Page 58 of Psychotic Faith
"That's not love, Luca. That's addiction."
"What's the difference?" It's a real question. I genuinely don't understand the distinction.
She sighs, and I picture her rubbing her temples the way she does when overwhelmed. "If you loved me, you'd want what's best for me. Even if that wasn't you."
The logic cuts clean through me. Perfect. Terrible. True.
"What if nothing's best for you without me?"
"That's not your choice to make."
She hangs up. The silence that follows is absolute, like the world has stopped existing. I stare at the phone, willing it to ring, willing her to call back and say she didn't mean it.
But Faith doesn't call back. She's done exactly what she said: left me. And unlike the pattern I've followed my whole adult life (want, take, discard), she's discarded me first.
The phone slips from my numb fingers, screen cracking against marble floor. The sound echoes through the empty room, sharp and final. Everything's breaking now. The controlled killer who plans every cut, who knows exactly where to press to make men scream, he's coming apart at the seams.
I find myself in the basement without remembering the walk. My body moves on autopilot, muscle memory guiding me to the one place that's always made sense. My tools hang in perfect order: scalpels, pliers, everything I use to make men understand consequences. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows that make the metal gleam like promises.
My fingers trace the handle of my favorite knife, the one that's tasted more blood than I can count. The weight of it is familiar, comforting when nothing else makes sense. It's perfectly balanced, sharp enough to split atoms, an extension of my hand that's never failed me.
Seventy-two hours without sleep. Without her. My reflection in the blade shows someone I don't recognize: hollow, desperate,dangerous. Not the methodical man who takes men apart piece by piece. Something else. Something worse. Something without boundaries or purpose.
The knife feels right in my shaking hand. Solid. Real. It doesn't judge or leave or tell me I'm sick. It just exists, ready for whatever comes next.
I test the edge against my thumb, watching blood bead immediately. The pain is nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest, but at least it's something I can control. Something I understand.
Without her, sleep is impossible. Without her, control is impossible.
And a Rosetti without control is everyone's nightmare.
22 - Faith
Three days since I fled Neumann’s compound. Three nights without real sleep. My body aches in places that have nothing to do with exhaustion. Phantom touches burn along my spine, fingerprints on my hips that refuse to fade even though the bruises are gone.
I press my fingers to my lips in the early hours of Thursday morning, searching for his scent like an addict needing a fix, but there's nothing there except the memory of gunpowder and blood mixed with that dark cologne that made me think sexy thoughts even as those bodies cooled around us.
I throw my phone across the room with enough force to dent the wall, disgusted with my body's betrayal. It lands near the blurry photograph of myself that I can't bring myself to destroy. Evidence of my weakness scattered across my apartment like breadcrumbs leading back to him.
Thirteen bodies. Nine who looked at me wrong. Four who stood between me and justice.
I count them like rosary beads, each face a prayer I'll never admit to. Thanking him for removing threats even as I hate him for proving I needed his protection. The security guard by the stairs with his throat cut so precisely. Johnson with his name tag, shot twice. All those men who could have testified about Neumann's off-the-books meetings, who processed the pharmaceutical shipments that never appeared on manifests, who knew about the clinical trials that went wrong.
The compound guards who could have testified – gone. Four testimonies that will never reach a courtroom.
The realization makes me sick. Not because of the death, but because that's what I think of first. Not four families destroyed. Not four men who probably had children, mortgages, normal lives when they weren't protecting an asshole. Just four pieces of evidence vanishing into whatever hell Luca created for them.
My legs carry me to the kitchen where I fill the kettle, going through motions that feel rehearsed from another life. The girl who made tea at in the middle of the night because she couldn't sleep, haunted by her mother's murder. Now I can't sleep because I'm calculating how many witnesses I have left, how many Luca might eliminate before I can use them. And because my skin still burns where he touched me, phantom fingerprints that won't fade no matter how hard I scrub.
The water boils. I pour it over chamomile that's supposed to calm nerves, but my hands shake so badly the cup rattles against the saucer. I leave it on the counter, the tea already growing cold, untouched like everything else in my life now. Cold tea, cold apartment, cold bed. Everything cold without his burning presence.
The apartment feels wrong. Too quiet. Too still. For weeks I've felt his presence even when I couldn't see him. That sense of being watched, protected, possessed. Now there's just hollow absence. No eyes tracking me through hidden cameras. No guardian in the shadows ensuring my safety. No warm body to press against when the nightmares get too real.
I should feel free. I sent him away. Told him to leave me alone. This emptiness is what I chose.
So why does it feel like I've cut off my own arm?
When exhaustion finally pulls me under around 4 a.m., the nightmares come immediately. But tonight they're different. Not just my mother's purple face, her hands clawing at Neumann'sgrip. Now the compound overlays everything. Bodies scattered like my mother's books fell that night, blood pooling like spilled ink from her overturned table.
