Chapter 24 - Faith
The wire cuts into the tender skin between my breasts where Luca’s teeth left marks nearly a week ago. Cold metal replacing warm mouth, surveillance replacing possession. My hands shake as I tape it in place, not from fear of Neumann but from the wrongness of preparing to be bait.
"Testing audio," Nico's voice crackles through the earpiece, tiny and invisible beneath my hair.
"Clear," I manage, though nothing about this is clear.
Fourteen hours since I walked out of the Rosetti mansion.
Fourteen hours since I told Luca I'd rather die than accept his suffocating protection.
Now I'm taping a wire between my breasts, transforming myself into exactly what he called me: bait.
The navy dress slides over me. Professional enough for a medical archives consultant, fitted enough to trigger Neumann's type.
The hemline hits just above my knees, the neckline modest but hinting at what lies beneath.
Skin that burns with phantom touches, that knows it belongs to someone currently locked away for threatening to burn down this entire venue.
"We're in position," Alex confirms from the surveillance van. Marco coordinating from some remote location. The absence that matters makes my chest tight. Luca, who Marco said had been "contained" after his threats escalated from burning the building to something darker.
Good, I tell myself, adjusting the wire one final time. I can't think about him now.
But my reflection says otherwise. I look exactly like my mother.
Same bone structure, same hazel eyes, same stubborn set to my jaw.
I've styled my hair into blonde waves that hit just below my shoulder, the same way she used to.
The resemblance isn't accidental. I've weaponized genetics, turned my face into a ghost that will haunt Neumann into making mistakes.
Concealer hides the shadows from too many nights without real sleep.
A commotion from somewhere in the hotel, muffled shouting that makes the team pause. "Minor disturbance," Marco's voice comes through tight. "Proceeding as planned." But I know that energy, that particular brand of violence barely contained. He's fighting them, wherever they've put him.
The thought makes my hands shake worse, though my fingers steady as I apply the last of my makeup.
"Heading in," I murmur to the team, leaving my phone behind. Can't afford the distraction of whatever chaos Luca is creating, his promises to paint Chicago red if Neumann touches me.
The conference center overwhelms my senses. Too bright, too loud, too many bodies moving through space. My cover is tissue-thin: library science consultant specializing in medical archives digitization. Like my presence here has nothing to do with Neumann.
I spot him immediately near the main exhibition booths, holding court with potential investors.
Two bodyguards flank him now, both new since last week.
Private military contractors, according to Marco, their eyes constantly sweeping for threats.
His paranoia has intensified since losing his compound security. Since Luca.
"Target acquired," Nico murmurs in my ear. "Those bodyguards are professional. Ex-special forces from their movement patterns. Proceed with extreme caution, Faith."
I weave through the crowd, letting myself enter Neumann's peripheral vision gradually. The navy dress works. His double-take when he notices me is visible from forty feet away. His hand pauses mid-gesture, his entire body going alert like a tiger catching familiar scent.
That's right. I'm Jenna Winters' ghost. Come closer.
My stomach turns, but I hold position near the coffee station, timing my arrival to coincide with his approach.
I pretend to study the conference program while tracking his movement in my peripheral vision.
His cologne reaches me first. That same expensive scent from that night, from every nightmare since.
"Faith Winters." Not a question. His voice carries that particular mixture of interest and calculation that makes my skin crawl.
I turn, feigning surprise. "Mr. Neumann. I didn't realize you'd be attending."
His eyes travel my body with casual ownership, lingering on my throat where bruises from Luca's fingers have faded. The unmarked skin feels vulnerable, exposed, wrong without its proper markings.
"You look remarkably like your mother did at pharmaceutical fundraisers. The resemblance is… striking."
The comment is designed to unsettle. I let it work, my fingers trembling slightly around my coffee cup. "People mention that. It's… difficult sometimes."
"Are you here professionally?" He steps closer, invading the polite distance between strangers.
"Consulting work. Digital archives for medical libraries." I make it sound boring, then add vulnerability to my voice. "Actually, I've been having dreams lately. Or maybe memories? From when I was young."
Neumann goes perfectly still, recognizing a potential target or perhaps a potential threat. "What kind of memories?"
I touch my throat unconsciously. The gesture rehearsed but wrong because my throat remembers different touches, different pressure that made me see stars while coming apart.
"A man's voice. Someone who knew my mother.
Fragments of conversation. It's probably nothing, but my therapist thinks childhood trauma can resurface unexpectedly. "
"Memory is notoriously unreliable," he says carefully, studying my face for signs of deception. "Especially regarding traumatic events."
"That's what Dr. Lopez says. But these feel so real. Like my mind is trying to tell me something important."
His hand finds my elbow, fingers pressing possessively against fabric. My skin crawls at the contact. Wrong touch, wrong man, wrong everything. My body knows its owner, and this isn't him. But I've chosen this. Chosen revenge over protection. The betrayal of it burns worse than his grip.
"Perhaps we should discuss this privately. I knew your mother well. I might be able to help clarify things. My office is upstairs. Third floor."
Room 312. Where Nico has cameras. Where the trap waits.
"That would be helpful," I agree, though my legs shake as I follow him toward the elevators.
But in the elevator, his finger hovers over the buttons before selecting a different floor entirely. "Actually, let's use the executive boardroom. Tenth floor. Better acoustics for sensitive conversations."
My pulse spikes as the elevator rises past the third floor. Nico's voice sharp in my ear: "That's not the plan. Tenth floor is a complete dead zone. No camera coverage."
The elevator continues climbing, each floor a betrayal of the plan, of safety, of everything I've carefully orchestrated. His bodyguards didn't follow.
"I thought your office would be more convenient."
"Under renovation," he lies smoothly, watching my reflection in the elevator doors. "The boardroom is more comfortable anyway. Complete privacy."
The tenth-floor hallway stretches before us, empty and silent. The executive boardroom door looms at the end like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole.
"Can't be too careful about privacy when discussing delicate matters." He produces a key card, and the lock disengages with an electronic click that sounds like fate sealing.
He holds the door, waiting. Every instinct screams at me to run, but I'm trapped by my own plan, by my need for revenge that's stronger than my need for safety. I step into the boardroom, and he follows, pulling the door shut.
The lock re-engages automatically. He pockets the key card.
Years of obsessive research, every dead-end and late-night paranoia, condensed into this single room.
The view from the boardroom is gray and infinite, Lake Michigan’s horizon dissolving into the overcast sky.
Neumann stands silent, hands laced behind his back, the tailored suit shifting as he breathes in slow, measured cycles.
He’s performing, I realize—his stage the skyline, his audience the unseen world below.
He’s always been the star of his own show.
I wonder if he feels my eyes on him, or if I’m merely another background extra in his carefully curated life.
But when he speaks, it’s with the bored patience of someone who expects to be flattered. “Miss Winters.” Still not looking at me. “Why are we really here?” The inflection is practiced, the rhetorical weapon of a man who has sat through a thousand deposition threats and focus group interrogations.
My fingers graze the slim black recorder in my pocket, a piece of consumer junk compared to the surveillance arsenal the Rosettis gave me, but good enough for a woman on a mission. I press the button, imagining the LED’s cold glow beneath the fabric.
“Mr. Neumann,” I say, letting my voice carry just enough tremor to sound both vulnerable and plausible. “Thank you for agreeing to meet privately on such short notice.”
He turns as if on cue, rotating with slow gravitas.
His smile is warm, wide, absolutely dead behind the eyes.
“Of course. Your enthusiasm for our literacy initiative has been quite… memorable. Three fundraising events in eight weeks.” He glances down at my dress, then back up, slowly. “Very dedicated.”
The deliberate pause—letting me stew in the knowledge that he’s studied me as thoroughly as I’ve studied him.
I move toward the table, pulling the folder from my bag.
The contents are organized: internal emails, falsified reports, a handful of blurry Polaroids from the worst night of my childhood, and a single sheet of yellowed notebook paper in my mother’s handwriting. My hands don’t shake. Not yet.
“I’ve been doing some independent research,” I say, dropping the folder onto the table’s glassy surface with a thunk that echoes louder than my heartbeat. “Your company’s clinical trials from last decade. Particularly the Nervex project.”
Neumann glances at the folder but doesn’t yet touch it, as if waiting for the documents to blink first. “Nervex was discontinued after initial phase trials failed to meet endpoints. A promising molecule, but not a commercial success.” He sits, crossing his legs, perfectly at ease in a $10,000 chair.
“I’m curious why you’d find that so interesting, Miss Winters. ”
He knows the answer. He’s daring me to say it.
I open the folder, spreading out the evidence like tarot cards.
The Polaroids first: unsmiling children in hospital gowns, faces stamped with dates and initials.
Financial ledgers, highlighted in neon. And finally, the clinical trial summaries—blocks of redacted text, but enough left to piece together the body count.
“You didn’t release Nervex, you just rebranded it as LumoSmart.
Sixteen subjects died during Phase II trials of the rebranded Nervex.
” My voice is steady, surprisingly so. “Seven were children. The cause of death was listed as adverse immune response, but the pathologist reports tell another story.”
Neumann finally leans forward, splaying his fingers on the table. His nails are short, clean, almost feminine. “Is this an ambush?” he asks, his tone conspiratorial, amused. “Will someone from the press pop out of the credenza next, or is this a solo performance?”
“Solo,” I say, and it sounds almost brave.
He flicks through the pages, humming softly. “You must be quite proud of yourself. This is an impressive collection. You never worked for us, and yet…” He looks up, those pale eyes suddenly razor-sharp. “You’ve accessed documents that were sealed by federal subpoena.”
“I have friends,” I reply, letting the ghost of a smile slip into my lips. “And I have the names of the families you paid to stay quiet.”
He closes the folder gently, as if not to damage its spine. “You’re here to blackmail me.” Not a question, but a prod.
“I’m here to make sure you never hurt anyone again.” My hands are on the table, knuckles paling. “My mother was the whistleblower. She died because of your cleanup contract with SafeGuard. You murdered her.”
He considers this, the corners of his mouth curling upward only slightly. “That’s a very serious accusation.”
I see it then: he’s not angry, not even defensive. He’s delighted. The mask slips for a fraction of a second, and I see the boy who once dissected frogs in his garage, the man who watched my mother die and felt nothing but curiosity.
“Do you know what the difference is between a survivor and a victim, Miss Winters?” he asks, standing suddenly so his shadow falls over the table. “A survivor adapts. A victim clings to the past.”
My earpiece buzzes with static. Nico’s voice, tightly controlled: “He’s stalling. His guys are moving on the stairwells.”
I ignore it, focusing on Neumann’s hands, which are now steepled beneath his chin. “You think you’re the first person to try this?” he says, voice gentle, almost paternal. “You’re not even the first this year.”
“I’m not here for money,” I repeat, pulling out the second folder: photocopies of emails between Neumann and his head of security, detailing payment schedules to SafeGuard for “offsite asset disposal.” A single sheet of paper on top: Patricia Harrison’s sworn deposition, notarized by a county clerk.
He pauses over the name, recognition flickering behind his glasses. “Patricia. I remember her. Nervous woman. Always apologizing.” He reads the statement, lips twitching at the key lines. “She was killed in a car accident last week, wasn’t she?”
The room tilts. I feel my pulse in my teeth. “What?”
“I reviewed the dashcam footage myself.” His smile returns, sharp and symmetrical. “She was driving home from her daughter’s violin lesson. Wet pavement, reduced visibility. The autopsy found no evidence of foul play.”
I’m shaking now. Not just my hands—my entire body, a tremor that starts in my knees and works up my spine. “You’re lying,” I say, but the words sound childish, unconvincing.
“I don’t need to lie,” he says, folding the deposition and tucking it into his jacket pocket with a proprietary neatness that makes my skin crawl.
“That’s the difference between us. You’re a truth-teller, but I am the truth.
” He leans close, close enough that I can smell the expensive aftershave, the faintest hint of smoke and old books.
“If you plan to extort someone, Miss Winters, you should not let them dictate the terms of engagement.”