Page 11 of Psychotic Faith
"Little faith," I whisper as she passes, just loud enough for her to hear.
She freezes. Her body goes rigid, hand white-knuckled on her purse strap. For three heartbeats, she stands perfectly still, processing the voice that matches her guardian, that the man inthe corner booth is the one who's been in her apartment, who knows about her knife, who folded seven paper promises.
Then she continues to the bathroom on legs that shake slightly, the blue sweater trembling with each breath. I take a sip of wine, savoring the way her perfume lingers. Vanilla and something floral that makes me want to follow her, to corner her in that bathroom and show her exactly how much control I've been exercising.
But not yet. This is her choice to make. Her move in our game.
She emerges three minutes later, having splashed water on her face from the darkness under her eyes. Instead of walking past my table again, she takes the long way around, circling the entire restaurant to avoid me. Smart girl. Except.
When she returns to her table, Faith doesn't look away. She sits, food untouched, hand constantly finding the pictures in her purse like she's checking they're still real. Her friends chatter around her, but she's gone somewhere else entirely, fallen into this moment where we exist in the same space, breathing the same air, no longer separated by shadows and surveillance cameras.
I pull out my Polaroid camera, shooting while she watches, a show just for her. The image takes shape between my fingers, and I see her lean forward slightly, lips parted.
When I'm finished, I stand, dropping cash on the table that's triple what the wine cost.
The path to the door takes me past their table. I don't look at her, don't acknowledge her existence, but my hand finds her chair as I pass. The photograph slides onto the fabric where she'll find it when she stands. My fingers brush the back of her neck where her pulse hammers against skin that's silk-warm and slightly damp from nervous heat. The touch lasts half aheartbeat but I memorize the texture, adding it to my collection of stolen pieces of her.
Then I'm gone, out into the Chicago night where November air burns my lungs. But I only make it half a block before I stop, standing in the shadows where I can see through the restaurant window. She's already found the Polaroid, flipping it over with those same trembling fingers.
On the back, my message: "Tomorrow. Rosetti charity gala. Come claim me."
She reads it three times, I count, before carefully adding it to her collection. Sarah says something that makes the others laugh, but Faith stays quiet, touching the paper through her purse. She knows tomorrow everything changes. She'll walk into my world without knowing it, seeking her guardian among Chicago's elite.
Back at the mansion, I'll return to the Vincent, let my hands work while my mind processes. By tomorrow night, I'll know more. Faith will be in my territory, where I can watch her reactions to everyone, catalogue who makes her tense, who she avoids.
For now, I replay that moment when our eyes met, when she saw me and didn't run.
She stays another twenty minutes out of politeness, pushing food around her plate while Sarah opens presents from the other librarians. I watch from the street, hands in my pockets, looking like any other man waiting for someone. But I'm memorizing how she holds the Polaroid up to the light, trying to see through the paper to read the words again.
Finally, she makes her excuses. Headache, long day tomorrow, needs to prepare for some event. Sarah hugs her, says something that makes Faith force a smile, then she's walking toward the door. Toward me, though she doesn't know I'm still here.
I fade deeper into shadows as she exits, watch her stand on the sidewalk looking both ways. Not for traffic. For me. Her hand clutches her purse like a lifeline, and I can see her lips moving. Counting, maybe. Or praying. Both feel like worship from where I'm standing.
A taxi pulls up, but before she gets in, she does something that breaks me. She pulls out the Polaroid again, holds it to her lips, and kisses the paper like it's something sacred. Like she's kissing me. The gesture is so innocent, so fucking pure, that something violent rips through my chest.
The ride home, I think about the Vincent waiting in the garage. About tearing apart something broken and making it whole. About Faith's mother's suspicious death. About pharmaceutical connections. About how tomorrow, she'll walk into a room full of Chicago's nightmares, and I'll be the worst one there.
But also the only one who belongs to her.
My little faith, brave enough to see me, to approach me, to kiss my fucking message.
Tomorrow can't come fast enough.
6 - Luca
Her sweater lies across my desk, charcoal gray and impossibly soft, still warm from her body heat. Three hours since she left it draped over her chair at the library. Two hours and forty-five minutes since I retrieved it. Two hours and thirty minutes since I first pressed it to my face like an addict needing a fix.
"I see you."
Her latest folded paper message weighs nothing in my palm, but those three words carry enough meaning to reshape my entire week. She knows I'm watching. Knows and isn't running. The vanilla-and-jasmine scent from the sweater mingles with the paper, creating something new. Something that belongs to both of us.
My phone buzzes. Marco, asking about tomorrow's shipment. I ignore it, too focused on what matters: Faith left this sweater deliberately. No one forgets clothing that expensive. She wanted me to take it. Wanted me to have something of hers.
Or she's baiting a trap.
Either option makes my cock harder than it should.
Eleven PM. The surveillance room smells like ozone and old blood, electronic heat mixing with traces of the tools I sometimes test here. The monitors cast everything in blue light, making my pale skin look corpse-like in the reflection. Appropriate, since I'm about to plan a murder. The leather chair creaks as I settle in for what will be hours of digital excavation. She saw me. Really saw me. Tomorrow she'll walk into the gala,into my world wearing a dress I haven't chosen, around men I haven't vetted, in danger I haven't eliminated. The thought makes me want to lock her in my room until I've removed every threat. Or maybe just lock her in my room.
