Chapter 18 - Faith
Yesterday morning I shopped for a new car with Luca’s cum still dripping down my thighs.
Now I’m sitting across from my father at Giovanni’s, pretending to be the daughter he thinks I am while my body throbs with evidence of who I’ve become.
I skipped out on our regular breakfast this morning, so I’m making it up to him.
The bruises pulse beneath my conservative cardigan as I slide into the leather booth.
Each shift of fabric against the bite marks on my shoulders sends heat straight to my core, a shameful reminder that I didn't just let a killer touch me.
I begged for it. The heavy wool irritates my sensitive skin, and I have to bite back a sound when it catches on the mark he sucked into my collarbone.
I tell myself it's wrong, but the truth is darker: I wanted him because of what he is, not despite it. The self-disgust sits heavy in my stomach, mixing with something worse: the memory of how alive I felt with his hands around my throat.
"You look tired, sweetheart." Dad's judge eyes note the shadows under my eyes that concealer can't quite hide, the way I'm sitting too carefully, trying not to aggravate the delicious ache between my legs.
"Just a long week at the library." I reach for the wine menu like it's a lifeline, needing something between us, some barrier to hide behind. "We're implementing a new cataloging system."
The lie burns my tongue. Everything tastes like lies now. Like guilt mixed with the phantom flavor of Luca that I can still taste despite brushing my teeth six times during the day.
"Well, don't overwork yourself." He signals the waiter, ordering our usual: his scotch neat, my white wine.
His cologne, something expensive and judicial, makes me think of Luca's scent darker, dangerous, like gunpowder and expensive leather.
"You know how your mother worried when you pushed too hard. "
My mother. The woman who raised me to be good, to follow rules and trust in justice. What would she think of her daughter now? But even as I think it, I remember my own plans for Neumann. How can I destroy him for killing Mom when I'm spreading my legs for another killer?
The waiter returns with our drinks, and I take too large a sip of wine, needing the burn to distract from the soreness between my thighs that makes me clench involuntarily. The wine mingles with the phantom taste of Luca's mouth, and I nearly moan.
"New car?" His judge voice. The one that makes witnesses squirm.
"Yes." I gulp my wine, avoiding his gaze.
"That's a Volvo XC60. Those start at sixty thousand dollars." He sets down his glass with deliberate precision. "Where does a children's librarian get money for a car like that?"
"I had savings—"
"Faith." One word. That's all it takes. "Don't lie to me."
My throat tightens. The truth would destroy him: Your daughter's psycho boyfriend bought it because he's been stalking me and timed how long my old car stalled in a bad neighborhood.
"A friend helped me," I manage.
"What friend? Sarah? Your book club?" His eyes narrow. "Or someone else? Someone you've been seeing?"
“Nobody you know, Dad.”
"The city's getting more dangerous," he says, studying his menu though we both know he'll order the ribeye like always. "The crime families are getting bolder."
I hide behind my menu, pressing my thighs together hard enough to hurt. The pressure makes me remember Luca's hands spreading them apart. "Oh?"
"Something's stirring them up. Territory disputes, from what my sources say." He sets down his menu, those sharp eyes finding mine. "You're being careful, aren't you? Taking Ubers after dark?"
"Of course." Another lie. I walked here because I needed the cold air to clear my head, to wash away the feeling of being owned. It didn't work. I can still smell him on my skin despite three showers.
"Good. Because these people, Faith…" He leans forward, voice dropping. "They're animals. No conscience, no morality. They destroy everything they touch."
Pure predator, he'd say. Yes. And I'm the prey who bared her throat and begged to be devoured. The wine threatens to come back up as my pussy clenches at the memory.
"Speaking of which," Dad continues, pulling out his phone, "we're still struggling with the Rosetti case. Can't get anything to stick."
The name makes my whole body tense. I grab my wine glass too quickly, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Across the restaurant, I spot a man in a dark suit, pretending to read a menu but watching our table. One of Luca's. Even here, I'm not free of him.
"The Rosettis?" My voice comes out higher than intended.
"The worst of them all." He scrolls through something on his phone, probably case files he shouldn't be showing me in public. "Five brothers, one sister, all of them killers. But there's one who's particularly…" He pauses, searching for the word. "Disturbed."
I know what's coming. Know which name he'll say. My hand trembles as I lift the wine to my lips, unconsciously touching my neck to ensure the scarf hides the fingerprint bruises Luca left like a necklace.
"Luca Rosetti." Dad's voice drops with disgust. "The psycho of the family. My investigators say he doesn't even pretend to be human anymore. Just pure animal."
The wine goes down wrong. I choke, coughing violently as liquid burns my throat. Dad's immediately concerned, reaching across to pat my back.
"Easy there, sweetheart."
"Sorry," I gasp, grabbing my napkin to dab at my eyes. "Went down wrong."
"As I was saying, this Luca is the worst of them. The things he's done…" Dad shakes his head. "There are crime scene photos that would make you lose faith in humanity. He doesn't just kill, Faith. He makes it last. Makes it personal."
I know, I think, deliberately pressing against a bruise on my hip until the pain makes me shiver. I know exactly how personal he makes everything. The worst part isn't the guilt; it's that I'm getting wet remembering it.
"But you don't need to worry about any of that," Dad continues, returning to his menu. "You're a good person, sweetheart. Like your mother. The darkness in this city can't touch people like you."
The words are meant to comfort. Instead, they feel like a eulogy for the person I used to be.
Because I'm not good. Good girls don't come on murderers' fingers.
Good girls don't get angry that he mentioned his pattern of discarding women, don't feel proud that someone so dangerous wants them, even temporarily.
"I try to be," I whisper, the admission scraping my throat raw.
He reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. The gentle touch makes my guilt multiply even as I compare it to Luca's grip: possessive, marking, claiming. "You don't have to try, Faith. It's who you are. Your mother would be so proud of the woman you've become."
Something must show on my face because Dad's expression shifts to concern. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? You look troubled."
"I'm fine." But my voice cracks on the lie.
"You're not fine. You look like you haven't slept in days." His thumb rubs soothing circles on my hand, so different from how Luca touched me. "Is this about your mother?"
The out he's offering is so tempting. "I've been thinking about her a lot lately," I say, which isn't entirely a lie. I have been thinking about her, about how we're both drawn to dangerous men, how maybe this darkness is inherited.
"The grief changes, but it never really goes away," Dad says softly. "Your mother would want you to be happy, though. To live fully."
Would she? Would she want me to live fully if that means fucking her killer's contemporary? If living fully means discovering I might be more monster than victim?
"Excuse me," I manage, pulling my hand free. "I need to use the restroom."
I flee before he can respond, each step making me aware of the soreness between my legs, evidence of how thoroughly Luca claimed me. The bathroom is mercifully empty, all cream marble and soft lighting that makes everything look expensive and clean. Unlike me.
I grip the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Same face, but something feral lurks behind my eyes now. Something that craves violence wrapped in expensive suits.
"Who are you?" I whisper to my reflection.
The woman in the mirror doesn't answer. She just stares back with eyes that hold secrets, that know what it feels like to come apart for a devil.
My phone buzzes in my purse. Luca.
You forgot lunch again. Eat, or I'll come feed you myself.
The threat-promise makes me clench, imagining him following through. Then another text:
Stop spiraling, little faith. Your guilt is showing, and Daddy's watching.
How does he always know? The reminder that he's watching disgusts me. Makes me angry. But also, I'm pressing my thighs together, angry at him for making me want him, confused by his attention when he warned me about his pattern. Want, take, discard. Which phase are we in now?
I deliberately press on the bite mark on my shoulder, needing the pain to ground me. The sharp sensation makes me gasp, makes me remember his teeth there while he fucked me. I am, I remind myself. Horrified.
When I return to the table, Dad's already ordered for us. My usual salmon, his ribeye, like every time we come here.
"Feeling better?" he asks.
"Yes, sorry." I settle back into my seat, the movement making every bruise throb in rhythm with my pulse. The man in the dark suit is still there, still watching. Protecting or imprisoning: with Luca, they're the same thing.
"Faith," Dad says suddenly, setting down his fork. "I need you to listen to me."
The seriousness in his tone makes me look up from my barely touched salmon.
"Whatever you're struggling with, and I can see you're struggling, I need you to remember who you are." His eyes bore into mine with all the weight of his position, his morality, his belief in justice. "You're better than the darkness in this city. You're one of the good ones."
The words should comfort. Instead, they feel like a joke. Because last night, I didn't want to be good. I wanted to be owned, devoured, destroyed and remade in his image.
"The darkness is tempting sometimes," he continues, not knowing how his words cut. "It seems easier, more immediate than doing things the right way. But once you let it in, Faith, once you compromise who you are… there's no going back."
He said he'd probably get bored, my mind whispers. Said he follows a pattern. Want, take, discard. The thought makes me angry, not at him, but at myself for already craving what I know will destroy me.
"What if…" I start, then stop. What if I'm not better? What if the darkness feels more like home than the light ever did? What if I don't want to go back?
"What if what?"
"Nothing." I force myself to take a bite of salmon. It tastes like ash compared to the memory of Luca's tongue. "You're right. I just need to remember who I am."
When dinner ends and Dad hugs me goodbye, telling me again to be careful, to stay away from dangerous people, I can barely meet his eyes.
Because I know tonight, I'll strip naked and examine every bruise he left, pressing each one until the pain makes me moan.
I'll touch myself thinking about him watching through his cameras.
I'll hate myself for wanting him to come back, to finish ruining me.
And the darkest truth of all: part of me, the part I can't show my father, can't admit in daylight, isn't broken by sleeping with a killer.
She's disappointed it only happened once.
The November cold hits my face as I leave the restaurant, but it does nothing to cool the heat still pulsing through me. My apartment is only six blocks away, and I need the walk to clear my head, to prepare for another night of pressing bruises and hating myself for wanting more.
My key turns in the lock, and I step inside, already pulling off my cardigan, needing to see the marks again, to confirm they're real, that I didn't imagine…
I freeze.
The red dress from the theater is laid across my bed like a promise. Or a threat. The silk catches the light from my bedside lamp, making it look like fresh blood against my white sheets. My heart pounds as I approach, seeing the note placed precisely on top.
Three words in his harsh script: "Tomorrow. 8 PM."
My legs go weak. He's been here. While I was at dinner with my father, lying about who I am, Luca was in my apartment, in my bedroom, leaving me commands like he owns the space. Like he owns me.
I pick up the dress with shaking hands, the silk sliding through my fingers like water. It still smells like him, that dark, expensive scent that makes my pussy clench with memory. There's something else beneath the note. A hotel key card. The Ritz-Carlton logo gleams gold in the lamplight.
No room number. He knows I'll find him. Or he'll find me.
My phone buzzes. Wear nothing underneath.
The command makes me drop the dress, my whole body flushing with heat.
I should throw the dress away and definitely not show up tomorrow.
Instead, I'm already imagining it. The silk against my bare skin. Walking through the hotel lobby, knowing I'm naked beneath the dress, knowing he's waiting. Knowing that tomorrow night, he'll finish what he started.