Raye Whitlock had met countless men in the past, but none like Emilio Mancini.
The first time she sat in his presence, it felt like he could see through her soul. His grey eyes reminded her of a wolf, watching its prey. Only a professional such as herself could keep maximum composure under his gaze.
She felt the hairs on her neck stand when he first spoke, his voice like chocolate melting, deep and rich.
"Tell me, Sofia." He had refused to address her by her last name even though she had corrected him, stating she preferred that he called her, "Dr. Moretti".
"If you are to be my therapist and I'm to get comfortable, which I do, don't you think I should be on a first-name basis with you? Call me Emilio." He had responded.
She had hesitated, shocked even, but no words escaped her mouth. His scent filled the room, a heady mix of cedarwood and tobacco, one so strong, it made her dizzy.
"Come on, say my name." His voice dropped an octave as his eyes locked onto hers, unblinking.
"E-Emilio," she had awkwardly said and watched as his lips curled in a sensual smirk.
She had wondered what was going through his head at that exact moment.
"This assignment is unlike anything you've handled before. Emilio Mancini isn't just any criminal. He's the head of the Mancini Syndicate."
Director Charles Monroe, her superior, sat across from her. On the desk in front of her was a photograph and a file. She picked up the photograph and examined it.
"Drugs, weapons, human trafficking. You name it, he has his hands in it," he continued.
She said nothing as she examined the photograph. It was taken at an excellent angle, he looked serious, unsmiling, with an almost serene look on his face. Tall and broad-shouldered. Sharp cheekbones. Strong jawline.
He was very handsome. She had thought to herself.
She didn't know if she wanted to undertake this task. She had just recently returned from a mission in Bali. "Why me? I don't think I want to go on another mission just yet."
"You're one of our best operatives, Miss Whitlock, it's only someone of your expertise who fits the job. Use that brain of yours to get close but remember, he's not your patient...he's your mission." Charles adjusted his glasses and folded his arms. A gesture that meant everything had already been decided and she couldn't turn down the task. As usual.
She nodded firmly "Understood."
She probably should have forcibly turned down the job, but somehow, she was drawn to this man's image. She wanted to know more about this man.
"Mancini doesn't trust anyone from outside his circle, but his advisors insisted he needs therapy. PTSD, insomnia, and paranoia, they say. We'll plant you as his therapist. Which is very ironic because the only healing that man will get is in hell."
He laughed loudly, the sound grating on her already sensitive nerves.
She didn't find anything amusing in what he said, noticing she wasn't laughing along, he stopped and cleared his throat.
"Your job is to gain his trust, extract intel on his operations, and find a way to expose his network. Every conversation, every detail, report it back to us. Mancini's very careful, but, as always, even the strongest of dams will always let their guard down." He continued, his blue eyes serious.
He leaned forward, his voice dropping dramatically. "But make no mistake, Mancini is as dangerous as they come."
Director Charles was right. Mancini was definitely dangerous.
She looked at him now, through her glasses as he sat across her, cross-legged, staring at her with a self-possessed look.
He often stared in a calculating way, like she was some kind of puzzle he was piecing together. In a way that made it feel like he could see through her act. That terrified her more than anything.
But that wasn't what had kept her awake at night.
Sessions after sessions with him had made her vaguely aware of him.
Soon, he began visiting her in her dreams. Large hands would caress her softly, and she would moan with pleasure as he made love to her. She would often wake up drenched in sweat, breathing heavily as the dream came back to her.
Her only consolation was the rose toy she kept hidden in her bedside table. She would call his name endlessly, imagining the toy was his mouth, hot against her clit.
When she climaxed and returned to reality, she would withdraw into herself, thinking about him.
She knew, deep within her heart, that if she took a wrong step, if he found out her true identity, he would cut her down and destroy her.