OBSESSION

New York, 2:12 a.m. – Private Suite, The Beekman Hotel

Alessandro stared out at the city from the floor-to-ceiling window. Lights danced across his bare skin. The rest of his suit lay tossed carelessly over the armchair, his shirt hanging open across his chest.

A glass of whiskey in his hand, he didn’t drink.

He was thinking of her.

The doctor.

Hope.

He knew her name now. He’d demanded her file within the hour.

Hope Jones. Twenty-six. Born in Boston. Orphan. Valedictorian. Three specialties. No criminal record. No ties to organized crime. A perfectly clean ghost.

And yet… he knew.

He had seen, in those glacial blue eyes, something no report could explain.

Not just intelligence. Not just control.

Resistance. A damn spark.

She hadn’t looked at him like the others.

She hadn’t begged, feared, or flirted. She had defied him.

And that… was intolerable.

And intoxicating.

He set the glass down untouched and sat, hands clasped in front of him, elbows on his knees, his gaze dark.

— You make me curious, piccola…

That was not a good thing.

He didn’t like being curious. He liked to control, to plan, to possess. He never let chaos get close.

But she’d already planted a foot in his head.

And in his blood.

He rose, picked up his phone, and called.

— Follow her. Day and night. If anyone gets too close, you tell me. If she notices you… you’re fired.

He hung up.

Then he lit a cigarette—something he only did when control started to slip.

She obsessed him.

Not just for her beauty—though that was undeniable.

But for the tension she had created without meaning to.

She had woken something in him.

Something he thought he’d buried.

Something dangerous.

He drew in a slow drag. Closed his eyes.

And smiled, coldly.

— You’re going to see me again, doctor. You have no idea how much.