Page 46 of Psychotic Faith
18 - Faith
Yesterday morning I shopped for a new car with Luca’s cum still dripping down my thighs. Now I’m sitting across from my father at Giovanni’s, pretending to be the daughter he thinks I am while my body throbs with evidence of who I’ve become. I skipped out on our regular breakfast this morning, so I’m making it up to him.
The bruises pulse beneath my conservative cardigan as I slide into the leather booth. Each shift of fabric against the bite marks on my shoulders sends heat straight to my core, a shameful reminder that I didn't just let a killer touch me. I begged for it. The heavy wool irritates my sensitive skin, and I have to bite back a sound when it catches on the mark he sucked into my collarbone.
I tell myself it's wrong, but the truth is darker: I wanted him because of what he is, not despite it. The self-disgust sits heavy in my stomach, mixing with something worse: the memory of how alive I felt with his hands around my throat.
"You look tired, sweetheart." Dad's judge eyes note the shadows under my eyes that concealer can't quite hide, the way I'm sitting too carefully, trying not to aggravate the delicious ache between my legs.
"Just a long week at the library." I reach for the wine menu like it's a lifeline, needing something between us, some barrier to hide behind. "We're implementing a new cataloging system."
The lie burns my tongue. Everything tastes like lies now. Like guilt mixed with the phantom flavor of Luca that I can still taste despite brushing my teeth six times during the day.
"Well, don't overwork yourself." He signals the waiter, ordering our usual: his scotch neat, my white wine. His cologne, something expensive and judicial, makes me think of Luca's scent darker, dangerous, like gunpowder and expensive leather. "You know how your mother worried when you pushed too hard."
My mother. The woman who raised me to be good, to follow rules and trust in justice. What would she think of her daughter now? But even as I think it, I remember my own plans for Neumann. How can I destroy him for killing Mom when I'm spreading my legs for another killer?
The waiter returns with our drinks, and I take too large a sip of wine, needing the burn to distract from the soreness between my thighs that makes me clench involuntarily. The wine mingles with the phantom taste of Luca's mouth, and I nearly moan.
"New car?" His judge voice. The one that makes witnesses squirm.
"Yes." I gulp my wine, avoiding his gaze.
"That's a Volvo XC60. Those start at sixty thousand dollars." He sets down his glass with deliberate precision. "Where does a children's librarian get money for a car like that?"
"I had savings—"
"Faith." One word. That's all it takes. "Don't lie to me."
My throat tightens. The truth would destroy him: Your daughter's psycho boyfriend bought it because he's been stalking me and timed how long my old car stalled in a bad neighborhood.
"A friend helped me," I manage.
"What friend? Sarah? Your book club?" His eyes narrow. "Or someone else? Someone you've been seeing?"
“Nobody you know, Dad.”
"The city's getting more dangerous," he says, studying his menu though we both know he'll order the ribeye like always. "The crime families are getting bolder."
I hide behind my menu, pressing my thighs together hard enough to hurt. The pressure makes me remember Luca's hands spreading them apart. "Oh?"
"Something's stirring them up. Territory disputes, from what my sources say." He sets down his menu, those sharp eyes finding mine. "You're being careful, aren't you? Taking Ubers after dark?"
"Of course." Another lie. I walked here because I needed the cold air to clear my head, to wash away the feeling of being owned. It didn't work. I can still smell him on my skin despite three showers.
"Good. Because these people, Faith…" He leans forward, voice dropping. "They're animals. No conscience, no morality. They destroy everything they touch."
Pure predator, he'd say. Yes. And I'm the prey who bared her throat and begged to be devoured. The wine threatens to come back up as my pussy clenches at the memory.
"Speaking of which," Dad continues, pulling out his phone, "we're still struggling with the Rosetti case. Can't get anything to stick."
The name makes my whole body tense. I grab my wine glass too quickly, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Across the restaurant, I spot a man in a dark suit, pretending to read a menu but watching our table. One of Luca's. Even here, I'm not free of him.
"The Rosettis?" My voice comes out higher than intended.
"The worst of them all." He scrolls through something on his phone, probably case files he shouldn't be showing me in public. "Five brothers, one sister, all of them killers. But there'sone who's particularly…" He pauses, searching for the word. "Disturbed."
I know what's coming. Know which name he'll say. My hand trembles as I lift the wine to my lips, unconsciously touching my neck to ensure the scarf hides the fingerprint bruises Luca left like a necklace.
