The first thing Dante heard was not her voice. It was the door. A hard, splintering crack traveled through the phone before the woman on the other end managed to speak. Then came breathing.

The interior of the town car was warm, smelling faintly of leather and rain.

Emma sat in the backseat, her uninjured hand clutching a Styrofoam cup of hot tea that Leo had procured from an all-night diner down the street. She stared out the window as the neon lights of Queens blurred into long streaks of color. Her breathing had slowed down, but her shoulders were still pulled up toward her ears, locked in a permanent state of defensive tension.

Dante sat in the front passenger seat, half-turned so he could watch her reflection in the side window.

“The hospital on 14th Street is cleared for trauma intake,” Dante said quietly. “Dr. Vance will set that arm properly. No police reports will be filed under your name. The incident will be logged as an accidental fall in a public park.”

Emma flinched slightly, her fingers tightening around the paper cup. “He’s going to come looking for me.”

“No, he isn't,” Dante replied with absolute, unshakable certainty.

“You don't know Marcus. He’s stubborn, and when he drinks—he doesn't just let things go—”

“Marcus is currently sitting in the back of an unmarked van heading toward an abandoned warehouse in upstate New York,” Dante interrupted smoothly, his voice devoid of any emotion. “By morning, he will have signed a notarized document forfeiting any lease agreements, property claims, or association with you. He will also be convinced, quite profoundly, that moving to a very distant city like Phoenix, Arizona, is the smartest career decision of his life.”

Emma stared at him, her eyes wide. “You can’t just… make people disappear.”

“I don't make people disappear, Miss Vale,” Dante said softly. “I simply provide them with strong, persuasive incentives to relocate.”

Silence settled back over the car, heavy and complex. Emma looked down at her lap, her thumb tracing the rim of the cup. For four years, she had believed she was entirely alone in the world—that the violence behind her apartment door was a private shame she had to endure because she had nowhere else to go, no family to catch her, and no money to escape.

And now, a man whose name was whispered in hushed, fearful tones across the five boroughs had kicked down her door, dismantled her abuser in ten seconds, and treated her rescue like an administrative task.

“Why?” Emma whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. “Why did you answer the phone?”