Page 81 of Psychotic Faith
"Perfect timing," Alex calls out, dealing cards with Vegas flair. "We need fresh money to steal."
The living room smells like expensive cologne and gun oil, that particular combination I've grown to associate with safety.
"Touch my cards again and you'll be shuffling with stumps," Sofia threatens Alex with a butter knife sharp enough to matter.
I set Maria's tiramisu on the side table before anyone can interfere with the card game.
Maria bustles in from the kitchen, her face lighting up when she sees me. "Faithy! You stay for dinner, yes? I make your favorite—the chicken piccata you love."
She pulls me into a hug before I can answer, her flour-dusted apron leaving a white handprint on my black dress. Luca tenses, but I squeeze her back, breathing in the scent of garlic and rosemary that clings to her.
"You too skinny," she scolds, holding me at arm's length. "This one," she swats Luca's shoulder, "he forgets to feed you properly."
"I feed her plenty," Luca murmurs, his tone making my cheeks heat.
"Food, Luca. I mean food." But Maria's eyes twinkle with knowing amusement as she returns to the kitchen.
I slide into the empty chair beside Luca. His hand immediately finds my thigh. The deliberate pressure makes me wet despite his entire family watching. Or maybe because of it.
He looks up from his cards, and that possessive satisfaction still burns fresh in his pale eyes. Three months, and he still looks at me like I'm prey he's claimed but hasn't finished devouring. The heat in his gaze travels down my body like hands, making my nipples harden against my silk blouse.
Three months since I watched Neumann die. Ninety-two days of learning to breathe without guilt, of waking to Luca's possessive hands instead of nightmares, of my father's weekly attempts to save what's left of his daughter. The mascarpone and murder have both settled into my bones now, each layer another step away from who I used to be.
"Maria's recipe?" Marco asks, eyeing the tiramisu.
"She supervised every layer," I say.
"Then we might survive it," Alex jokes about my dessert, dodging Sofia's swat. "Unlike your first attempt at lasagna."
"That was educational," I defend, hyperaware of Luca's thumb now stroking the inside of my thigh, just high enough to make me shift in my seat. “Besides, it wouldn’t kill you to cook occasionally, Alessandro.”
“What, and deprive poor Maria of a job?”
I huff out a breath.
"Remember when Luca tried to cook?" Sofia asks suddenly, grinning at a memory.
Luca's eyes narrow. "We don't talk about that."
"Oh, we absolutely talk about that," Alex says, delighted. "He nearly burned down the kitchen making toast."
"The toaster was defective," Luca defends.
Dante signs something, and Ana translates for me through her laughter: "He says he put a bagel in the microwave first, then the toaster."
"It was an experiment."
"It was a disaster," Sofia giggles. "The smoke alarm went off for twenty minutes."
Even Marco's fighting a smile now. "I got called out of a meeting for that. Thought the house was under attack."
I'm laughing too, imagining Luca—dangerous, precise Luca—defeated by breakfast food.
"In my defense," Luca says, pulling me closer, "I was seventeen and running on no sleep."
"You're always running on no sleep," I point out.
"Exactly. Which is why Maria cooks now." He presses a kiss to my temple. "Much safer for everyone."
