile. The adrenaline had worn off, and now there was nothing left but exhaustion.
"You should sleep," Dante said, setting the duffel bag on the floor.
"I can't," Sloane whispered. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him."
"Who? Marcus?"
"Everyone." Sloane looked up at him, and her eyes were wet with tears she was trying not to shed. "Marcus. The man in the alley. Don Vitale. Your friend Marco. They're all in my head, and I can't make them stop."
Dante sat down on the bed across from her, close enough to see the fear in her eyes. "I know the feeling."
"How do you live with it?"
"I don't," he admitted. "I just survive. One day at a time. One hour at a time. Sometimes one minute at a time."
Sloane wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "That sounds exhausting."
"It is."
They sat in silence for a long time, the only sound the dripping of the shower and the distant hum of traffic on the highway. Outside, the sky turned from orange to purple to black, and the world grew dark.
What am I doing? Dante asked himself as he watched Sloane's eyes flutter closed. I'm running from the only life I've ever known. I'm hiding a girl I barely know. I'm throwing everything away for someone who might not even survive the week.
But even as he thought it, he knew the answer.
He was doing it because for the first time in fifteen years, he felt alive. And he was not ready to go back to being dead.
Sloane's phone buzzed, breaking the silence.
She jumped, her eyes flying open, and she grabbed the phone from her pocket like it was a snake that might bite her. The screen lit up, and her face went pale.
"It's my mother," she whispered. "She's been calling all day. I haven't answered."
"Maybe you should," Dante said carefully.
Sloane looked at him, her eyes wide. "What if Marcus is there? What if he makes her say something? What if..."
"Then you hang up and we leave." Dante moved to sit next to her on the bed. "But you need to know if he's still looking for you. You need to know what you're going back to."
If you're going back, he added silently. Because I'm not sure I can let you.
Sloane took a deep breath and pressed the answer button. "Hello?"
Her mother's voice came through the speaker, high and strained. "Sloane? Oh thank God. Where are you? Are you okay? Marcus has been looking for you everywhere."
"I'm fine, Mom." Sloane's voice was steady, but Dante could see her hands shaking. "I'm with a friend."
"What friend? You don't have friends. You never leave the house."
Sloane flinched at the words, and Dante felt that dark anger stir in his chest again. Her own mother, he thought. Telling her she has no friends. No life. No escape.
"I have friends now," Sloane said, her voice harder. "Is Marcus there?"
A pause. Then, quieter: "He's in the basement. He's been down there all day, making phone calls. He's very angry, Sloane. You should come home and apologize."
"Apologize?" Sloane's voice cracked. "For what? For leaving? For not letting him hit me anymore?"
"Sloane, please. You're making it worse."
"I'm not coming home, Mom." Sloane's voice was shaking now, but there was something else underneath it. Something that sounded like strength. "Not tonight. Not ever. I'm done."
Another pause, longer this time. Then her mother's voice, cold and hard in a way that made Dante's blood run cold.
"If you don't come home, Marcus will find you. And you know what happens when Marcus finds you."
Sloane's face went white. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out.
Dante took the phone from her hand and ended the call.
"You're not going back there," he said, his voice firm. "Not now. Not ever. Do you understand?"
Sloane looked at him with tears streaming down her cheeks. "He'll find me. He always finds me."
"Not this time." Dante set the phone on the nightstand and turned to face her. "Because this time, you have me. And I'm not going to let anyone hurt you again."
Sloane stared at him for a long moment, her tears falling silently. Then she leaned forward and buried her face in his chest, her body shaking with sobs.
Dante wrapped his arms around her and held her close.
I don't know how to do this, he thought as he stroked her hair. I don't know how to be soft. I don't know how to comfort someone. I've spent fifteen years learning how to be hard, and now I have to unlearn all of it.
But as Sloane cried against his chest, he realized that maybe he did not need to know how. Maybe he just needed to be there.
And that was enough.