Page 64 of Psychotic Faith
"Testing audio," Nico's voice crackles through the earpiece, tiny and invisible beneath my hair.
"Clear," I manage, though nothing about this is clear. Fourteen hours since I walked out of the Rosetti mansion. Fourteen hours since I told Luca I'd rather die than accept his suffocating protection. Now I'm taping a wire between my breasts, transforming myself into exactly what he called me: bait.
The navy dress slides over me. Professional enough for a medical archives consultant, fitted enough to trigger Neumann's type. The hemline hits just above my knees, the neckline modest but hinting at what lies beneath. Skin that burns with phantom touches, that knows it belongs to someone currently locked away for threatening to burn down this entire venue.
"We're in position," Alex confirms from the surveillance van. Marco coordinating from some remote location. The absence that matters makes my chest tight. Luca, who Marco said had been "contained" after his threats escalated from burning the building to something darker.
Good, I tell myself, adjusting the wire one final time. I can't think about him now.
But my reflection says otherwise. I look exactly like my mother. Same bone structure, same hazel eyes, same stubborn set to my jaw. I've styled my hair into blonde waves that hit just below my shoulder, the same way she used to. The resemblance isn't accidental. I've weaponized genetics, turned my face into a ghost that will haunt Neumann into making mistakes. Concealer hides the shadows from too many nights without real sleep.
A commotion from somewhere in the hotel, muffled shouting that makes the team pause. "Minor disturbance," Marco's voice comes through tight. "Proceeding as planned." But I know that energy, that particular brand of violence barely contained. He's fighting them, wherever they've put him.
The thought makes my hands shake worse, though my fingers steady as I apply the last of my makeup.
"Heading in," I murmur to the team, leaving my phone behind. Can't afford the distraction of whatever chaos Luca is creating, his promises to paint Chicago red if Neumann touches me.
The conference center overwhelms my senses. Too bright, too loud, too many bodies moving through space. My cover is tissue-thin: library science consultant specializing in medical archives digitization. Like my presence here has nothing to do with Neumann.
I spot him immediately near the main exhibition booths, holding court with potential investors. Two bodyguards flank him now, both new since last week. Private military contractors, according to Marco, their eyes constantly sweeping for threats. His paranoia has intensified since losing his compound security. Since Luca.
"Target acquired," Nico murmurs in my ear. "Those bodyguards are professional. Ex-special forces from their movement patterns. Proceed with extreme caution, Faith."
I weave through the crowd, letting myself enter Neumann's peripheral vision gradually. The navy dress works. His double-take when he notices me is visible from forty feet away. His hand pauses mid-gesture, his entire body going alert like a tiger catching familiar scent.
That's right. I'm Jenna Winters' ghost. Come closer.
My stomach turns, but I hold position near the coffee station, timing my arrival to coincide with his approach. I pretend to study the conference program while tracking his movement in my peripheral vision. His cologne reaches me first. That same expensive scent from that night, from every nightmare since.
"Faith Winters." Not a question. His voice carries that particular mixture of interest and calculation that makes my skin crawl.
I turn, feigning surprise. "Mr.Neumann. I didn't realize you'd be attending."
His eyes travel my body with casual ownership, lingering on my throat where bruises from Luca's fingers have faded. The unmarked skin feels vulnerable, exposed, wrong without its proper markings.
"You look remarkably like your mother did at pharmaceutical fundraisers. The resemblance is… striking."
The comment is designed to unsettle. I let it work, my fingers trembling slightly around my coffee cup. "People mention that. It's… difficult sometimes."
"Are you here professionally?" He steps closer, invading the polite distance between strangers.
"Consulting work. Digital archives for medical libraries." I make it sound boring, then add vulnerability to my voice. "Actually, I've been having dreams lately. Or maybe memories? From when I was young."
Neumann goes perfectly still, recognizing a potential target or perhaps a potential threat. "What kind of memories?"
I touch my throat unconsciously. The gesture rehearsed but wrong because my throat remembers different touches, different pressure that made me see stars while coming apart. "A man's voice. Someone who knew my mother. Fragments of conversation. It's probably nothing, but my therapist thinks childhood trauma can resurface unexpectedly."
"Memory is notoriously unreliable," he says carefully, studying my face for signs of deception. "Especially regarding traumatic events."
"That's what Dr.Lopez says. But these feel so real. Like my mind is trying to tell me something important."
His hand finds my elbow, fingers pressing possessively against fabric. My skin crawls at the contact. Wrong touch, wrong man, wrong everything. My body knows its owner, and this isn't him. But I've chosen this. Chosen revenge over protection. The betrayal of it burns worse than his grip.
"Perhaps we should discuss this privately. I knew your mother well. I might be able to help clarify things. My office is upstairs. Third floor."
Room 312. Where Nico has cameras. Where the trap waits.
"That would be helpful," I agree, though my legs shake as I follow him toward the elevators.
