Camila Rodrigo
The long, hot bath was exactly what I needed. Charlotte Norman and Federico? A pair of certified nut jobs. I lathered my hair with shampoo, tugging at the ends as my sister's words replayed in my mind.
"We all have our coping mechanisms. Gambling is mine. And yeah, I took money from the wrong people, but… let me own my mistakes."
Her "mistakes" weren't just hers, though. They were dragging Mom through hell and plunging our family into debt we didn't ask for. I never wanted to hurt her feelings, but she left me no choice. She had to go—and I don't feel the slightest bit guilty about how I handled it.
I needed a break. A break from that suffocating prison, from that plastic-faced Charlotte, and from all the chaos that came with our last name.
The water had started to go cold. I rinsed the soap from my hair, rushed through the rest of my bath, and looked forward to crashing into bed.
Wrapped in a towel, I stepped out of the bathroom… and froze.
Something felt off.
The lights were on.
I never leave the lights on before a bath. Ever.
My heartbeat thundered in my chest as I crept toward the switch. My mind raced with wild possibilities—Was someone here? A thief? A serial killer? Jenny? But I told her to leave. She shouldn't be here.
Hand trembling, I reached for the switch and flicked it on with a deep, steadying breath.
The room looked normal.
Too normal.
Then I heard the voice.
Low. Smooth. Infuriatingly familiar.
Alessandro fucking Giovanni.
"Hello, Doctor." He waved casually.
He made himself at home—on my bed. Black shirt, black pants. No orange jumper, no handcuffs. No cell.
Shit. I wasn't in the Assessment Room.
This was my apartment.
My room.
My bed.
My towel.
Oh God—I was still in a towel.
"W-w-why… are… you… here?" I managed to stammer. I was nervous. Scared. But I needed answers.
"Are we back to questions and answers, Doc? Right here, right now?" He grinned, calm as ever.
Wait. Hold on.
There's a psychotic murderer sitting on my bed in the middle of the night—and he thinks I'm here to interview him?
I must've pissed off the universe in a past life.
"Mr. Alessandro, I don't even know where to begin explaining how insanely wrong this is—"
"You could start by showing me those navy-blue pants you've been dying to show me, Kitten," he cut in with that infuriating smirk.
I need a chair. No, I need a way out.
Hell, I need this to be a dream.
Does he have any idea what would happen if the police found him here?
I'd be the one in cuffs—for harboring a fugitive!
"How did you get out of your cell?" I snapped, ignoring his inappropriate comment.
"I had somewhere to be." His smile deepened.
If this were any other night and he were any other man, I might thank the stars for landing a handsome stranger in my bedroom.
But this wasn't just a man.
This was Alessandro Giovanni.
Mafia royalty.
A fugitive.
Lord, have mercy.
"You had a place to go? And you magically ended up here—in my room of all places?" I snapped, heart racing. "How the hell do you even know where I live?"
I didn't wait for an answer. Realization hit fast and hard—this man had connections. Dangerous ones. My location was probably child's play for someone like him.
"Scratch that. Why are you really here? Don't tell me it's some twisted craving for another therapy session."
He stood, moving with that same calm arrogance, and walked to my window. He pulled the curtains back and peered out, scanning the streets like he was watching someone—or waiting for something. His focus shifted from one corner to the next, sharp, alert.
It wasn't just paranoia.
It was precision.
Then, without turning around, he spoke.
"Listen carefully. I'm not repeating this. Get dressed in all black. Leave your phone. Take nothing with you. I have something important to show you."
I stared.
And then I laughed—like full-blown maniacal laughter.
He turned, clearly not expecting that.
"Are you serious right now?" I said, still laughing, borderline hysterical. "No explanation. No details. Just orders—as if I'm your assistant? Or what—your personal hostage?"
I squared up, lifting my chin.
"No can do, Mr. Alessandro. But what I can do is ask you to get the hell out of my apartment. You've overstayed your welcome. Hell, if I ever welcomed you in to begin with."
At least I thought I was matching his energy.
His smirk returned, sharp and unbothered.
"You could come with me just like that. Not complaining. The view up front is… impressive."
I glanced down.
Oh no.
My towel. My cleavage.
Everything on display was like I was auditioning for a very different kind of role.
"OH GOD!"
I bolted past him to my wardrobe, yanked out the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, and got dressed in record time.
But when I stepped back into the room—he was gone.
Window? Empty.
Street? Clear.
No sign of him.
Then the door creaked open.
And there he was.
Holding a bag of chips.
Saint Lucia Sacred Heart!!!
Camelot be damned.
So what the hell is going on?
Should I wake up or keep sleeping?
Why is the bed not flat down, but inclined?
When do I strap my shoulder down to my waist, in bed?
"Anyone could've seen you, you absolute lunatic!" I burst out, voice shaking with fury. "Leave. Right now. And never come back. I don't want to be part of your damn escape plan, and I sure as hell don't have the strength to deal with a fugitive!"
I didn't pause. I couldn't. The words came pouring out, desperate, anguished.
"I'm not some character in one of your twisted shows—I'm your psychologist. Three months on a payroll. That's it. I'm not your walk-in girl. I'm not your anything!"
Silence hung for a beat… before the infuriating crunch of chips shattered it.
He'd actually opened that damn bag.
He was chewing—chewing—while I was unraveling under the weight of everything he'd just dropped in my lap.
Angels, have mercy.
"Are you done?" he asked coolly, brushing a chip crumb off his lips. "We've got about ten minutes before we hit the road."
And just like that, he turned his back and returned to the window like this was all some casual midnight road trip.
I stormed over, feet slamming against the floor. I jabbed a finger into his back, once, twice—again—trying to snap him out of whatever arrogant fantasy he was living in.
Still chewing. Still watching the street.
Was he trying to annoy me, or was he really that hungry?
It made no sense. A man like Alessandro could summon a five-course French-Italian fusion meal with a single phone call. Yet here he was, downing average store-brand chips like they were gourmet.
He finally turned to face me. Smirking. Of course.
Then—he offered me one.
A chip.
I stared at it like it was poison.
"I'm not here for this," I said firmly. "I need you to understand something very clearly. I am not going anywhere with you. You need to crawl back to whatever dark hole you escaped from and disappear."
He raised a brow.
"I came here to tell you to wear all black. But instead, you chose to wear that—" his eyes deliberately dropped to my chest, "—as a reminder of those navy-blue pants I've still not seen. Subtle. I like it."
I wasn't giving him the satisfaction of reacting. Let him think what he wanted. That was his problem, not mine.
"Please. Just go," I said, exhaling. "We meet on Saturday for your actual session. Right now, I want my apartment to myself. I want peace. And quiet."
He nodded slowly, like he genuinely understood.
"Alright then," he said.
Then he stepped toward me.
One step.
I moved back, instantly wary.
Another step—and he closed the distance with a single stride, hands reaching out.
Before I could even scream, his arm slipped around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I gasped, the air thick and suddenly charged.
"Goodnight, Doctor," he whispered.
His voice rumbled low, deep, right from his chest—and damn it, it felt like a caress.
Before I could fire back, he moved fast.
A sharp press to the side of my neck—something I'd only ever seen in action movies.
A pressure point. One swift move from someone trained in disabling people without leaving a mark.
My body went limp.
And then—nothing.
I felt wind sweeping through my hair.
That wasn't right.
I remembered closing the window last night. I always did.
And the breeze up here? Never this strong. Something was off.
I turned, groggy and unwilling, trying to reach out and shut it again, desperate to go back to sleep.
I slid a foot over the edge of the bed… but I didn't feel the usual drop to the floor.
No gentle stretch of carpet beneath me. No floor at all.
My breath hitched.
Panic coiled in my chest.
And then I realized—my feet were in shoes.
I never sleep with shoes on.
"You can open your eyes now, Doctor."
The voice was familiar. Too familiar.
Cold and smooth like iced steel.
Please, God—let this still be a dream. Please.
"You can either keep pretending to sleep," he continued casually, "or we can get back to our little Q&A game."
My heart sank as I slowly opened my eyes.
The harsh interior lights of a moving car greeted me.
And so did reality.
I was in a car.
With a fugitive.
Shit.
"How the hell did we get here?" I croaked, rubbing the throbbing side of my neck. It all came rushing back—his hands, the pressure point, the lights going out.
"You can't just—kidnap me like that!" I snapped, sitting up as far as the seatbelt allowed.
"But I did," he replied, shrugging with maddening indifference.
"You—do you even realize what you've done?!" I sputtered, panic clawing up my throat. "I can't be seen with you! The police—everyone is looking for you!"
"I'm aware," he said coolly, eyes never leaving the road. "Yet, here you are. Safe. Breathing. With me."
My hands were shaking. "You took me against my will, Alessandro! I told you no. I meant it!"
He glanced over with a smirk. "And I heard you loud and clear. Still brought you anyway."
My chest tightened. I couldn't breathe. My lungs were shrinking with every thought crashing into me—my career, my license, my reputation, my mother.
Tears spilled over before I even realized they were there.
If this got out—if my name was linked to him—I'd lose everything.
Jennifer was right. Alessandro Giovanni was dangerous. Irredeemably dangerous. And I had to get out of this, no matter what it took.
"Take a deep breath," he said, almost gently. "Nobody's looking for you. And I promise—I'll go back underground after tonight. I just have something to deal with first."
"You keep saying that," I whispered, voice trembling. "But I don't know what the hell you do, Alessandro. I don't want to know. I don't want any part of it. This—this isn't some twisted continuation of our therapy session!"
He tilted his head, that same maddening glint dancing in his eyes.
"You're a key piece tonight," he said. "You wanted to understand why I kill the way I do. Why I choose my victims. I'm here to educate you. Think of it as… professional development."
He smirked again, like he was doing me a favor.
Like this was some gift.
I stared at him in horror.
He was unraveling—and taking me with him.
I stared at him—equal parts pity and fury simmering beneath my skin. A tightly coiled storm I barely held together. He actually believed he was helping me. As if abducting me, dragging me into God-knows-what, was some twisted favor. Like I asked for his help outside of our scheduled sessions.
"You can drop me off now," I said flatly, lacing my voice with venomous sarcasm. "Thanks for the humanitarian service, Mr. Savior Complex—but I'm good."
He gave a dry, amused smile, shaking his head like I'd just told the punchline of a dad joke.
"Not bad, Doc. I'll admit it. But believe me—you'll be thanking me for this one day."
He paused, eyebrows raised.
"Mr. Humanitarian, though? You think I'm Bruce Wayne or something?"
I turned to the window, offering him the silence he deserved. There was no reasoning with a man like Alessandro. Once his mind latched onto something, logic had no say. He was a one-man train wreck—unstoppable, chaotic, and dragging everything in his path down with him.
I only wished I wasn't strapped to the front seat.
I wished I was back in my bed, warm beneath my sheets, waking up to the sun and not this nightmare.
"We're here, Doctor," he said with a wicked grin, turning off the engine. "Time to let go of those little fears of yours."
The car went silent.
I prayed he'd just leave me here, forget I existed—but no, of course not. He came around, opened my door like a gentleman at prom.
I didn't move. Not even a blink.
He didn't hesitate. Unclipping my seatbelt, he pulled me out with one hand like I was made of feathers.
I barely caught my footing before he shut the door and nudged me forward.
"Welcome to my side of the jungle," he said, voice low and smug. "Welcome to my world, Doctor Navy Blue Pants."
He smirked like the devil himself.
God, if you're up there—just smite me now. Let me die with some dignity.