Alessandro Giordano:
"Control," she said, crossing her legs to mirror my posture. "Let's talk about that, shall we?"
I held her gaze, reading past the facade. Fear and a feigned sense of courage swirled behind her eyes. She thought she knew who she was, what she stood for. But there was nothing in her expression that hinted at the guilt and self-blame she would eventually drown in—because of me.
I'd break her, just to make her understand my world.
"I assure you, Doc, I have no control over how I dismember my victims," I said flatly.
She snickered. Amused. Unprofessional. Shouldn't shrinks be better at masking their reactions? But this one—this one had too much to say.
"Today, we'll identify what triggers you," she continued, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Impulse? Motive? Self-acceptance?"
I exhaled, a slow, deliberate sigh. Bored. "Let's make it more interesting. Question for question. That way, I won't fall asleep listening to your pile of crap."
A reaction—I baited her, and she bit.
She shifted in her chair, eyes locked on me, as if I'd vanish if she blinked. "Why should I agree to your terms? That's not part of my job description."
I smirked. "Well… submitting a patient report after each session is, and right now, you're not exactly gathering anything useful."
She bit her lower lip, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Hesitating. Weighing my offer. "Let's say I do agree. What assurance do I have that you won't manipulate your answers?"
I leaned in, elbows hitting the table. She flinched. "You'll just have to trust the process." I grinned.
Silence settled between us. Only the ticking clock and her shaky breaths filled the room. It was hot for her—she slipped off her blazer, pacing, gripping a sharp pencil like a weapon.
"Fine. Deal. But you answer every question I ask," she warned, pointing the pencil at my face—like a threat, or maybe a desperate grasp for control. It reminded me of the other night. The failed attempt to cut my throat with a switchblade.
I chuckled at the memory. She misread my amusement.
"You're toying with me," she accused, disgust flashing across her face. "I should have known men like you are never to be trusted."
"Men like me?" I echoed, tilting my head. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Doc, but I never asked you to trust me. I told you to trust your process. Get your facts straight. And while we're at it—what do you mean by 'men like me'? I feel… wronged."
She faltered. Exactly as I expected.
"Mr. Alessandro, I—I… You shouldn't play games with me. I already agreed to your terms." Her hands lifted in frustration.
I smirked. "We haven't even started."
She wiped the sweat from her brow, then sighed, exasperated. "Mafia king. Holed up in a place like this. That kind of man."
Before I could respond, she cut in. "Let's begin. I have thirty minutes left, and we're getting nowhere. Time for my questions."
I shrugged, palms up. "Go ahead, Doc. Fire away."
She studied me, chewing on the butt of her pencil. "Tell me… what happens when you feel like you've lost control? Over a person, or a situation?"
I paused. Smirked. "We both know why you're here. You were sent to figure out why I dismembered my victim and left his carcass for the birds. Stop wasting our time."
"My turn," she reminded, undeterred.
I nodded. "Fine. Here goes nothing. I'm a decorated Russian mafia king. Of course, I'm expected to have what people like you call a 'psychotic mindset.'"
She tensed, her body language shifting—curiosity, masked as professional interest.
"I don't kill like a coward," I continued. "I take my time. Killing is an art, Doctor. Perfecting it is a God-given talent. And enjoying that talent? That's not for the weak."
I paused, just to watch her reaction. Rage.
"You think taking a life is an art? A talent from… God?" She practically spat the words.
"I don't think so, Doctor. I believe it."
I leaned forward, voice steady, unwavering. "Killing without remorse is one thing. But control—precision—caution filled with pain and anguish, making them beg like I'm a god holding their fate in my hands? Watching their eyes flood with despair, pleading for mercy… yet knowing none will come?"
Her face turned pink with barely restrained anger.
"So, Doctor, I don't lose control over a person or a situation. Shredding Jacob for the birds? That was what I call a well-calculated display of control."
I laughed—loud, manic. Then, just as quickly, I stopped. Studied her.
Her breath hitched. Her grip on the pencil tightened.
Someone in this room needs a therapist.
"My turn..." I screamed out, drumming on the table.
Something about seeing the fear in her eyes makes me want to make her even more terrified of me. I want her to cower in fear at my mere presence, scar her forever with my twisted ideas.
"Are you ready, Doc; for the question of the century?" I threw in the rhetorical question.
"What is the colour of your underwear?" I said, smiling like a twisted pervert.
"Perverted nerves you've got there huh?" She said in disbelief, her eyes widened like a saucer. She shakes her head, trying to shake off the embarrassing question.
"A deal is a deal." I sang out.
"We made no deal about my private life, not especially my privacy." She strikes back, reminding me of a cat clawing at a giant tree.
Heh.....
"No specifics were mentioned, besides The whole control topic is private affairs. Yet,I gave you a detailed explanation." I began to corner her. Trying to find a vulnerable spot, everybody has it.
Trust me; shrinks have it the most.
"Well, it's okay to back away from the deal, I mean, that's exactly what WEAK people do." There must be something about that word tha
t upsets her; immediately she whispered.
"Navy blue..." She muttered, closing her eyes in shame.
Gotcha