Page 42 of Psychotic Faith
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."
