I had convinced myself I could handle him. That I could sit across from Federico De Luca and maintain the delicate walls of professionalism I had spent years perfecting. I could control this, I told myself. I am the observer. I am the mind-reader. I am not the prey.
But the moment he leaned back in his chair, that familiar tilt to his head, the faint curl of his lips, all my rehearsed control wavered.
He was watching me. Not just looking, truly watching—the way a hawk tracks its prey. Every micro-expression, every hesitation, every thought I tried to hide, he could see it. I knew this because I remembered him. I remembered how he had always read me better than I read myself. He didn't need words. He didn't need my confessions. He only needed to watch.
And he did.
I reminded myself of the facts, the behavioral markers, the subtle cues I had trained myself to see. He tapped his fingers in a rhythm—deliberate, patient. His eyes flickered toward the window, then back, measuring, calculating. Even as I forced my gaze steady, I could feel his assessment like a weight pressing against my skull.
Hazel, he seems… curious. Is that what you're calling it? I scolded myself silently. That is not curiosity. That is him, probing, testing, hunting for weakness.
"You look… different," he said softly, voice low, with the faintest trace of amusement, in Italian: Diversa.
I froze, my ears picking up every nuance, every undertone. Different?
I forced a neutral expression. "I'm not sure I follow, Federico."
His smile widened, just slightly, almost imperceptibly, and I felt my pulse spike. It was the same smile I had memorized—the one that had drawn me into obsession before. I fought the shiver that ran down my spine. You are Hazel Moretti. You are not the same girl. You are not going to fall again.
Yet every instinct in me screamed that he knew. That he always knows. That part of the danger—part of the thrill—was that he could see the walls I had built and could choose to tear them down at will.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, eyes narrowing. I saw the subtle cues I knew well: the slight flare of nostrils, the tension in the jaw, the way his gaze lingered just a fraction too long. He was calculating, anticipating my reaction. The pull of him was magnetic, and I had not touched him yet.
I gripped the edge of the table, fingernails digging into the wood, reminding myself that I was in control. Hazel, you are the observer. He is the patient.
"I remember," he said, almost too softly. Ricordo.
"Remember what?" I asked, keeping my voice steady, forcing my hands to stop shaking.
His smile returned, knowing, dangerous. "Everything. Every word. Every hesitation. Every time you tried to hide yourself from me. You thought you were… safe."
And there it was. That sharp jab, that truth I could not deny. He had seen me—the real me—the parts I tried to bury behind years of professionalism. He remembered. He had remembered.
I swallowed, tasting the bitter tang of fear laced with desire. This is a test, I told myself. Control yourself. He wants a reaction. He wants you to fall.
I met his gaze squarely. "I am not the same, Federico," I said, voice low but steady. "I am in control."
For a moment, his eyes softened—or perhaps it was only my mind deceiving me—but then the corner of his mouth lifted, and I saw it: the predator's satisfaction. The thrill of the hunt. I felt a flush rise to my cheeks, though I would not let it show.
"You think you are in control," he said. Pensi di avere il controllo.
I bristled. The words cut deeper than any threat. And yet, I could not deny the truth: part of me wanted to see if he was right. Part of me wanted to see if I could resist him.
Hazel, I reminded myself firmly, you are not the same girl who let him consume you. You are the scientist. The psychologist. The professional. He is the case, nothing more.
And still, sitting there, across from him, feeling the pull of his gaze, feeling the tension that coiled around my chest, I realized something terrifying: he wasn't just a patient this time. He was the test.
And the test was mine.