Page 60 of Psychotic Faith
The name makes me freeze, fingers tightening on the phone until the cracked screen cuts into my palm.
"What about him?"
"Come to dinner. We'll discuss options. Mutually beneficial ones." She pauses. "Just business, Faith. The kind of business where everyone gets what they want."
Business. That's all this needs to be. A transaction. Their resources for my information. Nothing to do with how my body still aches for her brother's touch.
"Will Luca be there?"
"Yes." No point lying, apparently. "But he won't bother you. The family is… concerned about his current state. Marco will ensure he maintains distance."
Something twists in my chest. Not quite guilt, not quite satisfaction. The same feeling when I press on the fading bruises he left, pain mixed with something darker.
"Just dinner," I say slowly. "To discuss Neumann."
"Exactly. Come to the back entrance. Someone will meet you."
She hangs up without a goodbye. I stare at the phone, knowing I'm about to walk into a den of killers. But they're killers with the resources to destroy Neumann utterly, and after years of being patient, of being good, of following rules that protect powerful men, maybe it's time to stop pretending I'm any different from them.
I stand before my closet at 6 PM, choosing armor for tomorrow's dinner. My hand goes immediately to the black dress from my mother's funeral, adjusted over the years but still carrying that weight of loss.
Appropriate for walking into the Rosetti house. Appropriate for the death of who I used to be.
I pull it on, standing before my mirror to practice what I'll say. "I need your help with Neumann." Too desperate. "We have mutual interests regarding Neumann." Better. Business-like. No emotion.
But my voice cracks on his name, my suppressed rage bleeding through. Mixed with the memory of Luca's voice when he promised to handle him. I try again, hands gripping thedresser. "Neumann needs to be destroyed. I have information. You have means."
The words sound hollow. I'm asking killers to help me eliminate a problem. Legally, of course. Or legally enough that I can still look my father in the eyes.
Who are you kidding? You want him dead. You've always wanted him dead. Just like you wanted Luca despite knowing exactly what he is.
The Polaroid still sits on my dresser. The last one Luca gave me. "I understand," written on back in his sharp script. I've wanted to throw it away fifty times, but my fingers won't cooperate. Evidence of what we were for those brief moments. Evidence that someone else sees the monster I'm becoming.
I shower with water so hot it scalds, trying to burn away the memory of his hands. But my traitorous body remembers exactly how he made me come apart, how safe I felt surrounded by danger. Three days, and phantom sensations haunt me. His fingers inside me, his cock stretching me, his teeth marking my neck. Every nerve ending remembers and wants more.
At 2 a.m., I stand before my evidence board. Photos of Neumann at galas, with his family, at the hospital the night my mother died. Financial records I've gathered. Testimonies from women who wouldn't speak publicly. Connections mapped in red string like something from a detective movie.
I step back, really looking at it for the first time in weeks.
It looks exactly like Luca's surveillance room.
Same obsessive documentation. Same patient watching. Same hunger for destruction. We're the same species, just using different hunting methods. He uses knives and bullets. I use patience and paper. But we both want blood.
I'm becoming what he is. No, that's wrong. I'm finally admitting what I've always been. The girl who dreamed of violence, who got wet when he confessed his kills, who cameharder knowing what those hands had done. He didn't corrupt me. He revealed me.
The only difference is he admits what he is. I dress mine up as justice, as righteousness, as doing the right thing. But standing here in the middle of the night, staring at years of stalking Neumann, I can't pretend anymore.
I want to watch him die. Want to see the light leave his eyes like I saw my mother's go dark. Want him to know it's because of her, want him to beg like she did, want him to understand that some sins can't be forgiven.
That's not justice. That's revenge.
And tomorrow, I'm going to walk into a house full of killers and ask for their help getting it.
My phone buzzes. Sofia again, with details: "Back entrance, 7 PM sharp."
I stare at the message for a long moment, knowing that responding means choosing a path I can't come back from. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, and I feel phantom pressure. Luca's hand over mine. Even absent, he's guiding me toward violence.
I type: "Confirmed. I'll be attending."
