Chapter Eleven
Teresa
This is absurd.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I can’t believe I’m about to have a session in a cabana on the beach of a private island.
The island that I’m being held captive on.
The thought keeps circling uselessly through my head as I walk beside Vito across the sand with a notebook tucked under my arm like this is normal.
Like I am walking toward an office.
Like this is a Tuesday appointment and not the second full day of whatever nightmare my life has become.
I’m the one who suggested we do this outside.
That is probably the most absurd part of all.
But after breakfast and the suffocating weirdness of sitting across from him in that immaculate kitchen last night while he talked about impulse control like this was some unusually aggressive self-referral, the idea of going back into one of the rooms in the house and attempting a first session there made my skin crawl.
The walls felt too close. The air too still. The whole place too much like his territory, even though technically all of this is his territory.
So I told him we should do it outside. That people often feel less confined outdoors, more open, more able to talk when there’s space around them and fewer walls pressing in.
That was true.
It was also strategic.
I wanted to see more of the island. I wanted fresh air. I wanted distance from the polished interior of the house and the sense that every conversation there would happen under his terms.
Vito listened, then directed me to the cabana because the sun is strong today.
He is right about that.
Even now, late enough in the morning that I should have adjusted to the heat, I feel it pressing down all around us in a way my body still hasn’t adjusted to.
It’s not just warm. It’s heavy. Bright. Saturated. The sort of heat that settles into denim and makes every step in jeans feel like a dumb act of stubbornness.
And yet I’m wearing jeans anyway.
One of the few options I have if I want to wear my own clothes.
Not a single pair of shorts, because of course not. My real life is not structured around tropical captivity.
My real wardrobe is not designed for islands.
The rest of the closet here—those dresses, wraps, sandals, light airy things all somehow in my size—would make infinitely more sense in this weather.
They are also not mine. They were chosen for me. Placed there for me.
And I will stick to my jeans.
Even though it is probably ninety degrees right now.
Petty, maybe. Pointless, definitely.
But the small refusals are the only ones I own outright at the moment, and I’m not ready to surrender them.
The cabana sits off to one side of the island, angled toward the water with enough privacy around it to feel secluded without being isolated.
Like everything else here, it’s expensive without being gaudy. Pale wood, gauzy curtains tied back at the posts, low tables, woven rugs, thick cushions in sandy creams and faded blues. It is very obviously meant for lounging, drinks, reading, afternoon naps.
Not for therapy sessions.
Nothing in it is built for a first session between a mafia heir and the psychologist he abducted.
Still, when we step inside the shade, I can’t deny the relief.
The sunlight out on the beach is relentless today, all glaring water and blinding white sand. Under the canopy, the air is still hot but bearable. A breeze moves through often enough to lift the edge of the curtains and cool the back of my neck.
Vito gestures toward one of the cushioned sofas.
I choose the far end of it.
He takes the seat opposite me, a lower lounge chair that puts him in a position too relaxed for my comfort.
Even sitting back, he looks like a man contained with effort rather than ease.
Big body. Hard mouth. Dark eyes that never seem to miss much.
I settle as professionally as I can under the circumstances, which is not very.
The furniture encourages sprawling, not clinical distance. I cross my legs, open the notebook, and rest it on one knee like that helps somehow.
This is absurd.
Again.
Completely.
And yet here I am.
I don’t want to admit to myself that I’m intrigued.
Especially after last night.
Especially after the way he sat in that kitchen and answered some questions while swerving others
Especially after the way he said I have three months, as if it meant more than he was willing to tell me.
Especially after the look in his eyes when I told him he didn’t seem very impulsive.
He went somewhere yesterday.
Not physically. But his mind did. I saw it. A pause. A shift. A flash of something not quite visible but deep enough to interrupt him from the inside.
There is something there. Something causing guilt. Something that happened that he thinks was caused by his impulsiveness.
I don’t know what it is yet.
But it exists.
I’m fascinated by where this has all come from because, thus far, he has shown me no signs of being overly impulsive.
If anything, he has been patient to a fault and planned every detail of this down to the very last one, even considering other possibilities and preparing for every contingency.
That is not the profile of a man ruled by immediate reaction. At least not on the surface.
And yet someone—more than one someone, I suspect—has told him that impulse is the problem.
I want to know why.
That curiosity is dangerous here.
Not because curiosity itself is dangerous, but because I know how easily it can slide into engagement.
Investment.
Professional hunger.
The thing in me that lights up around difficult cases, unusual patterns, contradictions that don’t fit neatly into the first explanation offered.
I don’t let myself linger on just how much I’m fascinated by him.
Instead, I open the notebook and look up.
He’s already watching me, looking a little bit like he’s braced for impact and trying not to show it.
It’s not uncommon in a first session.
Despite everything he’s done and said, this is a man who’s obviously never done this before.
My professional instincts kick in with methods to put him more at ease.
But I’m not sure that would help right now, so I jump right in.
I study him for a moment, deciding where to start.
This would usually happen differently. Intake forms. History. Background. Consent. Confidentiality. Discussion of limits, goals, scope. I have none of that here.
No office. No files. No legal frame. No safety in the normal sense.
So I start where all first sessions eventually begin anyway.
“Tell me why you think you need help.”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Not dodging. Thinking.
“I have impulse control issues,” he says finally. “If I don’t get them under control, I won’t be able to take over for my father.”
Hmm. Partial truth. There’s more to it than that.
“That is what you said last night. I’m asking what you think.”
His gaze stays on me. “I think they’re right.”
“They? They who?”
I can see he didn’t mean to say that because he shifts uncomfortably.
“No one.”
“Vito, do you think you have impulse control issues? Or do other people tell you you have impulse control issues?”
“I do.”
Already, I can feel the difference between the man he presents and the man underneath.
The presentation is polished. Direct. Almost unnervingly composed.
But every answer is filtered through an extra layer of scrutiny first.
He is choosing each word very carefully now, after his slip-up, which tells me at least two things: one, he takes this seriously enough not to bluff his way through it, but it’s possible these thoughts aren’t his own; and two, he is deeply accustomed to managing what other people know about him.
“Why do you say that?” I ask calmly.
“Because I act too fast,” he says.
“Define ‘too fast.’”
His jaw shifts once. “Before I’ve considered all the consequences.”
“Every time?”
“No.”
“When?”
“When it matters.”
So whatever it is that drove him to this is something that matters. He acted in a way that affected someone else, consequentially.
“Can you give me an example of a time?”
His jaw works. There’s a specific time that immediately came to mind. But he’s still not ready. He doesn’t answer.
I make a note.
His eyes flick down to the notebook, then back up. I can almost hear the question he doesn’t ask: what, exactly, am I writing?
“Who told you this was a problem?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “My family.”
“Anyone specific?”
He shrugs once. “More than one.”
“That’s not specific.”
“It’s accurate.”
I let that sit for a second, then change the angle. “Who do you believe most when it is said?”
Something in his face changes, very slightly.
Not emotion exactly. Recognition, maybe.
“My uncle,” he says.
“You have a lot of uncles. Can you be more specific?” Apparently, that’s the word of the day.
That gets a look, then: “Giovanni.”
I picture the tall man with dark hair, quiet and observant. He’s the one married to the chef Vito joked about in the grocery store.
I continue before he can retreat. “Why Giovanni?”
“He doesn’t exaggerate.”
“Not very common for Italians,” I say, lightening the mood up just a bit.
A faint exhale through his nose that might be laughter.
“No,” he says quietly.
“But that’s why you believe him the most,” I say.
Vito just nods.
I jot down another note.
The breeze moves through the cabana again, stirring the curtains and lifting a strand of my hair across my cheek.
The ocean beyond us flashes hard in the sunlight. Somewhere farther down the beach, a seabird cries once and goes quiet.
I look back at him. “Tell me about the first time someone said this to you in a way that stuck.”
His expression goes flat.
Not blank. Flat. Like a wall rising between us.
“That’s not the first thing we’re doing?”
“This is the first session. I’m asking where the narrative started.”
He says nothing.
I wait.
This part, at least, is familiar. The resistance. The internal calculation. The quiet contest of who will break the silence first.
Usually, it’s the patient.
This time it is too.
“I was younger,” he says.
“How much younger?”
“A kid.”