Page 85 of Psychotic Faith
Luca leans down, his mouth close to my ear. "You okay?"
Not his usual command or demand. A genuine question. Checking in.
"Better than okay," I tell him honestly. "I'm home."
His arms tighten around me, and for once, the possessiveness feels less like a cage and more like shelter.
"Good," he whispers. "Because you're never leaving."
"I know." And I mean it. "I don't want to."
I'm exactly where I belong.
31 - Luca
Faith kneels at her mother’s grave, arranging yellow roses. We’ve been coming here together, though not regularly. Sometimes weekly when the ghosts get loud, sometimes not for a month when the living demand too much attention. The smell of earth and roses mingles with her jasmine perfume, making my chest tight with possession.
My body registers the threat before my conscious mind: elevated breathing from behind the monument twenty feet northeast, the subtle click of an expensive camera shutter. Someone thinks they're clever, thinks they're invisible.
I'm behind him in three seconds, my hand closing around his throat before he can lower the camera. The telephoto lens dangles from its strap as I press the PI against the tree, bark rough against his expensive jacket.
"Morning," I say conversationally, applying just enough pressure to his carotid to make his vision sparkle. "Nice camera. The Canon 5D?"
He tries to speak but I'm controlling his airflow too precisely. The camera swings between us, and I catch it with my free hand, checking the display. Hundreds of photos. Faith at the grave, Faith walking through the gates, Faith and me together. Weeks of surveillance from the timestamps.
"Luca, are you being dramatic again?" Faith calls without looking up from the flowers. "I can hear you threatening someone from here."
"Private investigator," I inform her. "Been photographing you."
"Oh good," she says, still arranging roses. "I was worried it might be something serious. Morning, Mom. I brought Luca again. He's being overprotective."
The casual dismissal of violence, the way she talks to her dead mother about my current threat assessment like discussing weather. This is why she's perfect.
"Who hired you?" I ask, scrolling through his photos while maintaining pressure.
The PI tries for professional ethics. "Can't… reveal… clients…"
"My father," Faith says, finally standing and walking over. "Right? Let me guess. Worried about his little girl after she chose the villain over Sunday breakfasts."
The PI's eyes widen seeing her approach. Pretty blonde in a sundress, looking like salvation. He doesn't understand she's just another predator.
"Ma'am, this man is…"
"My fiancé," she finishes cheerfully.
She takes the camera, scrolling through images with clinical interest. "Oh, this one's actually flattering. Luca, look. You caught his good side while he was killing… is that the Morrison dealer?"
I glance at the photo. Me, mid-violence, blade catching streetlight.
"Tuesday," I confirm. "Outside the warehouse."
She shows the PI the photo. His face drains of color.
"You should delete that," I tell him. "For your health."
"You're doing your scary voice," she tells me fondly. "It's very dramatic, but he's just hired help."
"He violated your privacy," I point out.
