Page 20 of Psychotic Faith
One comment makes my blood freeze: "The Rosettis don't just kill you. They erase you. Your family forgets your name."
My stomach turns over. Tony. The barista who called in sick and never came back. Patterson who stopped coming to the library. How many others?
He admitted to nine. But as I read through more reports, more disappearances that match my timeline, I realize it's more. So many more. The construction worker who catcalled me two weeks ago. The drunk who grabbed my arm outside a bar. The delivery driver who lingered too long at my door.
He's been killing for me for weeks. Removing anyone who made me uncomfortable, who looked too long, who dared to want what he considers his.
Bodies in the river, in dumpsters, dissolved in whatever chemicals he uses in that basement they whisper about. All for me. A woman he'd never even spoken to until tonight.
I search for more.
The drawer where I keep his Polaroids pulls me like gravity. Eight perfect paper promises. 'Protected.' 'Sleep well.' ‘Breathe.’ Each one a step toward this moment. I unfold the one from tonight, trace his handwriting. Even his letters look dangerous.
The cross necklace sits heavy in my palm, gold warm from being against my throat all evening. I've worn it every day since Mom died, since I turned twelve and my world fell apart. A reminder to be good, to be faithful, to trust in God's plan.
But God's plan probably didn't include getting horny for a man who kills like breathing.
I set the cross on my nightstand, unable to bear its weight anymore. The good Catholic girl who wore it to the gala doesn't exist anymore. Maybe she never really did. Maybe she was just a mask I wore to survive, to seem normal, to fit into a world that would reject the real me.
The real me who researches killers at 2 a.m. Who comes with a murderer's name on her lips. Who can't stop thinking about cold eyes that promise violence and protection in equal measure.
I move to sit at my desk, facing the corner where I've always felt watched. If he has cameras, that's where they'd be. My pulse quickens.
"I know you're watching, Luca."
The words hang in the empty room. Saying his name aloud makes my thighs clench, makes me remember his voice commanding me to say it again.
"You've been watching all along. Through your cameras, through my windows, through every moment I thought I was alone." My voice grows stronger, angry. "I just… touched myself thinking of you. Came with your name on my lips while you watched."
The admission burns my throat, but I continue.
"Are you happy? Is this what you wanted? To ruin my carefully laid plans? To destroy years of patience in one night?" My hands grip the desk edge. "You scared away my target. Made him run. And now you've ruined me too. I can't even wear my cross anymore because I'm too stained for it."
Sister Catherine would say I'm consorting with the devil. She'd be right. But the devil knows my name, and God's been silent.
Silence answers me, but I know he's listening. He's always listening.
My phone buzzes immediately, screen lighting up with an unknown number. My heart pounds as I reach for it, already knowing who it is.
"Say my name again."
Four words that make my whole body flush with heat. I should ignore it, should block the number, should throw the phone away. Instead, my fingers type back:
"Luca."
His response is instant: "Again."
"No."
"You will. You'll scream it."
My breath catches. Even through text, he commands reactions from my body that I can't control. My fingers tremble as I type: "I hate you."
"Hate me harder."
God, why does that make me clench? Why does every word from him feel like foreplay? "You're destroying everything."
"I'm protecting what's mine."
