Page 89 of Psychotic Faith

“Yes,” I say in the tone that I know will stop that line of questioning. “It is.”

I look at the photo again. Six weeks to plan. Six weeks until I walk into that church and take what should have been mine two years ago, when she stood in my office in that red dress, arguing passionately about territory rights while I imagined bending her over my desk.

I let her walk out then. Let her think she'd won.

But I am patient. I've been patient for ten years building this empire. I can be patient for six more weeks.

"Will you help?" I ask Luca.

"Always." His loyalty absolute. "What do you need?"

"Everything. Building plans, security details, her schedule for the next six weeks. And…" I pause. "A judge who'll perform a marriage with questionable consent. Father Molina won't do it."

"I know someone," Luca says, because of course he does. His network of morally flexible church contacts has expanded since Faith. "When do you want to tell the others?"

"After it's done. Less chance of leaks."

Luca heads for the door, then pauses. "She really might kill you, you know. The Bernardi princess. Her father trained her like a son."

I smile, sharp as a blade. "She's welcome to try."

After Luca leaves, I stand at my window, watching the city lights. Somewhere out there, Valentina Bernardi is probably planning her wedding, choosing flowers, tasting cakes. Playing the blushing bride for a man she doesn't love, for an alliance that will strengthen her family.

In six weeks, she'll be in white lace, walking down an aisle.

She just won't make it to the altar. Not the Irish one, anyway.

My phone buzzes with another photo—Valentina leaving the dress shop, laughing at something her cousin said. Young, beautiful, completely unaware that her fate has just been decided in my office high above Chicago.

"Six weeks, principessa," I murmur to her image. "Enjoy your freedom while it lasts."

I've made my decision.

Now it's just a matter of execution.