Chapter 17 - Faith
Iwake to sunlight and soreness, every muscle protesting. The bed beside me is empty but still warm. Of course Luca didn’t stay to sleep—he doesn’t sleep. Probably watched me for hours before disappearing.
I stare at the messages. After the night we just had—after he made me scream his name and confess every dark desire—he's thinking about my car?
He looks worse than last night—same clothes, shadows under his pale eyes deeper, like he hasn't slept in days.
Which he probably hasn't. But he's holding two coffee cups from the expensive place on Michigan Avenue, the one I walk past every day because a single latte costs what I budget for a week of groceries.
"You take it black with one sugar," he says, handing me a cup. Not a question.
I stare at the cup, then at him. "How do you know that?"
"I know everything about you, little faith." He steps inside without invitation, moving through my space like he owns it. Because in his mind, he probably does. "Your car is a death trap."
The subject change makes me blink. "My car is fine."
"Your car is a 2010 Honda Civic with 160,000 miles, a transmission that slips in second gear, and brakes that squeal every time you stop.
" He sets his coffee down on my counter with the precision of someone cataloging facts.
"It stalled twice last week. Once at 11:07 PM on West Roosevelt, a neighborhood with a violent crime rate 40% above city average.
You sat there for seven minutes before it started. "
My mouth goes dry. Seven minutes. He timed it. "You were watching."
"Always." No shame. No apology. Just that flat certainty that makes my stomach flip. "Anyone could have approached. Broken your window. Dragged you out. And I would have been three blocks away, monitoring from a camera, too far to stop it in time."
The image his words paint makes my skin crawl. Or maybe it's the realization that he's been watching me that closely. Timing my vulnerable moments. Calculating response times.
"So you came here at eight in the morning to lecture me about my car?"
"I came to take you shopping." He pulls out his phone, shows me a text conversation with someone named 'M. Santoro–Prestige Motors.' "Private appointment. 9 a.m. You're picking a new car."
"I can't afford a new car, Luca."
"I can." He says it like it's nothing, like buying a car is equivalent to buying the coffee he just handed me. "And I will. This isn't negotiable."
Heat flashes through me—half anger, half something else I don't want to name. "I'm not a charity case—"
"No." He moves closer, backing me against the counter, his body heat overwhelming even through his wrinkled shirt. "You're mine. And what's mine doesn't drive around in a death trap that could leave you stranded and vulnerable."
"I'm not yours." But the protest sounds weak even to my ears, especially with his marks still throbbing on my skin under my bathrobe.
His hand comes up, fingers tracing the bruise he left on my neck last night. The touch is gentle, reverent, completely at odds with how it got there. "This says otherwise. The way you kissed me says otherwise. The partnership we agreed to says otherwise."
I should argue. Should push him away. Instead, I'm leaning into his touch like a cat seeking warmth, my body betraying every rational thought in my head.
"Get dressed," he says softly, stepping back before I can do something stupid like pull him closer. "Something comfortable. We have an hour."
"What if I say no?"
That wrong smile appears, the one that never reaches his eyes. "Then tomorrow morning, you'll find your old car replaced anyway. But you won't have had a choice in what you're driving. I'd prefer you choose. Makes you feel like you have control."
The manipulation is blatant. And somehow that honesty makes it worse. Or better. I can't tell anymore.
"Fine." I head toward my bedroom, then pause. "But nothing insane. I'm a children's librarian. I can't show up in a Ferrari."
"Of course not." His voice follows me, casual. "That would be impractical for Chicago winters."
Something in his tone makes me stop. "Luca, what exactly are we looking at?"
"Options. Safe options. With excellent crash-test ratings, all-wheel drive, and GPS tracking."
"GPS tracking?"
"So I always know where you are." Said like it's the most reasonable thing in the world. "Get dressed, Faith. We're expected."
Prestige Motors doesn't look like a normal dealership. It looks like a mansion—pristine white building with valet parking and a doorman who opens the door before we even reach it.
"Mr. Rosetti." The doorman's greeting is respectful, almost deferential. "Ms. Winters. Mr. Santoro is expecting you."
Inside is dripping in money. Real money.
The kind that doesn't need to advertise or negotiate.
There are no rows of cars with sale prices on the windshields, no inflatable tube men or "SALE!
" banners. Just quietly expensive artwork on the walls and a receptionist who looks like she stepped out of a fashion magazine.
My cardigan and jeans suddenly feel shabby, even though they're my nicest casual clothes.
Luca's hand finds my lower back, warm and possessive. "You look perfect," he murmurs, reading my discomfort like he reads everything about me.
Matthew Santoro himself appears—silver-haired, expensive suit, the kind of man who probably makes more in a single commission than I make in a year. "Luca. A pleasure as always." His eyes slide to me with professional approval. "And this must be Faith. Welcome."
"Matthew." Luca's voice carries that edge I'm learning means business. "We discussed parameters."
"Of course. Right this way." Matthew leads us through glass doors to a private showroom.
Three vehicles sit under perfect lighting like artwork in a museum. The first is a sleek black Audi Q5, all sharp lines and aggressive styling. The second is a midnight blue BMW X3 that somehow manages to look both practical and luxurious. The third is a silver Volvo XC60, understated but elegant.
I stare at them, my brain struggling to process. Each of these costs more than I make in a year. Probably two years.
"Based on your specifications," Marco is saying, his voice smooth as the leather seats, "safety, reliability, appropriate for Ms. Winters' profession, and capable of handling Chicago winters.
The Audi has the most responsive all-wheel drive system and a five-star safety rating.
The BMW offers superior handling in adverse conditions.
And the Volvo has the best collision-avoidance technology in its class, plus the highest safety ratings overall. "
He's speaking to both of us, but his eyes keep returning to Luca, waiting for approval.
"These are too expensive," I manage, my voice coming out smaller than I'd like.
"These are safe," Luca corrects, moving toward the vehicles.
"Top safety ratings in their class. The Volvo has the best collision-avoidance system—it can brake automatically if it detects an obstacle.
The BMW has superior handling in snow and ice.
The Audi has the most responsive all-wheel drive for emergency maneuvering. "
He's memorized the specs. Of course he has. Probably spent hours researching, comparing, calculating which would keep me safest.
Matthew tactfully retreats to "prepare paperwork," leaving us alone with what must be a quarter-million dollars’ worth of vehicles.
"I can't accept this." I turn to face Luca fully. "This is too much."
"Your life is not too much." His voice drops, that dangerous intensity creeping in. "Seven minutes, Faith. You sat in that broken car for seven minutes at 11 PM in a neighborhood where three women were assaulted in the last two months. Do you know what I did during those seven minutes?"
I shake my head, unable to look away from his face.
"I pulled up crime statistics for that exact block.
I planned twelve different ways to kill whoever might approach you.
I held my phone, ready to call my men to your location.
I watched you try the ignition six times through the bodega's security camera.
" His hands are shaking now, actually shaking.
"And I couldn't do anything until that piece of shit engine finally turned over. "
The confession hangs between us, raw and honest.
"I can't protect you if your own vehicle traps you."
"This isn't just about protection." I step closer to him, needing him to admit it. "This is about control."
"Yes." No deflection. No pretty lies. "It's about both.
I need to know you're safe. Need to know where you are.
Need to be able to reach you if something happens.
" His hand cups my face, thumb brushing the mark on my throat.
"Call it control. Call it obsession. Call it whatever you want.
But you're getting a safe car with GPS tracking, and that's the end of the discussion. "
I should be angry. Should storm out. Instead, I'm studying his face, seeing the genuine fear underneath the demand. He's terrified. Actually terrified that something will happen to me.
"The Volvo," I hear myself say.
His eyes sharpen. "Why?"
"Silver is less flashy than black. And you said it has the best collision-avoidance system.
" I move toward it, running my hand along the hood.
It's beautiful—practical but luxurious, understated elegance that won't scream "bought by a mob boss" when I park at the library. "It suits me better than the others."
Something in his expression softens, just for a moment. "Test drive?"
"Will you tell me every technical specification while we drive?"
"Probably."
"Will you also tell me exactly how you accessed the bodega's security camera?"
That wrong smile. "Hacked it. And watched the footage twice because the first time I was too angry to think clearly."
He's completely insane. And I'm completely gone for him.
"Let's drive."