chapter 1
Chapter One: Obsession Wears a Suit
The first gunshot cracked through the night at exactly 11:47 p.m.
Hazel Ashcroft didn’t scream.
Screaming wasted air, and air was precious when danger announced itself without warning.
Her coffee mug shattered against the floor as she pushed back from her desk, heart steady even as adrenaline flooded her veins. The glass wall of her office reflected the city lights—cold, distant, indifferent. Somewhere below, car horns blared. Life went on. Someone else might be dying.
Another gunshot followed, closer this time.
Targeted.
Hazel’s fingers slid into the drawer beneath her desk with practiced ease. She ignored the framed certificates, the neat files, the illusion of safety her office represented. Criminal psychologists were meant to study violence, not carry it.
But rules had stopped protecting her a long time ago.
She wrapped her hand around the Glock, its familiar weight grounding her. Six years of working with predators had taught her one thing: monsters didn’t announce themselves. They watched. They waited. And when they struck, hesitation got you killed.
Her phone vibrated.
Once.
She glanced at the screen.
UNKNOWN CALLER
Hazel exhaled slowly before answering. “Yes?”
“Stay where you are.”
The voice was low, calm, threaded with an Italian accent that sent a chill down her spine. Not rushed. Not afraid.
Controlled.
“You have thirty seconds,” the man continued. “After that, this building becomes unsafe.”
Hazel closed her eyes.
She would know that voice anywhere.
“Federico,” she said softly. “If this is your idea of humor, it’s unimpressive.”
A quiet chuckle echoed through the line, intimate and unsettling. “Still fearless. That’s what I like about you, dottoressa.”
Her jaw tightened. “You don’t get to like things about me.”
“I disagree.”
Hazel moved toward the window, scanning the street below. A black car idled at the curb, engine running, lights off. Too clean. Too deliberate.
“Why are there bullets in my building?” she asked.
“Because someone else decided you were inconvenient.”
Her grip tightened on the gun. “And you decided to save me?”
A pause stretched between them, thick with unspoken truths.
“When I decide to kill you,” Federico said quietly, “it won’t be rushed. And it won’t be messy.”
Her pulse betrayed her, skipping once.
“You flew across continents to say that?” she asked.
“No.” His voice lowered. “I flew because you matter.”
The words were dangerous.
Hazel stepped into the hallway, heels silent against the marble floor. Her reflection followed her in the dark glass—blonde hair pulled back, eyes sharp, expression composed. She looked like a woman in control.
She wasn’t.
“You’re not supposed to interfere,” she said. “You were a subject. A case.”
“I stopped being a case the moment you started dreaming about me.”
Her breath caught despite herself. “You don’t know what I dream about.”
“I know enough.”
The stairwell door slammed open at the far end of the corridor.
Hazel spun, gun raised.
And froze.
Federico Moretti stood there as if he belonged in the shadows—tailored black suit, white shirt open at the collar, knuckles bruised and stained with fresh blood. His presence filled the hallway, commanding and unapologetic.
Danger dressed in elegance.
“You’re supposed to be in Milan,” she whispered.
He walked toward her, unhurried, eyes never leaving her face. “Plans changed.”
“Because of me?”
“Yes.”
He stopped an arm’s length away. Too close. Heat radiated from him, unfamiliar and unsettling. Hazel forced herself not to step back.
“You crossed a line,” she said.
Federico tilted his head, studying her the way one studies something precious and breakable. “You crossed it first when you tried to understand me.”
Her throat tightened. “I was doing my job.”
“And now,” he murmured, “you’re surviving it.”
Sirens wailed faintly in the distance.
Hazel realized, with terrifying clarity, that the most dangerous man she had ever studied wasn’t here to hurt her.
He was here because he couldn’t stay away.
And obsession, she was learning, wore a very expensive suit.
