Page 83 of Psychotic Faith
"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.
The poker game has dissolved. Marco stands at the head of the room, crystal tumbler catching light like a weapon. Everyone's focused on him with the attention reserved for a Don whose word is law.
"Before we continue," he says, voice carrying ceremony and threat equally. "I want to make something official."
Luca pulls me against his side, his arm possessive around my waist. Through his shirt, I feel the gun tucked against his ribs, the knife sheathed at his hip. He's ready for violence even here.
"Faith," Marco addresses me directly. "Three months ago, you walked into our world uninvited."
My spine straightens, but then I see it—the slight softening around his eyes. Not quite a smile, but close.
"And you stayed. Not because you had to. Because you chose to." He raises his glass. "You gave my brother something none of us could—a reason to be more than just a weapon. For that alone, you have my respect. Welcome to the family, Faith. Truly."
The simple words carry weight. Not threat—acceptance. Real acceptance.
"She also makes excellent tiramisu," Alex adds. "Which matters more than people think."
Marco's mouth quirks. "He's not wrong."
