Page 43 of Psychotic Faith
"Matthew." Luca's voice carries that edge I'm learning means business. "We discussed parameters."
"Of course. Right this way." Matthew leads us through glass doors to a private showroom.
Three vehicles sit under perfect lighting like artwork in a museum. The first is a sleek black Audi Q5, all sharp lines and aggressive styling. The second is a midnight blue BMW X3 that somehow manages to look both practical and luxurious. The third is a silver Volvo XC60, understated but elegant.
I stare at them, my brain struggling to process. Each of these costs more than I make in a year. Probably two years.
"Based on your specifications," Marco is saying, his voice smooth as the leather seats, "safety, reliability, appropriate for Ms.Winters' profession, and capable of handling Chicago winters. The Audi has the most responsive all-wheel drive system and a five-star safety rating. The BMW offers superior handling in adverse conditions. And the Volvo has the best collision-avoidance technology in its class, plus the highest safety ratings overall."
He's speaking to both of us, but his eyes keep returning to Luca, waiting for approval.
"These are too expensive," I manage, my voice coming out smaller than I'd like.
"These are safe," Luca corrects, moving toward the vehicles. "Top safety ratings in their class. The Volvo has the best collision-avoidance system—it can brake automatically if it detects an obstacle. The BMW has superior handling in snow and ice. The Audi has the most responsive all-wheel drive for emergency maneuvering."
He's memorized the specs. Of course he has. Probably spent hours researching, comparing, calculating which would keep me safest.
Matthew tactfully retreats to "prepare paperwork," leaving us alone with what must be a quarter-million dollars’ worth of vehicles.
"I can't accept this." I turn to face Luca fully. "This is too much."
"Your life is not too much." His voice drops, that dangerous intensity creeping in. "Seven minutes, Faith. You sat in that broken car for seven minutes at 11 PM in a neighborhood where three women were assaulted in the last two months. Do you know what I did during those seven minutes?"
I shake my head, unable to look away from his face.
"I pulled up crime statistics for that exact block. I planned twelve different ways to kill whoever might approach you. I held my phone, ready to call my men to your location. I watched you try the ignition six times through the bodega's security camera." His hands are shaking now, actually shaking. "And I couldn't do anything until that piece of shit engine finally turned over."
The confession hangs between us, raw and honest.
"I can't protect you if your own vehicle traps you."
"This isn't just about protection." I step closer to him, needing him to admit it. "This is about control."
"Yes." No deflection. No pretty lies. "It's about both. I need to know you're safe. Need to know where you are. Need to be able to reach you if something happens." His hand cups my face, thumb brushing the mark on my throat. "Call it control. Call it obsession. Call it whatever you want. But you're getting a safe car with GPS tracking, and that's the end of the discussion."
I should be angry. Should storm out. Instead, I'm studying his face, seeing the genuine fear underneath the demand. He's terrified. Actually terrified that something will happen to me.
"The Volvo," I hear myself say.
His eyes sharpen. "Why?"
"Silver is less flashy than black. And you said it has the best collision-avoidance system." I move toward it, running my hand along the hood. It's beautiful—practical but luxurious,understated elegance that won't scream "bought by a mob boss" when I park at the library. "It suits me better than the others."
Something in his expression softens, just for a moment. "Test drive?"
"Will you tell me every technical specification while we drive?"
"Probably."
"Will you also tell me exactly how you accessed the bodega's security camera?"
That wrong smile. "Hacked it. And watched the footage twice because the first time I was too angry to think clearly."
He's completely insane. And I'm completely gone for him.
"Let's drive."
The Volvo drives like a dream. Smooth, quiet, responsive. Everything my poor Honda isn't. The seat adjusts in a dozen different ways, the steering wheel is heated, and when I press the gas, it accelerates with barely a whisper of sound.
