Page 82 of Psychotic Faith
The casual domesticity of it, the shared history, the genuine laughter—it makes my throat tight with something that feels dangerously like belonging.
"Remember the night Luca rented out the entire Art Institute?" Ana asks, dealing another round of cards.
I flush, remembering. Private after-hours tour, just the two of us wandering through galleries while he explained the chemistry of different pigments like a psychopath art professor.
"He made the security guards very nervous," I admit.
"You made him very nervous," Sofia corrects. "He spent three hours on the phone making sure every inch of that building was safe before he'd take you."
The obsessive preparation should feel excessive. Instead, it feels like being treasured.
On the muted TV behind Marco, Neumann's widow makes another tearful plea for information about her missing husband. The woman's performance is flawless. She almost believes her own grief.
"They're saying the CEO fled to South America," Marco comments, those dark eyes studying my reaction to the news coverage. "Took millions from company accounts."
"South America," Alex muses, shuffling cards with practiced flair. "Convenient story. Very telenovela."
"Better than the truth," Marco says dryly. "Which is that we have excellent lawyers."
The casual reference to criminal activity makes me remember the basement. My hand trembles slightly as I pick up my cards, and Luca's grip on my thigh tightens. He knows. He always knows when the memories surface.
"People believe what they need to," I say, the sentence sliding off my tongue like honey. Three months ago, those words would have burned. Now they taste like truth. Or maybe I've just grown addicted to the flavor of necessary lies.
No body will ever surface. The chemicals Luca used made sure of that, the same chemicals that sometimes still burn my nostrils when I visit his basement. But South America makes a convenient story.
"Focus on not cheating," Sofia says to Alex, steel under her smile.
The comfortable violence of their banter wraps around me like expensive cashmere soaked in blood. This is Sunday now. Not performing innocence at church, not lying through breakfast with Dad. Just this: family arguing over cards while discussing murder like weather.
"Raise twenty," I say, pushing chips forward. My poker face, perfected through years of hiding revenge plans, serves me well at this table.
"She's bluffing," Alex insists. "Nobody's that confident with Marco dealing."
"I don't bluff," Marco says, but the way he watches me suggests he's not just talking about cards. It's another test. Everything here is.
"How are you feeling?" I ask Ana quietly while the men argue over chip counts.
She places my hand on her belly. "Constantly hungry and occasionally homicidal. So, normal pregnancy."
I feel a flutter under my palm—the baby moving. Something in my chest tightens with unexpected emotion.
"That's amazing," I whisper.
"You'll understand soon enough," Ana says with a knowing smile. "The way Luca looks at you? You'll be pregnant within a year."
The thought should make me flee. Instead, it settles warm in my stomach.
I return my attention to the table just as Nico lays down his cards.
"Speaking of confidence," Nico says, staying in the hand, "the Bratva are getting bold. Testing our territory downtown again."
The temperature drops like someone opened a freezer. Marco's expression hardens to stone, the kind of look that precedes bloodshed.
"How many?" His voice could cut glass.
"Three crews so far. Asking questions at our clubs about old debts."
Sofia's hand trembles suddenly, cards scattering across green felt. The queen of hearts lands face-up like an accusation, and I see her pulse jumping in her throat. Real fear, the kind that comes from experience not imagination.
