Psychotic Faith (The Rosetti Family Chicago #2)

Chapter 1

The man screams again, but it’s getting weaker now. Disappointing.

He thrashes against the restraints, eyes wild with the kind of terror that used to mean something to me. Used to make me feel alive, back when I could feel anything at all. "I don't even know who you're talking about!"

"That's the point." I set the blade down, select a different tool. Precision matters. "You didn't even know her name when you said it. Didn't notice her flinch. Didn't see her day ruined by your existence."

The basement smells like bleach and fear. Four a.m. Most people are sleeping, but I haven't had a proper night's sleep in ten years. Not since the massacre. Not since my father stopped breathing.

Insomnia has its uses, though. Gives me more hours to perfect my craft.

Twenty-two nights I've been watching her. Faith Winters. Twenty-three years old. Librarian. Sunday school teacher. Daughter of the judge who thinks he can bring down my family.

Mine.

The word appeared in my mind three weeks ago, uninvited and absolute.

I was handling a situation at St. Mary's—some dealer thought consecrated ground meant neutral territory.

He was wrong. But then I saw her through the window, reading to a circle of children, afternoon light making her golden hair glow like something holy.

Something broke inside me. Or maybe something finally clicked into place.

"Please," the man whimpers, bringing me back to the present. "I have money—"

"I have more." I pick up the pliers. "What you have is three minutes left to live. Maybe four if you disappoint me again by passing out."

Marco's footsteps echo down the stairs before he appears. My oldest brother never makes noise unless he wants to. It's a warning, a courtesy between family.

"It's late, Luca." His tone carries that particular weight of disapproval mixed with resignation. He stopped trying to change me years ago.

"It's early, actually." I don't look up from my work. "But then, you know I don't sleep anymore."

"The judge's daughter?" Marco steps into the light, Armani suit still perfect despite the hour. "I heard you've been… attentive."

"I've been necessary."

"You've been reckless. Three bodies in two weeks, all connected to her routine. Her father's already investigating us for last month's shipment. You're giving him ammunition."

The man on the table makes a gurgling sound. Still breathing. Good.

"Six bodies," I correct. "You missed the barista who stared too long, the drunk who touched her arm at the crosswalk, and the delivery driver who made her uncomfortable. This makes seven."

Marco's silence stretches. Then: "You've lost your mind."

"I lost that ten years ago." The night our father died. The night everything changed. Marco knows this.

"This is different," he says finally.

He's right. It is different. Until now, I've been the family ghost. The psycho brother who handles the wet work, who does what needs doing without feeling anything at all. I work through the endless nights, perfect my methods, serve the family.

But then I saw her.

"The judge—" Marco starts.

"Won't be a problem."

"He's pushing for federal involvement. He knows something about our operations."

"He knows nothing about his own daughter." The words slip out before I can stop them. Because Judge Winters doesn't know that she has secrets of her own.

Marco goes still. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing that concerns the family." Yet. "I'll handle it."

"Like you're handling this?" He gestures to the dying man.

"He's handled." The wet sound that follows proves my point.

Marco watches me work for another moment. "She doesn't even know you exist."

That stops me. The tool slips slightly, ruining my clean line.

Because he's right, and it's been eating at me for twenty-two nights.

Each sleepless hour stretching longer than the last. She doesn't know I exist. Doesn't know I've memorized her coffee order, her library schedule, the way she counts her steps when she's anxious. Doesn't know I've killed for her.

She prays every Sunday for her father's safety. For the strength to be good. For something she never names but that makes her grip the pew until her knuckles go white.

She has no idea that her prayers should be for the men who look at her wrong. Because her guardian devil doesn't sleep, doesn't forgive, and doesn't stop.

"She will," I say finally. "Soon."

Marco heads for the stairs. "Clean this up. We have dinner tomorrow."

"I'll be there."

We both know I'm lying.

After he leaves, I finish my work quickly. The man expires with a whimper instead of a scream. Disappointing. But my mind's already elsewhere, already on her.

I pull out my phone and check the surveillance feed.

Faith's apartment is dark, but I know she's awake.

She wakes at 2:50 a.m. most nights, drinks tea at her window, writes in a journal she thinks is well-hidden.

Sometimes she looks out at the darkness like she knows something's out there. Like she's waiting for something.

Twenty-two nights of watching. A lifetime of violence.

Time she knew her guardian exists.

I examine the Polaroid in the dim red light of my workspace. Taken this morning while she arranged roses at her mother's grave. Inside my pocket, a Sharpie waits. I flip the photo over and write a single word on the white backing: 'Protected.'

Tomorrow night, I'll leave it on her pillow.

Tomorrow night, everything changes.

Because I may not sleep anymore, but for the first time in ten years, I have a reason to greet the dawn.