Page 13 of Psychotic Faith
"Into the perfect opportunity," Sofia finishes. "Think about it. Public venue, hundreds of witnesses, security cameras. If she's planning something legal, she needs evidence. Recordings. Witnesses."
"Or she might snap," Nico counters. "Seeing him there unexpectedly? People break."
They're both right. Tomorrow, everything collides. She'll walk into my family's world, not knowing that the man she's been hunting will be there. Not knowing that I'll be watching every breath she takes, trying to figure out if I need to protect her from him or him from her.
"What if he recognizes her?" Sofia asks. "She looks like her mother, right? If he killed the mother and then sees the daughter at our party…"
"He might panic. Do something stupid." Nico's hand drifts to his weapon.
"Not in my house," I growl. The thought of Neumann even looking at Faith makes my vision red. But there's something else, something Sofia said. "You said he kept saying you reminded him of someone?"
Sofia nods. "Kept talking about beautiful women who don't know their place." She shivers, and Sofia never shivers.
"I need to know her plan first," I say, surprising myself with the restraint. Usually, I'd already be selecting tools for Neumann's introduction to real pain. But she's been patient. She deserves to see her plan through, or to decide she wants something bloodier.
“Just stay out of it, Luca,” my brother says. The good disciplined army boy. “Walk away. It’s nothing to do with us, and our family doesn’t need you bringing shit on us.”
“Oh, let him have his fun,” Sofia says, smiling cattishly. “I want to see how this girl works. All that planning. Legal research? Getting close to his family without exposing her true identity? This girl might be more dangerous than you think."
"The patient ones always are," Nico agrees, standing to leave. "They're the ones who know how to make it really hurt. Not the body—anyone can hurt a body. But complete destruction? That takes patience."
After they leave, I sit alone with her history spread across my screens. The pieces finally connecting. T.N. is Trent Neumann. Her mother worked at his hospital. Something happened—something that ended with Jenna Winters dead and Neumann and his pharmaceuticals company walking free.
And tomorrow, my little Faith will walk into a ballroom with the man she's been hunting for half her life.
The question is: when she sees him, will she maintain her control? Her legal plan? Or will years of suppressed rage finally explode?
Either way, I'll be there. Ready to protect her from him. Or ready to hand her the knife if she decides legal justice isn't enough anymore.
I think about the Vincent Black Shadow waiting in the garage. Tomorrow, maybe I'll show it to her. Tell her about rebuilding broken things, making them powerful again.
The thought makes me smile that wrong smile that makes children cry.
7 - Faith
The black dress clings to my body like guilt. I smooth the fabric one more time, practicing my surprised face in the foyer mirror. “Oh, Mr.Neumann! I didn’t realize you’d be here!” The lie tastes like ash. Sunday confessions haven’t helped me, now I lie as easily as breathing.
My phone buzzes with Dad's text: "Have fun at the library fundraiser, sweetheart."
The cross necklace weighs against my throat like judgment as I type back: "Thanks, Dad. Should be home by eleven."
Another lie. The library doesn't have fundraisers at the Ritz-Carlton. The library doesn't require me to walk into the den of Chicago's most dangerous crime family. But Trent Neumann will be here. He's a major donor to every charity gala that matters, and the Rosettis throw the biggest ones. Tonight's different though. He's announcing a new pharmaceutical initiative. He'll need Rosetti distribution channels. He has to stay, has to network.
I touch the Polaroid in my purse, the one that brought me here. "Come find me." Three words that make my pulse race. Two goals tonight: get close to Neumann, and find my mysterious guardian.
My guardian might think he lured me to him tonight, but he didn't: he just gave me access to Neumann.
Mom's death changed everything, made me who I am. She'd be horrified to know I'm here, walking among criminals. Or would she understand that sometimes justice needs darkness todeliver it? I don't know anymore. A lifetime of being good, and I'm unraveling in weeks because pale blue eyes make me feel seen.
The valet takes my keys with professional disinterest. I'm nobody here, just another face in designer black. Perfect for hunting. The hotel looms above me, all limestone and power, windows glowing with warm light that belies what happens inside these walls. My heels click against marble as I enter, the sound swallowed by conversation and chamber music.
The ballroom opens before me like a stage, and I'm both audience and actor tonight. The air smells like money: expensive perfume and aged whiskey. Nothing like the dust and paper smell of my library, my safe haven that suddenly feels like a cage I've built myself.
I grab a champagne flute from a passing server as my eyes scan systematically. Neumann always positions himself near the bar at these things, likes to hold court with a whiskey while lesser mortals approach to pay tribute.
There. Neumann stands at the bar exactly where I predicted, bourbon in hand, telling some story that has two younger men laughing nervously.
The champagne tastes like acid when I spot him. My fingers tighten on the crystal flute. He looks older—silver threading through his hair, lines around his eyes—but his hands are the same. Manicured. Soft. Not the hands of someone who's known consequences.
