Chapter 13 Faith
The valet brings my car, and I tip him with shaking fingers. The drive home is a blur of streetlights and self-recrimination. I take three wrong turns, my mind replaying every second in that closet. The way I begged. The way I shattered.
I compromise by sitting at my kitchen table until dawn, still in my dress, preparing lies for breakfast with my father.
The diner smells like grease and childhood comfort, our weekly tradition since Mom died. Dad sits across from me in our usual booth, the red vinyl cracked from years of Sunday mornings just like this. I stare at my pancakes, unable to focus on anything except the echo in my mind.
Men dead for you.
His voice from last night loops endlessly, that rough growl against my ear while his fingers were inside me. I grip my coffee mug tighter, trying to anchor myself in the present, but my hands are shaking so badly the ceramic rattles against the Formica table.
"Faith?" Dad's voice cuts through my spiral. "You okay, sweetheart?"
"Fine." The lie burns my tongue.
He watches me over his own coffee, those sharp judge eyes that miss nothing. Years of lying to him about my plans for Neumann, and I've never slipped. But now my body betrays me with every breath, remembering Luca's touch, his taste, the way he made me come apart in that coat room.
"You know the Rosetti pre-trial hearing starts next month," Dad says carefully, watching my reaction. "Armed robbery, three dead. Though of course they'll walk. They always do."
My thighs clench involuntarily. Three dead. Only three? Luca's killed nine men just for looking at me wrong.
A plate drops in the kitchen, the crash making me jump. My coffee slips from my trembling fingers, brown liquid spreading across the table.
"Jesus, Faith." Dad grabs napkins, mopping up the spill while I sit frozen. "What's going on with you?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry. I just—"
"You've been different lately." He studies my face, and I force myself to meet his eyes. "Distracted. Nervous."
"The holidays are always busy at the library," I manage, cutting into my pancakes with hands that won't stop shaking. "Plus I'm tired from the library fundraiser planning last night."
Dad nods slowly, but his expression doesn't soften. "Speaking of last night."
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. The syrup on my pancakes pools thick and golden on the plate.
"Someone saw you at the Arcadia Theater." His words land precise and heavy. "During the premiere. Leaving a coat room."
My mind races through possibilities. Who could have seen? One of Dad's contacts? Someone who reports to him about the Rosettis?
"I wasn't at any premiere." The lie burns my throat. "I was home early, remember? You texted me about being safe."
"The witness said you looked disheveled." He leans forward, voice dropping. "Said you were with a Rosetti man. Tall, dark hair, expensive suit."
Luca's family name from my father's lips sounds sinful. Like my memories, how he made me beg, made me come while confessing his murders.
"Must be mistaken." I force myself to take a bite of pancake. It sits heavy on my tongue. "Lots of blonde women in Chicago."
"Faith." His hand covers mine on the table. "You know what the Rosettis are. I've warned you about them before."
I know exactly what Luca does. Know he's killed over a dozen men who looked at me wrong. Know he watches me sleep. Know his fingers can make me forget years of careful planning.
"I know to stay away from them," I say, the words hollow as my thighs press together under the table.
"Especially Luca." Dad's grip tightens on my hand.
"Remember what I told you? He's the worst one.
Genuinely disturbed. The things he's done, the bodies they've found—or haven't found…
" He stops himself, shaking his head. "Last month, someone's hands were delivered to his widow in a gift box.
That's Luca's signature. He doesn't just kill. He makes art out of suffering."
My core clenches. God forgive me, but hearing about his violence while my body still remembers his touch… I'm sick. I need to see a psychiatrist.
"Just promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise." Another lie to add to my collection, another sin I'll have to confess if I can ever face Father Murphy again.
"The witness was very specific," Dad continues, not releasing my hand. "Said the girl looked just like you apart from her clothes."
"Dad, I was home by eleven. You can check with the library board if you want." I pull my hand free, wrapping it around my coffee mug, though the ceramic offers no warmth against the ice in my chest. "Your guy is wrong."
But he's still watching me with those judge eyes, seeing something I can't hide anymore. The change in me. The corruption that started with a Polaroid and exploded in a coat room.
I skip church for the first time in forever and head straight to the library.
It should be my sanctuary, but even here I'm falling apart.
Bright faces stare up at me during children's story hour, waiting for me to continue the tale I've been telling them for weeks.
The book trembles in my hands, pages rustling with each shake.
The smell of old paper and crayon wax, usually comforting, now mixes with the phantom scent of expensive cologne and blood that I can't wash off my skin. Every time I breathe in, I smell him.
"And then the princess…" I stop, completely losing my place on the page. The words blur together. All I can see are pale blue eyes. All I can hear is little faith growled against my ear.
In the margin of the book, I realize I've been unconsciously tracing letters with my finger. L-U-C-A. My hand jerks back.
"Miss Faith?" Little Lily tugs on my skirt, her voice high and innocent. "What happens next?"
I blink down at her, this innocent child who has no idea her favorite librarian spent last night with a killer's fingers inside her, tasting herself on his tongue. The children's voices sound like judgment, like they know what I've become.
"I… the princess…"
Sarah, my coworker, steps in smoothly. "Why don't I finish the story today? Miss Faith isn't feeling well."
But as I'm leaving, I notice him: a man in a dark suit by the reference section, pretending to read but watching me over his book. One of Luca's men. Making sure I know I'm never alone, never free.
I escape to the bathroom, gripping the cold porcelain sink as my reflection stares back. I look exactly the same: cardigan, modest skirt, hair in a neat bun. But inside I'm unraveling, coming apart at the seams Luca pulled.
The afternoon only gets worse. The Neumann Foundation meeting I've been preparing for, my chance to get closer to records, and I can barely focus. No sign of Janine this morning, and I hope that means she escaped unscathed after the premiere, just like Luca promised.
"Faith." Neumann's voice cuts through my spiral. "You seem distracted today."
His hand lands on my shoulder, heavy and possessive, and I flinch violently. The movement is too obvious, too telling. His fingers tighten, pressing into pressure points that make my arm tingle with warning.
"Jumpy," he observes, studying me with those cold eyes. "Not your usual sunny self."
Nine men dead for me. Luca would remove this hand. Would probably remove the whole arm. The thought makes me wet instead of horrified, and I hate myself for it. Who am I becoming?
"Just tired, Mr. Neumann." I imagine his hand on my mother's shoulder, and the whole world tilts around me.
I stand too quickly, his hand falling away. "Excuse me. I need to use the ladies' room."
I flee, making a beeline out of the library and straight home.
My apartment feels like a cage. I've been pacing for two hours, wearing a path in the carpet.
My body vibrates with rage and need and years of control crumbling to dust. I need to go for a run to release this nervous energy, but I can't make myself do anything but pace and picture Neumann’s headless body.
My cracked phone sits on my coffee table, the spider-web fracture across the screen from when I threw it against the wall. I've been fighting the urge all day, telling myself I won't use it, won't give in. But my resolve weakens with each circuit of my apartment.
The evidence board stares at me from across the room. Photos of Neumann, documents I've collected, connections I've mapped. Twelve years of patience, of playing the perfect innocent, of getting close to his circle. Twelve fucking years.
And one night with Luca's touch has ruined everything.
The red dress hangs in my closet like an accusation. I wore it to save Janine, but all it did was lead me to him. To those fingers. To that coat room. To my complete undoing.
I grab the nearest stack of papers, throwing them across the room. They scatter like dead leaves, all my careful work meaning nothing because I can't focus, can't think, can't do anything except remember his fingers inside me.
"Fuck!" I scream at the empty room, knowing he's watching through his cameras, knowing he can see me falling apart.
I flip open my laptop and search for psychiatrists near me, but as I scan the list, I know nobody can cure me. I'm broken somewhere deep inside, forgetting my father, forgetting God, letting myself spiral deeper into a hole I don't even want to escape.
I need him. His hands, his mouth, his cock. Need him to finish what he started in that coat room. Need him to destroy what's left of me so I can stop pretending.
The evidence board mocks me. I grab another handful of documents, ready to destroy it all, when my eyes land on my damaged phone.
My life is already ruined. What's one more terrible decision?
My fingers shake as I text him on my cracked screen: "We need to meet in person."
His response is immediate, like he's been waiting: "Finally."
"Tomorrow. Somewhere public." Even now, I'm trying to maintain some control, some boundary.
"No. Tonight. Your apartment." His text demands total surrender.
My laugh is bitter. "That's not safe."
"You haven't been safe since I saw you, little faith. Stop pretending otherwise."
The truth of it makes my chest tight. I've never been safe from him. Not since that first blurry image of me, maybe not since before that. Maybe I've been walking toward this moment my whole life, toward the nightmare who would destroy everything I built.
"One hour," I text back, already knowing I'm making a mistake.
"Thirty minutes. Unlock your door."
"Luca—"
"Every minute you make me wait is another man who looked at you wrong today who won't see tomorrow."
The threat shouldn't make me hot. But I'm already walking to my door, turning the lock. Already surrendering to whatever comes next.
I turn off the lights one by one, letting darkness fill my apartment. If I'm going to fall, let it be in shadow where I can pretend it's still a dream.
Because he's right. I haven't been safe since he saw me. But maybe safe was never what I wanted. Maybe I've been waiting my whole life for someone dangerous enough to match the darkness I carry.
Twenty-eight minutes now. My body already preparing, already aching.
Let him come. Let him destroy what's left of my control. At least then I can stop pretending to be good.
At least then I can be what I really am: his.
The doorknob turns.