Page 47 of Psychotic Faith
"Luca Rosetti." Dad's voice drops with disgust. "The psycho of the family. My investigators say he doesn't even pretend to be human anymore. Just pure animal."
The wine goes down wrong. I choke, coughing violently as liquid burns my throat. Dad's immediately concerned, reaching across to pat my back.
"Easy there, sweetheart."
"Sorry," I gasp, grabbing my napkin to dab at my eyes. "Went down wrong."
"As I was saying, this Luca is the worst of them. The things he's done…" Dad shakes his head. "There are crime scene photos that would make you lose faith in humanity. He doesn't just kill, Faith. He makes it last. Makes it personal."
I know, I think, deliberately pressing against a bruise on my hip until the pain makes me shiver.I know exactly how personal he makes everything.The worst part isn't the guilt; it's that I'm getting wet remembering it.
"But you don't need to worry about any of that," Dad continues, returning to his menu. "You're a good person, sweetheart. Like your mother. The darkness in this city can't touch people like you."
The words are meant to comfort. Instead, they feel like a eulogy for the person I used to be. Because I'm not good. Good girls don't come on murderers' fingers. Good girls don't get angry that he mentioned his pattern of discarding women, don't feel proud that someone so dangerous wants them, even temporarily.
"I try to be," I whisper, the admission scraping my throat raw.
He reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. The gentle touch makes my guilt multiply even as I compare it to Luca's grip: possessive, marking, claiming. "You don't have to try, Faith. It's who you are. Your mother would be so proud of the woman you've become."
Something must show on my face because Dad's expression shifts to concern. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? You look troubled."
"I'm fine." But my voice cracks on the lie.
"You're not fine. You look like you haven't slept in days." His thumb rubs soothing circles on my hand, so different from how Luca touched me. "Is this about your mother?"
The out he's offering is so tempting. "I've been thinking about her a lot lately," I say, which isn't entirely a lie. I have been thinking about her, about how we're both drawn to dangerous men, how maybe this darkness is inherited.
"The grief changes, but it never really goes away," Dad says softly. "Your mother would want you to be happy, though. To live fully."
Would she?Would she want me to live fully if that means fucking her killer's contemporary? If living fully means discovering I might be more monster than victim?
"Excuse me," I manage, pulling my hand free. "I need to use the restroom."
I flee before he can respond, each step making me aware of the soreness between my legs, evidence of how thoroughly Luca claimed me. The bathroom is mercifully empty, all cream marble and soft lighting that makes everything look expensive and clean. Unlike me.
I grip the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Same face, but something feral lurks behind my eyes now. Something that craves violence wrapped in expensive suits.
"Who are you?" I whisper to my reflection.
The woman in the mirror doesn't answer. She just stares back with eyes that hold secrets, that know what it feels like to come apart for a devil.
My phone buzzes in my purse. Luca.
You forgot lunch again. Eat, or I'll come feed you myself.
The threat-promise makes me clench, imagining him following through. Then another text:
Stop spiraling, little faith. Your guilt is showing, and Daddy's watching.
How does he always know? The reminder that he's watching disgusts me. Makes me angry. But also, I'm pressing my thighs together, angry at him for making me want him, confused by his attention when he warned me about his pattern. Want, take, discard. Which phase are we in now?
I deliberately press on the bite mark on my shoulder, needing the pain to ground me. The sharp sensation makes me gasp, makes me remember his teeth there while he fucked me. I am, I remind myself. Horrified.
When I return to the table, Dad's already ordered for us. My usual salmon, his ribeye, like every time we come here.
"Feeling better?" he asks.
"Yes, sorry." I settle back into my seat, the movement making every bruise throb in rhythm with my pulse. The man in the dark suit is still there, still watching. Protecting or imprisoning: with Luca, they're the same thing.
