Page 23 of Psychotic Faith
"Luca." Marco's voice cuts through my focus. "Your thoughts?"
I don't look up from the screen. Faith is laughing at something the child said, her whole face lighting up. Beautiful.
"Luca!" Alex snaps his fingers in front of my face.
"Just fucking handle it," I snap back, still not looking away from the screen.
The room goes silent. That kind of silence that comes before violence, where everyone holds their breath and waits for the explosion.
"Everyone out," Marco says quietly. Too quietly.
Chairs scrape. Footsteps retreat. The door closes with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot.
"Look at me."
I finally tear my eyes from the phone. Marco stands behind his desk, hands flat on the mahogany surface. He looks like our father when he's about to order someone's death.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" He moves around the desk, each step measured. "Three shipments hit. Twelve million in product gone. Our people looking to us for response. And you're staring at your fucking phone like a teenager?"
"I'm handling it."
"You're handling nothing." He's in front of me now, looking down at where I sit. "You're watching that girl instead of protecting this family."
"I can do both."
"Prove it." He leans back against the desk, arms crossed. "Tonight. Gael Zapatero. The FBI turned him two weeks ago. He needs handling."
Zapatero. I know the name, know the address, know it should be clean and quick. A bullet to the head, body dissolved in chemicals, family told he ran off with some mistress.
"Fine." But my eyes drift back to my phone. Faith is reading to a group of children now, animated, alive, perfect.
Marco snatches the phone from my hand. His eyes narrow as he sees what's on the screen. Faith, surrounded by kids, that innocent smile that hides what she really is.
"Jesus Christ, Luca." He tosses the phone back. "You're completely fucked."
"She's fine."
"She's a liability." Marco returns to his chair, suddenly looking exhausted. "The judge's daughter? You know what happens if this goes wrong?"
"It won't."
"It already is. You're distracted. Sloppy. When's the last time you slept?"
Sleep. I remember sleep, back before I started watching her. Back when nights were for working, for handling problems, for being the family's workhorse. Now nights are for her. For watching her breathe. For leaving her gifts. For making sure she knows she's protected.
"I don't need sleep."
"You need your fucking head examined." But there's something else in his voice now. Not just anger. Concern. "This isn't like you."
He's right. The old Luca would have handled Zapatero weeks ago. Would have planned Detroit's destruction down to the molecule. Would have been the perfect soldier, the family's surgical blade.
But the old Luca hadn't met Faith. Hadn't watched her teach herself to fold paper messages in return. Hadn't felt her grind against his thigh while denying she wanted it.
"Handle Zapatero tonight," Marco says finally. "Clean. Professional. Prove you can still do the work. Then we'll talk about your… situation."
