Chapter Eight
Vito
She stares at me in disbelief. Like I’ve said something in a language she almost understands but not quite.
At least she’s listening.
Not calmly.
Not remotely.
But the panic that flashed through her a minute ago has found a direction now. Teresa Donato is furious, incredulous, frightened, and trying very hard not to let any one of those things take over completely.
I can see all of it happening in real time.
The tension in her shoulders. The way she’s holding that candle too tightly, like she knows it’s a stupid weapon but doesn’t want to let go of it regardless.
The quick rise and fall of her chest. The anger sharpening her eyes even while fear sits underneath it.
Most people would be getting much louder and more erratic by now.
She isn’t.
That matters.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Her voice breaks on the first part and hardens on the second.
She hates that it broke. I can tell she hates it.
Teresa strikes me as the kind of woman who likes precision in herself as much as she likes it in everyone else.
I rest one hand on the counter and look at her across the kitchen island.
“It means I brought you here because of your expertise,” I say. “And because I think you’re the only person who might be able to help me.”
That only makes her look more incredulous.
For a second, she just stares at me, like her mind is trying to reject the idea on principle.
Then she lets out one disbelieving laugh. It isn’t amused in the slightest.
“You kidnapped me,” she says. “And drugged me.”
I don’t answer that.
Not because I disagree. Because there’s no point pretending otherwise.
Her mouth tightens when I say nothing. “And your pitch is that you need professional help?”
“It’s not a pitch.”
“No?” Her eyes flash. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds exactly like one.”
I lean back against the counter and fold my arms loosely.
The lasagna is warming in the oven. The salad sits untouched between us. The whole scene is strange enough that I can feel the absurdity of it even while standing inside it.
Teresa in that black dress with the broken strap. Barefoot. A pillar candle in her hand like she’s seconds away from swinging it at me to very little effect.
“It’s the truth,” I say.
She blinks once.
“No,” she says. “The truth is that therapy does not work this way.”
There it is.
Not victim first.
Doctor.
Even terrified, she’s working.
I watch it happen as plainly as if I’m watching her through glass.
She shifts without fully softening, her fear reorganizing itself into assessment.
Testing.
Observation.
She’s listening to the words I choose. Measuring tone.
Looking for distortion, instability, escalation points, weak spots. Trying to understand what kind of danger I am, not in theory, but specifically.
Personally.
I’m impressed by that.
More than impressed, if I’m being honest.
Drawn to it.
Most people, when frightened enough, stop being themselves. Teresa gets more sharply herself.
More precise. More exact. It suits her.
“Therapy does not work under coercion,” she says. “Kidnapping a psychologist is not the sign of a man seeking help. It is the sign of a man proving exactly why he needs it.”
My mouth almost curves at that.
She catches the near-reaction and looks even more offended by it.
“You think that’s funny?”
“No.”
“It looks like you do.”
“I’m impressed.”
That throws her for half a beat.
Then she narrows her eyes. “You’re impressed? That I think you’re a deranged lunatic?”
That one I do smile at.
Instead, I say, “You don’t think I’m a deranged lunatic. If you did, you wouldn’t be standing here trying to diagnose me. You’re frightened, furious, and still trying to get a handle on the situation using your expertise. That’s impressive.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I am not diagnosing anything.”
“You’ve already started.”
“No,” she says, sharper enough that I know she knows she’s lying.
“I am trying to determine whether I’m dealing with a man having some kind of psychotic break from reality or a man who knows exactly what he’s doing and simply doesn’t care.”
I hold her gaze.
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
She goes still at that.
Good. Better that way. No confusion where that’s concerned.
The oven hums softly behind me. Outside, the last of the light is draining off the sky beyond the garden.
The whole place seems too beautiful for this conversation.
But it’s the perfect place to do this. No one is using it, and I told my family I needed time away, so we have all the privacy we need.
Besides, being held on a tropical island is likely to put her more at ease than any conceivable alternative.
Teresa’s eyes come back to me. “If you want to see a doctor,” she says, each word clipped and deliberate, “you should call the office like everyone else and make an appointment.”
I look at her for a second without answering.
She mistakes that for hesitation.
“You know where my office is,” she says. “You clearly know more than enough about me already. So if this is really what you want, you could have called.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t walk into your office and see you officially.”
“And why not?”
There’s contempt in the question. Also genuine challenge.
She wants me to say something irrational. Wants a crack in the logic. Something she can push against and break open.
I give her the truth.
“Because the heir of Luca Conti can’t be seen in a psychologist’s office working on impulse control issues.”
That stops her for a second.
Not because she agrees. Because now I’ve named the thing more plainly.
She wasn’t expecting me to come right out and say it.
My family—what we do, who we are—is an open secret. I know Teresa knows, but to say it out loud, and so plainly, is obviously a shock.
But I’m not here to mince words. I’m here to fix a problem.
I keep going.
“It would be bad for our reputation,” I say. “It would be ammo for our enemies. And it would put you in danger as the person who held private information about me.”
She stares at me across the counter, candle still in one hand, the other wrapped across her middle now as if holding herself steady.
“You cannot possibly think this is a reasonable explanation.”
“I didn’t say reasonable.”
“You think kidnapping me to preserve your reputation makes more sense than scheduling a confidential medical appointment?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes fast enough to anger her all over again.
She lets out another short, breathless laugh that sounds closer to disbelief than humor. “That is insane.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe.”
I say nothing.
That seems to bother her more than an argument would.
She starts pacing then. Not much. Only a few steps one way, then back. The candle drops slightly to her side, then lifts again when she notices herself letting it.
I watch the movement.
The agitation.
The discipline layered over it.
She turns back to me. “Let’s assume for one completely delusional second that I accept what you’re saying. That this is about your so-called impulse control issues and not—” She cuts herself off hard. “Whatever else this might be.”
Her eyes flick down and back up again. The broken strap. My gaze earlier. The obvious question moving through her.
Is she here for… something else?
I keep my expression flat.
She sees that too.
Good.
“If you wanted treatment,” she says, “real treatment, it would still not work like this.”
“You said that already.”
“Then hear it again.”
Her voice rises slightly, not into hysteria, but force. Conviction.
“This is not how therapy works. This is not how any kind of psychiatric or psychological treatment works. You do not abduct someone and then expect them to help you regulate your behavior. You do not isolate them and dictate the circumstances and call that treatment.”
“I do not live the type of life that allows me to go through the regular course of treatment,” I say. “I need a different treatment plan, and you’re the one who can provide it.”
Her lips part slightly, then flatten. She does not like that answer.
She sets the candle down then, after all, but not because she’s calmer.
Because she wants her hands free. She places the candle on the counter with more care than the moment deserves, as if refusing to let me see her give up anything impulsively.
Then she straightens and plants both palms on the stone.
The doctor is fully in the room now.
“Tell me what you mean by impulse control issues.”
There’s the assessment.
Direct. Focused. No wasted softness.
I let the silence stretch a beat before answering. I want to see whether she fills it. She doesn’t. She holds the line and waits me out.
Interesting.
“I’ve been told,” I say, “that I need to get them under control.”
“By whom?”
“That’s not important.”
“It is if you expect me to believe any of this.”
“I don’t need you to believe it. I need you to hear it.”
Her nostrils flare slightly.
I continue anyway.
“If I don’t get it under control, I won’t be able to take over for my father.”
This time, the incredulity that crosses her face is almost pure.
It strips everything else for a second and leaves behind honest disbelief.
She actually looks at me like I may be the dumbest man she has ever met.
“That,” she says slowly, “is your explanation?”
“It’s part of it.”
“You kidnapped me because somebody told you that you have impulse control issues and if you don’t work on them, you won’t be able to inherit your family business? Your family’s criminal enterprise?”
Her mouth opens, then closes again. She takes one breath. Then another.
The restraint is visible.
“You realize,” she says, very carefully, “that you are currently demonstrating the exact issue you claim to want help with.”
“Yes.”
The answer comes without hesitation.
Again, that seems to throw her.
Maybe because she expected denial. Maybe because she expected me to be more interested in defending myself than observing myself.
I’m not.
Not where this is concerned.
“That doesn’t bother you?” she asks.
“It bothers me enough that you’re here.”
For the first time since she came back into the house, that genuinely silences her.
Only for a moment.
Then she recovers.
“No,” she says. “No, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t frame this as self-awareness. This is not admirable. This is not some twisted proof that you’re serious. You are not demonstrating insight by committing a violent crime and then calmly narrating why you did it.”
There’s heat in her face now. In her eyes. In the set of her shoulders.
And beneath it, the fear still lives.
I can see her working to stay above it.
I say, “I know it isn’t admirable.”
“Then why are you talking like this is practical?”
“Because it is.”
She actually recoils a fraction at that, more emotionally than physically.
Then she laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Oh God, you need help. Serious, serious help.”
“Yes. That’s why I need you.”
She blows out a breath. “Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
My lips twitch, but I hold them firm.
Her green eyes lock on mine.
“You don’t know what you need.”
I hold her gaze. “I know exactly what I need.”
Silence again.
It stretches.
She breaks it first. “Even if,” she says, the words clipped tight, “even if I entertained this fantasy for a second, what exactly do you think happens here? I talk to you for an hour, and suddenly you’re cured? You go back home more emotionally adjusted and no longer dangerous?”
I don’t answer.
She takes that as permission to keep going.
“This kind of work takes time. Real time. Months. Years, sometimes. Trust. Voluntary participation. Repetition. Context. Clinical structure. There is no version of this where I wave a wand over your impulse control and turn you into a different man.”
“Not one hour,” I say. “You have three months.”