Chapter 10 Luca
My palm presses against the cold window glass, testing. The latch holds firm against my pressure—locked. She fucking locked me out.
The defiance of it cuts deep, sharp and unexpected. Three a.m., exactly when I told her to leave it open, and my little faith has decided to defy me. My cock hardens instantly at the challenge, even as rage floods my system like injected adrenaline.
The November wind cuts through my jacket but I barely feel it. All I feel is the locked window under my palm, the barrier she's placed between us. My breath fogs the glass as I lean closer, imagining her on the other side, probably awake, probably listening for me.
I could break it. One sharp strike and I'd be inside, could show her exactly what happens when she denies me. The fantasy makes my pulse pound: her gasping awake to find me standing over her bed, those hazel eyes wide with fear and something darker.
But no. That would be taking. I want her to give. Want her to unlock this window herself, invite the monster in, beg for what only I can give her.
I pull back, studying her apartment through the darkness. Third floor, corner unit. Fire escape on the east side. Seven possible entry points if I wanted to force it. But force isn't what this is about anymore. This is about making her choose me, choose this, choose to let the devil in.
I climb down to street level just as my phone buzzes. Marco: "Where the fuck are you?"
I ignore it. He can wait. The family can wait. Everything can wait while I stand here in the dark, three stories below the woman who dared to lock me out.
Movement in her window. The curtain shifts slightly, and I know she's watching. Good. Let her see what she's denying herself. Let her see what waits for her in the shadows.
I pull out my phone, type one-handed while keeping my eyes on her window.
"Brave little faith, locking out the devil."
The curtain drops immediately. Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Then:
"The devil wasn't invited."
"The devil doesn't need invitations. He takes what belongs to him."
"I belong to no one."
The lie makes me smile, that wrong smile that would make her wet if she could see it. Because she does belong to someone. She's belonged to me since the first Polaroid, since before that, since the moment I saw her in that church reading to children while I disposed of a problem.
"Your pussy says otherwise. Still thinking of last night, aren't you?"
No response. But the curtain moves again. She's still there, still watching. My cock presses painfully against my zipper, demanding attention I won't give it. Not yet. Not until she's the one giving it.
Time to change tactics. I head back to my car, needing distance before I do something that breaks our game. Something that ends with her under me, screaming my name while I show her exactly who owns her.
Nine a.m. finds me parked outside St. Mary's, watching through my phone as she enters the church.
She hesitated at the door for thirty seconds, hand on the brass handle like it might burn her.
Good. She should hesitate. Should feel the weight of what she did last night, what she wanted to do, what she will do.
She's wearing a modest blue dress that covers everything: high neck, long sleeves, hem past her knees. Hiding the skin I've marked in my mind if not yet with my mouth. The dress is armor against her own desire, protection from what she knows is coming.
Through the camera I had installed months ago (originally for business, now repurposed for obsession) I watch her take a seat in the back row. She usually sits in the third row, left side. Today she's hiding.
Her hand goes to her cross necklace, fingers worrying the gold. She's worn it every day since I've been watching, but today she touches it like it burns. Like it knows what she did last night, what she thought about while her fingers worked between her thighs.
The service begins. I watch her stand for hymns, kneel for prayer, but when communion comes, she stays seated. An old woman next to her gives her a concerned look, but Faith just shakes her head, eyes downcast.
Too guilty to take communion. Too stained by what she wants from me.
I text: "God knows what you did."
I watch her stiffen through the camera, hand flying to her purse. She pulls out her cracked phone, the screen still spider-webbed from when she threw it against the wall last night. The damage makes me smile. Evidence of how much I affect her, how much I make her lose control.
Her face flushes as she reads my message, that pretty pink that makes me want to see how far down it goes.
She types back on the damaged screen: "God forgives."
"But you don't forgive yourself."
Her head snaps up, eyes scanning the church like she might find me in the pews. But I'm not there. I'm everywhere and nowhere.
"Stop watching me."
"Never."
She puts the phone away, but I see her hand shake as she does. The service continues around her, but she's not present anymore. She's thinking about me, about last night, about what comes next. I can see it in the way she grips the pew, knuckles white with the effort of staying still.
When the service ends, she practically runs out, not stopping to chat with the other parishioners like usual. I follow at a distance as she walks the five blocks home, watching her check over her shoulder every few steps.
Looking for me.
Wanting to see me even as she fears it.
Two PM and I'm in Marco's office for an emergency meeting about Detroit. Three of their crew hit our shipments this week, stealing product and sending a message. This is the kind of thing that starts wars, that needs immediate, decisive response.
But my mind is elsewhere, watching Faith at the library on my phone.
"…need to hit back hard," Alessandro is saying. "Take out their warehouse, make it clear…"
Faith bends over to help a small child reach a picture book, her dress riding up slightly to show the backs of her knees. Such innocent skin, but I know what it would look like marked with my teeth.
"Luca." Marco's voice cuts through my focus. "Your thoughts?"
I don't look up from the screen. Faith is laughing at something the child said, her whole face lighting up. Beautiful.
"Luca!" Alex snaps his fingers in front of my face.
"Just fucking handle it," I snap back, still not looking away from the screen.
The room goes silent. That kind of silence that comes before violence, where everyone holds their breath and waits for the explosion.
"Everyone out," Marco says quietly. Too quietly.
Chairs scrape. Footsteps retreat. The door closes with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot.
"Look at me."
I finally tear my eyes from the phone. Marco stands behind his desk, hands flat on the mahogany surface. He looks like our father when he's about to order someone's death.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" He moves around the desk, each step measured. "Three shipments hit. Twelve million in product gone. Our people looking to us for response. And you're staring at your fucking phone like a teenager?"
"I'm handling it."
"You're handling nothing." He's in front of me now, looking down at where I sit. "You're watching that girl instead of protecting this family."
"I can do both."
"Prove it." He leans back against the desk, arms crossed. "Tonight. Gael Zapatero. The FBI turned him two weeks ago. He needs handling."
Zapatero. I know the name, know the address, know it should be clean and quick. A bullet to the head, body dissolved in chemicals, family told he ran off with some mistress.
"Fine." But my eyes drift back to my phone. Faith is reading to a group of children now, animated, alive, perfect.
Marco snatches the phone from my hand. His eyes narrow as he sees what's on the screen. Faith, surrounded by kids, that innocent smile that hides what she really is.
"Jesus Christ, Luca." He tosses the phone back. "You're completely fucked."
"She's fine."
"She's a liability." Marco returns to his chair, suddenly looking exhausted. "The judge's daughter? You know what happens if this goes wrong?"
"It won't."
"It already is. You're distracted. Sloppy. When's the last time you slept?"
Sleep. I remember sleep, back before I started watching her. Back when nights were for working, for handling problems, for being the family's workhorse. Now nights are for her. For watching her breathe. For leaving her gifts. For making sure she knows she's protected.
"I don't need sleep."
"You need your fucking head examined." But there's something else in his voice now. Not just anger. Concern. "This isn't like you."
He's right. The old Luca would have handled Zapatero weeks ago. Would have planned Detroit's destruction down to the molecule. Would have been the perfect soldier, the family's surgical blade.
But the old Luca hadn't met Faith. Hadn't watched her teach herself to fold paper messages in return. Hadn't felt her grind against his thigh while denying she wanted it.
"Handle Zapatero tonight," Marco says finally. "Clean. Professional. Prove you can still do the work. Then we'll talk about your… situation."
I stand to leave, but his voice stops me at the door.
"Luca? If she compromises this family, I'll handle her myself."
The threat makes something violent rear up in my chest. The idea of Marco touching Faith, hurting Faith, even looking at Faith makes me want to paint the walls with his blood. Brother or not.
"You won't touch her."
"Then make sure I don't have to."
It takes Zapatero an hour to die. Messier than it should be.
Louder. Marco will hear about this, will know I didn't follow orders.
But Marco doesn't understand. This isn't just work anymore.
Everything is about her now. The violence, the obsession, the need to possess and protect and destroy anything that comes between us.
By the time I'm done, it's past midnight. My clothes are ruined, blood soaked through to skin. I'll have to burn everything, shower at the safe house before going to her.
Because I am going to her. Tonight. Not to take anything, but to leave something. To escalate our game.
Two a.m. and I'm standing in her bedroom again. She's asleep, curled on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow where the knife I sharpened waits. The same position she always sleeps in, except tonight she's wearing that silk nightgown. The one she wore for me before she knew my name.
She knows I'm coming. Knows I can't stay away.
I've brought two things. First, a dress. Red silk that will cling to every curve, show enough skin to make men stare, make them stupid, make them targets. When she wears it, she's declaring herself mine. Claiming me as much as I'm claiming her.
Second, the panties she was wearing last night. The ones soaked with her arousal, with the evidence of what I do to her. I had them cleaned, pressed, folded perfectly. The message clear: I take what I want, but I give it back changed. Improved.
I place both on her pillow, right where she'll see them when she wakes. The dress draped carefully, the panties on top, a note tucked between them:
"For when you're ready to beg."
She shifts in her sleep, mumbling something. I freeze, watching her face in the dim light from the street. So beautiful. So innocent-looking even though I know the darkness that lives inside her. The violence she dreams about.
We're the same, her and me. Both just pretending to be human.
Her cracked phone sits on the nightstand, the spider-web pattern across the screen catching the streetlight.
Evidence of her loss of control, of what I drive her to.
I could send another message, wake her up, make her see me standing here.
But this is better. The anticipation. The knowing that she'll wake to find I've been here again, that nowhere is safe from me, that locked windows mean nothing when you belong to someone the way she belongs to me.
I'm at the door, hand on the knob, when I hear it.
"Luca."
My name from her sleeping lips. She's said it before. But hearing it now, unconscious and unguarded, whispered like a prayer or a summons, it hits different. This is her subconscious claiming me, dreaming of me, unable to escape me even in sleep.
I freeze, every muscle locked as I watch her shift in the darkness. Still asleep. Still dreaming. But dreaming of the real me. The monster who just left her cleaned panties on her pillow like a calling card. The unhinged Rosetti she knows she shouldn't want.
My cock goes painfully hard, and I have to grip the doorframe to stop myself from going back. From waking her up and making her say it again while she's conscious, while I'm inside her, while she's screaming it.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow she'll wear my red dress, claiming me as surely as I've claimed her. Both of us knowing exactly what we're choosing.