Chapter 29 - Luca
Twenty-four hours since Faith chose the basement over her father’s salvation. Her breathing against my chest follows a pattern: seven normal breaths, then that tiny hitch that means she’s dreaming of blood. My blood or Neumann’s, I can’t tell. Don’t care. Both are hers now.
The bruises on her throat have darkened to purple-black, perfect impressions of Neumann's fingers that make my jaw clench every time I see them.
But she's alive. Breathing. Here. My little Faith, who walked into my basement seeking justice and walked out accepting a killer, seeking sleep in my arms.
My phone buzzes. Security alert. The screen shows Judge Theodore Winters at the front gate, folder thick with what looks like surveillance photos visible even through the cameras. His shoulders are rigid with righteous fury, the stance of a man about to wage war for his daughter's soul.
My body recognizes the threat before my mind processes it, muscles coiling, hand reaching for the Glock that's always within reach. Faith stirs against me, immediately alert despite the bruises still purple on her throat. Her hand finds mine on the weapon, not to stop me but to share readiness.
"He's here." Not a question. We knew this was coming.
I watch her face, waiting for regret about Neumann, dealt with permanently, his fate sealed in my basement, but see only concern about her father. Any other girl would be panicking. Would be scrambling for excuses. But Faith just breathes against my chest, calculating.
"You could leave through the back," I offer, though every cell in my body screams against letting her go. "I'll handle him."
She sits up, decision already made. The sheet falls away, revealing the canvas of her perfect, flawed skin.
"No more running." She slides from bed, moving to the closet where I've hung clothes for her. Not the librarian cardigans she arrived in, but sophisticated black that marks her as Rosetti property.
I watch her dress with the same attention I use when selecting tools for interrogation.
She chooses the silk blouse that shows the bruises on her throat rather than hides them.
The fitted skirt that makes clear she's a woman, not the child her father wants to save.
Every choice deliberate. My perfect, terrible girl preparing for war.
"Your throat," I remind her, hearing the rasp still present when she speaks.
"Let him hear what his ignorance nearly cost." She turns to me, and her eyes hold that cold clarity I recognize from the basement. "He needs to understand I'm not his little girl anymore."
My chest cracks at the thought of the choice before her, not from fear she'll choose him, but from knowledge of what this will cost her. I've already lost my father to violence. Now she'll lose hers to choice.
I dress while she brushes her hair, leaving it down to frame the bruises. My phone shows the Judge still at the gate, arguing with our security. Folder clutched like a weapon. Man probably hasn't slept, been investigating all night, trying to find evidence to pry his daughter from my hands.
He doesn't understand she's not in my hands. She IS my hands now. The ones that held the scalpel. The ones that chose blood over law.
"Ready?" I ask, though ready isn't the right word for walking into your father's disappointment.
"Always," she says, taking my hand. Our fingers interlace, her pulse steady against my palm. Hundred and ten beats per minute. Elevated but controlled. My girl preparing for battle.
The walk to my study takes forever and no time at all. Each step is Faith choosing me over him, choosing darkness over light, choosing the basement over the courtroom. My cock shouldn't be getting hard from her resolution, but my body responds to her commitment like foreplay.
The study door opens to reveal Judge Theodore Winters like an avenging angel.
His suit is wrinkled, unusual for a man who treats appearance like armor.
Eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night spent hunting evidence.
The folder in his hands thick enough to convict me of a dozen crimes.
But his gaze locks on Faith first, and I watch his face crumble slightly seeing her in my clothes, bruises visible on her neck.
"Faith. Thank God you're alive." The relief is genuine despite the anger vibrating through him.
She moves to stand beside me instead of running to him. The choice visible in positioning. In proximity. In the way her hand stays linked with mine like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
The Judge's expression shifts from relief to horror as he processes what he's seeing. Not a kidnapping. Not coercion. His daughter choosing to stand with the man he's spent years trying to destroy.
"Sit," I tell him, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. Not an offer. A command in my own territory.
He doesn't sit. Instead spreads the photos across my desk like dealing cards of condemnation. The surveillance shots are comprehensive. Me entering Faith's apartment on multiple dates. Us together at the community center. At the film premiere. Here, at my home.
"This man has been stalking you, Faith." His voice shakes with barely controlled fury.
Faith picks up one photo, her at her mother's grave, me watching from a distance. The image grainy but unmistakable. Her finger traces my outline with something like fondness.
"I know," she says simply.
The Judge stumbles. "You KNOW?"
He pulls out more evidence. Polaroids in evidence bags—copies, he must have had her apartment searched while she was out. Police reports of men who disappeared after interacting with her. Correlation charts linking their last sightings to my movements.
"Five men dead, Faith. Five men who just happened to look at you wrong before vanishing."
"More than that," I correct, my voice conversational. "You're counting the ones you can prove. The real number is higher. Plus the compound, of course."
The Judge's face drains of color. His hand shakes as he turns to Faith. "He's a killer! A psychopath! The worst of the Rosetti monsters!"
Faith doesn't flinch from the accusations. "Yes."
That single word hits him harder than any denial would have. He reaches for the desk to steady himself. "Then why? How?"
"He's more than what you can see, Dad," Faith says quietly, the possession in her voice making both of us look at her. "And, whatever he is, he's mine now. My defender. My guardian angel. My monster."
The admission hangs in the air like a confession. The Judge stares at his daughter like he's never seen her before. Maybe he hasn't. The real her, not the performance of innocence she's worn since her mother died.
"What has he done to you?" The whisper is broken, a father watching his daughter choose damnation.
"He gave me permission to be myself."
The words land heavy between us. I watch the Judge process them, trying to reconcile the Sunday school teacher daughter with the woman claiming a killer. The cognitive dissonance makes him sway.
"Come home now," he says desperately, playing his final card. "I'll get you help. Therapy, protection, witness relocation if needed. We can fix this."
He reaches for Faith's hand, but she steps back, moving closer to me. The movement deliberate as a blade between ribs.
"Fix what? Me?" Her voice stays gentle even as she destroys him. "Dad, I'm not broken. I'm finally whole."
"He's corrupted you."
"I was corrupted when Mom died." The admission stops him cold. "I've been pretending since then. Pretending to be good while planning violence. Pretending to believe in law while documenting revenge. Pretending to be your perfect daughter while dreaming of blood."
Each word cuts deeper. The Judge looks between us, seeing the truth finally.
He turns to me, desperate. "If you have any decency, let her go."
"No." The word comes out flat, final. I'd kill him before releasing her. Would wash the dishes with his judicial blood before letting him take what's mine.
"Dad," Faith's voice turns gentle but firm. "I love you. But I'm not leaving."
The Judge's face cycles through emotions: rage, grief, desperation, and finally, the beginning of defeat. "He'll destroy you."
"Maybe." She takes my hand, interlacing our fingers again. "Or maybe we'll destroy everything else. Together."
She pauses, then delivers the killing blow: "Mom would understand."
The Judge flinches. "Your mother would be horrified."
"Mom would understand someone willing to burn the world for me." Her voice stays raspy but steady despite the tears I can tell are building. "She would have done the same for you. That's why Neumann killed her. Because she loved too fiercely to be controlled."
The parallel lands perfectly. The Judge sees it, his wife's daughter choosing the same fierce love that got her mother killed. But choosing it with a warrior capable of protecting her.
"The investigation into the Rosettis," the Judge says slowly, recognizing defeat. "You want me to drop it."
"Completely," I confirm. "All surveillance ends. No interference from your office or any federal channels."
His jaw clenches. "And in return?"
"You keep your daughter in your life," I state simply. "On whatever terms she chooses."
Faith adds, "I'll still come to Sunday breakfasts. Pretend enough for appearances."
The word 'pretend' cuts him visibly. The Judge realizes this is the best offer he'll get. The only way to maintain any relationship with his daughter.
"If he hurts you," he starts.
"Then I'll hurt him back," Faith interrupts. "We're equals, Dad. Matched in our violence."
The Judge processes this new reality. His daughter isn't a victim. She's a participant. A willing partner in darkness.
"Trent Neumann is missing," he says suddenly, testing.
Faith's expression doesn't change. "Is he?"
"His security team too. Twenty-four hours now." The Judge watches her carefully for any tell.
"Chicago's dangerous," I observe. "People disappear. Especially people who strangle women."
"His wife hired private investigators," the Judge continues.
Faith's smile is cold as January. "She should save her money. Men like Neumann always abandon their families eventually."
The Judge understands. Neumann is gone. Permanently. And his daughter was involved. The knowledge breaks something in him. His shoulders slump, aging him a decade in minutes.
He gathers his useless evidence, each photo a reminder of his failure to protect her from me. Or maybe his failure to recognize she didn't need protection. She needed permission.
At the door, he turns back. "I failed you."
Faith crosses to him, kisses his cheek gently. The gesture tender despite everything. "No, Dad. You loved me the only way you knew how. But I need a different kind of love." She looks back at me. "The kind that comes with blood on its hands."
The Judge meets my eyes over his daughter's head. In them, I see not just defeat but understanding. He knows what I am. What I'll do to keep her.
"Take care of her," he says finally.
"With my life," I respond, meaning it. "Or with everyone else's."
He leaves then, shoulders bent, footsteps heavy with the weight of losing his daughter to her own choices. Faith watches from the window as his car disappears through the gates. Her hand finds mine, squeezing tight enough that her still-healing palms must ache.
"That was harder than the basement," she says quietly.
"Different kind of cutting," I agree.
She turns to me, eyes wet but resolved. "I chose you. Completely. In front of him."
"You chose yourself," I correct. "I'm just lucky enough to be included."
She laughs, dark and fractured. "We're so fucked up."
I pull her against me, feeling her body mold to mine like she was designed for this space. Her father's visit has severed her last tie to the normal world. She's mine now, completely. No take-backs. No escape routes. Just us and whatever violence we create together.
"The family needs to know," I tell her. "That you're permanent now."
"After," she says, hands already working at my belt. "Right now, I need you to fuck me until I forget the look on his face."
"That's not forgetting," I observe, backing her against my desk where her father's photos still lie scattered. "That's replacing one memory with another."
"Then give me a better memory," she challenges.
I sweep the photos to the floor, not caring about evidence anymore. Her father knows. The world will know soon enough. Faith Winters belongs to Luca Rosetti. The good girl is dead. What remains is mine.
"Every time you see him now," I tell her, pushing her skirt up, pulling her panties to the side, finding her ready for me, "you'll remember this. Choosing me over him. Choosing to be fucked on the same desk where he tried to save you."
"Good," she gasps as I thrust into her without warning, her pussy clenching around my cock immediately. "I want to remember."
I fuck her harder, the desk creaking under our violence. This isn't making love. This is claiming territory. Marking the moment when she stopped being Judge Winters' daughter.
Her nails dig into my back hard enough that my blood seeps through his white shirt. Tomorrow I'll have to explain to my family why I look like I fought a wildcat. Good. Let them know she’s not some fragile victim.
"You're mine," I growl against her throat, tasting the bruises Neumann left. "Say it."
"Yours," she gasps, legs wrapping around my waist. "All yours. Every dark, terrible part of me."
When she comes, it's with a sob that might be grief for the father she's lost or relief at being free. When I follow, filling her with my cum, it feels like signing a contract in DNA. Permanent. Irreversible. Perfect.
We stay joined, breathing hard, her father's evidence scattered beneath us. Outside, Chicago continues its daily violence, unaware that Faith Winters just died and something darker was born.
"No regrets?" I ask, though I can feel the answer in how her pussy still pulses around me.
"Never," she says, pulling me down for a kiss. "I'm exactly where I belong."