Evening, Vasudeva Mahayana's first patient

THE MIRACLE WORKER OF MONCALIERI

The old villa in Torino’s historic district had once been Antonio’s pride—a relic of his former life as a respected academic, all terracotta walls and wrought-iron balconies overlooking the Po. Now, it belonged to something far darker.

Stefano Bianchi stood in what had once been the master bedroom, now transformed into a lavish therapy chamber. The walls were draped in deep indigo silk, embroidered with golden Sufi motifs that shimmered under the soft glow of Moroccan lanterns. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and oud, a hypnotic blend designed to lower defenses, to soften the mind.

In the center of the room, a low divan upholstered in crimson velvet waited, its surface worn smooth by the bodies of countless patients.

Clients, Stefano corrected himself with a smirk.

Because this was no ordinary clinic.

This was a temple of surrender.

And he was its high priest.

The Transformation

Stefano’s fingers trailed over the platinum blonde hair covering his forehead , its strands like spun moonlight. His reflection in the gilded mirror was already shifting—his sharp, Mediterranean features softening, his violet eyes bleeding into a startling crimson, his skin paling to an almost translucent alabaster. The incubus magic beneath his skin rippled, reshaping bone and muscle until the man staring back at him was no longer Stefano Bianchi, but Vasudeva Mahayana—the ethereal, otherworldly healer who had taken Torino by storm.

He slipped into the flowing white robes of an Iranian dervish, the fabric whispering against his skin, the sleeves wide enough to hide the subtle movements of his fingers as he worked. A single golden earring glinted in his ear, catching the light as he tilted his head.

Perfect.

Frail.

Harmless.

The kind of man women confessed their darkest desires to without thinking twice.

The kind of man who could unravel a soul with a smile.

The First Patient of the Day

A knock at the door.

"Come in," Vasudeva called, his voice a melodic murmur, tinged with an accent that could have been Persian, could have been Turkish—something exotic, something unplaceable.

The door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside.

Dr. Sofia Ricci was a psychologist herself—mid-thirties, sharp-eyed, with a no-nonsense bob of chestnut hair and a crisp pantsuit that screamed professionalism. She had come as a skeptic, a colleague "curious" about his methods.

But Vasudeva had seen the way her fingers trembled when she handed over her coat.

The way her pulse jumped when their hands brushed.

Oh yes, he thought, his lips curving into a beatific smile. This one will break beautifully.

"Please," he said, gesturing to the divan. "Make yourself comfortable."

Sofia hesitated, her dark eyes scanning the room, lingering on the incense curling toward the ceiling, the mandala tapestries, the absence of a traditional therapist’s chair.

"This is… unconventional," she said carefully.

Vasudeva chuckled, a sound like wind chimes. "And yet, you are here."

A flush crept up her neck.

She sat.

The Session Begins

For the first twenty minutes, he played the perfect professional—asking about her practice, her frustrations, the emptiness she couldn’t seem to shake no matter how many degrees she earned.

And then, when her guard was lowered, he pounced.

"You carry tension in your shoulders," he murmured, his fingers hovering just above her collarbone. "May I?"

Sofia nodded, her breath hitching as his touch finally made contact.

His hands were cold.

Deliberately so.

A shiver raced down her spine as his fingertips traced the slope of her neck, his touch feather-light, hypnotic.

"Your work consumes you," he whispered, his voice weaving through her thoughts like smoke. "But it does not fulfill you, does it?"

Sofia swallowed. "N-no. It doesn’t."

His fingers drifted higher, brushing the shell of her ear. "What does fulfill you, Sofia?"

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

Her pupils were already dilating, her lips parting on a shaky exhale.

Vasudeva smiled.

Got you.

The Hypnosis

"Look at the lantern," he murmured, his voice dropping into a rhythmic cadence. "Watch the light flicker… watch it dance…"

Sofia’s gaze locked onto the flame, her body swaying ever so slightly.

"Every breath in… slows your thoughts…" His fingers trailed down her arm, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Every breath out… softens your resistance…"

Her eyelids fluttered.

"You are so very tired, Sofia," he crooned. "So very… heavy…"

A gasp escaped her as her body sank into the divan, her limbs boneless, her mind adrift.

Vasudeva leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear.

"Tell me," he whispered, "what do you really want?"

Sofia’s breath hitched.

And then—

"I want to stop thinking," she choked out, the confession raw, aching. "I want someone to—to take control."

Vasudeva’s smile turned predatory.

"Oh, my dear," he purred. "That can be arranged."