Chapter 7 - Faith #2
I didn't ask him to.
But you like it.
God forgive me, I do.
My knees threaten to buckle. Luca Rosetti. I've been letting a Rosetti into my apartment. Into my dreams. Oh God, I've been wet for a man my father considers the devil incarnate.
"Father's enemy" doesn't begin to cover it. Dad calls them the cancer eating Chicago from the inside. Says Luca specifically is the worst of them, a genuine psychopath who enjoys his work too much.
And he's been in my apartment. In my bedroom. Watching me sleep.
I spot Neumann's wife near the auction tables. She's my secondary target, the one who might get me back into their social circle. I smooth my dress, paste on my librarian smile, and approach.
"Mrs. Neumann! How lovely to see you here. I volunteer with the library's program and…"
Her face goes white. "Oh, I just remembered, I need to… the ladies' room." She practically runs, designer heels clicking frantically against marble.
I don't need to look to know why. Luca's somewhere behind me, not even trying to be subtle anymore. He's systematically terrifying everyone away from me, creating a bubble of isolation in this crowded ballroom.
"Mr. Harrison," I try one of Neumann's business partners, desperation creeping into my voice, "I heard about the new psychiatric ward funding."
His eyes flick over my shoulder and he actually stumbles backward. "I… excuse me."
Three attempts. Three failures. All because of him.
The anger builds slow and hot in my chest. For years I've been patient. Studying law, of volunteering at Neumann's charities, of getting close to his circle of influence. And in one night, this Rosetti psychopath is unraveling everything.
I grab champagne from a passing server, gripping too tight so it doesn't slip from my grasp, and position myself where I can observe the whole family. Knowledge is power, and I need to understand what I'm dealing with.
Marco Rosetti commands without trying, people approaching him like supplicants to a king. Beside him, the silent one, Dante, watches everything with dark eyes that miss nothing. His pregnant wife touches his arm, and his whole demeanor softens. Even killers have people they love, apparently.
Sofia Rosetti laughs at something, the sound like crystal bells, but there's something sharp in her smile. Beautiful and dangerous, the kind of woman who could destroy you while wearing pearls.
There are two more brothers here somewhere, though I haven't picked them yet. Alessandro and Nicolò.
And Luca. My guardian. Standing now at the edge of the room, those pale eyes tracking my every movement. He's not even pretending to socialize, just watching me.
"He's isolating me," I realize suddenly. Not just from threats, but from everyone. From my carefully built connections, from my targets, from any life that doesn't include him.
The fury tastes like bile. He's protecting me by destroying my revenge. My twelve-year plan, everything I've worked for, every connection I've cultivated, every approach I've practiced. Destroyed in a single evening by his possessive protection.
I need air. Need space. Need to think without those pale eyes dissecting my every breath. I set down my untouched champagne and head for the hallway exit, my heels clicking against marble with sharp finality.
The hallway stretches before me, empty and echoing. Oil paintings of old Chicago line the walls, watching my retreat with judging eyes. The sounds of the party fade behind me, replaced by the thunder of my own heartbeat.
But I'm not alone. I don't need to look back to know he's following.
His footsteps are patient, measured, like he has all the time in the world.
Like he knows exactly where this ends. Each footstep behind me sends heat pooling between my legs.
I hate him for ruining my plans. Hate myself more for wanting him to catch me, to press me against these judging portraits and show me exactly what kind of monster I've been letting guard me.
The hallway seems to stretch forever. My heels echo too loud, announcing my flight to anyone listening. Behind me, his steps stay steady. Not rushing. Not chasing. Just following with that terrible patience, like a wolf that knows the deer will tire eventually.
I turn a corner, finding another empty corridor. More paintings, more judging eyes. A door at the far end promises escape, but escape to what? He knows where I live. Knows where I work. Has been in my bedroom while I slept.
My hand finds my cross necklace, the metal warm from my skin. What would Father Murphy say about this? About letting a killer protect me? About the heat that pools low in my belly when I think about those pale eyes?
His footsteps never falter, never speed up.
Just that steady rhythm that says he'll follow me to the end of the earth if necessary.
Patient. Relentless. Inevitable as gravity.
The scent of him reaches me now, something dark and expensive, like aged leather and smoke from expensive cigars.
The scent makes my mouth water even as my mind screams run.
The door at the hallway's end looms closer. My hand reaches for it, fingers trembling with adrenaline. The cold metal of the handle meets my palm, solid and real in a night that feels like fever dream.
I turn it.
His hand covers mine on the handle, trapping it there.
Not pushing, not pulling. Just holding me in this moment between escape and surrender.
The heat of his body radiates against my back, close enough that I can feel his breath disturb the hair at my neck.
Close enough that his chest nearly touches my spine with each inhale.
"Half a lifetime you've been hunting him," he says against my ear, his voice low and rough like expensive whiskey over broken glass.
Each word sends shivers down my spine, makes my nipples peak harder against the silk of my dress.
"One night, and I've made him run. Tell me, little faith.
Does that make you want to thank me? Or punish me? "