Chapter 30 - Faith
The mansion feels like home in a way my father’s house never did. I push through the front door without knocking because people who live here don’t knock. People who belong here carry keys next to concealed weapons.
"Perfect timing," Alex calls out, dealing cards with Vegas flair. "We need fresh money to steal."
The living room smells like expensive cologne and gun oil, that particular combination I've grown to associate with safety.
"Touch my cards again and you'll be shuffling with stumps," Sofia threatens Alex with a butter knife sharp enough to matter.
I set Maria's tiramisu on the side table before anyone can interfere with the card game.
Maria bustles in from the kitchen, her face lighting up when she sees me. "Faithy! You stay for dinner, yes? I make your favorite—the chicken piccata you love."
She pulls me into a hug before I can answer, her flour-dusted apron leaving a white handprint on my black dress. Luca tenses, but I squeeze her back, breathing in the scent of garlic and rosemary that clings to her.
"You too skinny," she scolds, holding me at arm's length. "This one," she swats Luca's shoulder, "he forgets to feed you properly."
"I feed her plenty," Luca murmurs, his tone making my cheeks heat.
"Food, Luca. I mean food." But Maria's eyes twinkle with knowing amusement as she returns to the kitchen.
I slide into the empty chair beside Luca. His hand immediately finds my thigh. The deliberate pressure makes me wet despite his entire family watching. Or maybe because of it.
He looks up from his cards, and that possessive satisfaction still burns fresh in his pale eyes. Three months, and he still looks at me like I'm prey he's claimed but hasn't finished devouring. The heat in his gaze travels down my body like hands, making my nipples harden against my silk blouse.
Three months since I watched Neumann die.
Ninety-two days of learning to breathe without guilt, of waking to Luca's possessive hands instead of nightmares, of my father's weekly attempts to save what's left of his daughter.
The mascarpone and murder have both settled into my bones now, each layer another step away from who I used to be.
"Maria's recipe?" Marco asks, eyeing the tiramisu.
"She supervised every layer," I say.
"Then we might survive it," Alex jokes about my dessert, dodging Sofia's swat. "Unlike your first attempt at lasagna."
"That was educational," I defend, hyperaware of Luca's thumb now stroking the inside of my thigh, just high enough to make me shift in my seat. “Besides, it wouldn’t kill you to cook occasionally, Alessandro.”
“What, and deprive poor Maria of a job?”
I huff out a breath.
"Remember when Luca tried to cook?" Sofia asks suddenly, grinning at a memory.
Luca's eyes narrow. "We don't talk about that."
"Oh, we absolutely talk about that," Alex says, delighted. "He nearly burned down the kitchen making toast."
"The toaster was defective," Luca defends.
Dante signs something, and Ana translates for me through her laughter: "He says he put a bagel in the microwave first, then the toaster."
"It was an experiment."
"It was a disaster," Sofia giggles. "The smoke alarm went off for twenty minutes."
Even Marco's fighting a smile now. "I got called out of a meeting for that. Thought the house was under attack."
I'm laughing too, imagining Luca—dangerous, precise Luca—defeated by breakfast food.
"In my defense," Luca says, pulling me closer, "I was seventeen and running on no sleep."
"You're always running on no sleep," I point out.
"Exactly. Which is why Maria cooks now." He presses a kiss to my temple. "Much safer for everyone."
The casual domesticity of it, the shared history, the genuine laughter—it makes my throat tight with something that feels dangerously like belonging.
"Remember the night Luca rented out the entire Art Institute?" Ana asks, dealing another round of cards.
I flush, remembering. Private after-hours tour, just the two of us wandering through galleries while he explained the chemistry of different pigments like a psychopath art professor.
"He made the security guards very nervous," I admit.
"You made him very nervous," Sofia corrects. "He spent three hours on the phone making sure every inch of that building was safe before he'd take you."
The obsessive preparation should feel excessive. Instead, it feels like being treasured.
On the muted TV behind Marco, Neumann's widow makes another tearful plea for information about her missing husband. The woman's performance is flawless. She almost believes her own grief.
"They're saying the CEO fled to South America," Marco comments, those dark eyes studying my reaction to the news coverage. "Took millions from company accounts."
"South America," Alex muses, shuffling cards with practiced flair. "Convenient story. Very telenovela."
"Better than the truth," Marco says dryly. "Which is that we have excellent lawyers."
The casual reference to criminal activity makes me remember the basement. My hand trembles slightly as I pick up my cards, and Luca's grip on my thigh tightens. He knows. He always knows when the memories surface.
"People believe what they need to," I say, the sentence sliding off my tongue like honey. Three months ago, those words would have burned. Now they taste like truth. Or maybe I've just grown addicted to the flavor of necessary lies.
No body will ever surface. The chemicals Luca used made sure of that, the same chemicals that sometimes still burn my nostrils when I visit his basement. But South America makes a convenient story.
"Focus on not cheating," Sofia says to Alex, steel under her smile.
The comfortable violence of their banter wraps around me like expensive cashmere soaked in blood. This is Sunday now. Not performing innocence at church, not lying through breakfast with Dad. Just this: family arguing over cards while discussing murder like weather.
"Raise twenty," I say, pushing chips forward. My poker face, perfected through years of hiding revenge plans, serves me well at this table.
"She's bluffing," Alex insists. "Nobody's that confident with Marco dealing."
"I don't bluff," Marco says, but the way he watches me suggests he's not just talking about cards. It's another test. Everything here is.
"How are you feeling?" I ask Ana quietly while the men argue over chip counts.
She places my hand on her belly. "Constantly hungry and occasionally homicidal. So, normal pregnancy."
I feel a flutter under my palm—the baby moving. Something in my chest tightens with unexpected emotion.
"That's amazing," I whisper.
"You'll understand soon enough," Ana says with a knowing smile. "The way Luca looks at you? You'll be pregnant within a year."
The thought should make me flee. Instead, it settles warm in my stomach.
I return my attention to the table just as Nico lays down his cards.
"Speaking of confidence," Nico says, staying in the hand, "the Bratva are getting bold. Testing our territory downtown again."
The temperature drops like someone opened a freezer. Marco's expression hardens to stone, the kind of look that precedes bloodshed.
"How many?" His voice could cut glass.
"Three crews so far. Asking questions at our clubs about old debts."
Sofia's hand trembles suddenly, cards scattering across green felt. The queen of hearts lands face-up like an accusation, and I see her pulse jumping in her throat. Real fear, the kind that comes from experience not imagination.
"Bratva?" Her voice cracks, sounds younger. "Russian Bratva? Here?"
"It's handled," Marco says, but his eyes stay on Sofia as she scrambles to collect her cards, her perfectly manicured nails scratching against felt.
Dante signs something sharp, violent gestures that need no translation. Ana interprets anyway, although I'm the only one present who hasn't learned to sign: "He says they're testing boundaries after ten years of silence."
"Ten years," Sofia repeats, and I smell her fear, sharp and metallic like blood in water. "Since the massacre. Since Mikhail."
She stops, pressing her hand to her chest like she's holding something inside. The name hangs in the air like a loaded gun.
"Since they learned not to fuck with us," Alex finishes, but his usual humor falls flat, and his hand drifts to the concealed carry at his hip.
Sofia starts, then bolts. "Excuse me."
Her heels click too fast against marble. The poker game suspends in loaded silence.
"I'll go," I say, already standing.
Luca's hand tightens on my thigh: warning, permission, possession all at once. But Sofia shouldn't be alone with whatever demons the Russians represent.
The bathroom door stands ajar, and through the gap I see Sofia gripping the marble sink hard enough to crack it. Her breathing comes in sharp gasps, each one fighting against a panic attack that wants to drag her under. The terror rolling off her fills the room like smoke.
"Sofia?" I push inside, closing the door.
"Can't breathe," she manages, knuckles white. "The Russians, if they're really coming back…"
I turn on the tap, fill crystal with cold water. "Drink. Small sips."
She takes the glass with shaking hands, and I notice blood under one nail. She's been clawing at something. Herself, maybe.
"That night. The massacre." Her voice fractures like bone. "Everyone thinks they know what happened."
"The Morettis killed the Rosettis, and vice versa. Your dad got caught in the crossfire," I say.
"Yes, but I feel like there's more to it. Something… I don't know. But I feel like there are secrets that could destroy us all if they came out."
The door opens. Ana appears, one hand on her belly where the next generation of killers grows. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," Sofia lies, reapplying lipstick like armor.
We walk back together, three women who understand that sometimes the past comes calling with blood on its hands.