The drive to Tuscany was… endless. Olive trees, vineyards, cypress, repeat. Papa narrated the whole thing like he was the tour guide who built the road. “Reputation. Safety. Practical experience.” Every phrase was a pat on my head and a knot in my stomach.
“Tesoro, you’re quiet,” he said, glancing over. “Nervous?”
“A little.” (Understatement; my insides were a marching band.)
“It’s natural. You’ll do wonderfully. My friend says the program is excellent. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”
His friend. My doom initials. L.F. Maybe not him. Maybe I’m dramatic (I am). My stomach did a backflip anyway.
We turned through cypress and—ta-da—clinic villa: white walls, clipped hedges, the kind of gravel that sounds expensive when you park on it. Papa spread his arms like he’d personally renovated it.
“You’ll be happy here. I can feel it.”
I could feel my hands shake.
A woman in her fifties appeared in a crisp coat, smile kind enough to lower my heart rate by two beats. “Signorina Moretti? Benvenuta. I’m Dottoressa Carla Benedetti.” Sweet; organized; the human version of fresh linens. She whisked me past high ceilings and marble floors that said “luxury hotel,” not “clinic.”
“Residence wing is separate,” she said. “Privacy off-hours.”
Room: big bed, desk by the window, private bath. Student housing who? I put my suitcase down like it might explode. Why is this so nice? Why is anything this nice?
I unpacked at glacial speed, arranged my books, checked my phone (no Matteo; ouch), told myself L.F. could stand for Literally-Fine. One hour later: knock.
“The director is ready for your orientation,” a staffer said. “Your father is waiting too.”
Relief. Papa-buffer. I followed through corridors, up, over, down. Brass nameplate: Director. Please be anyone.
I stepped in.
Papa stood near the window, smiling. And behind the desk—
Ferraro. He looked up, rose, expression perfectly neutral.
“Isabella, tesoro,” Papa beamed, taking my elbow. “This is Dr. Luca Ferraro. A good friend—he helped me after your mother…” His voice went soft. “I don’t know what I would have done.”
Ferraro came around the desk and offered his hand. “Signorina Moretti. A pleasure.” His gaze took me in once—quick, clinical, contained—then returned to polite. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he added, as if noting a chart detail rather than setting my heart on fire. “She was… unmistakably beautiful.”
Papa’s face warmed with pride. “È vero. She lives in her. Same eyes, same light.”
“Please, sit,” Ferraro said, businesslike again, gesturing to the chairs. He slid a folder across the desk. “Four weeks: observation blocks, documentation protocol, modality rounds, outcomes auditing. Standard for all residents. Professional conduct is expected.”
Papa squeezed my hand. “She’s serious, Luca.”
Ferraro nodded once. “I’m sure.”
Ferraro’s gaze skimmed my face once, like a scan, then away. “I trust professionalism won’t be an issue.” He said it to the folder, not my cheekbones.
“Of course not,” Papa answered for me.
Ferraro rose. “Dottoressa Benedetti will give you the tour. I’ll walk you down.” In the hall, two staffers stopped him—handshakes, murmured updates. He dispensed decisions in elegant sentences: “Adjust the CBT rotation; the control group isn’t matched,” “Switch the Tuesday intake; informed consent must precede any psychometric battery.” People nodded like metronomes.
At the residence door he paused—public corridor, three nurses within earshot—and said, bland and harmless, “You have your mother’s eyes.” Then, back to business: “Report to Observation Two at 08:00. Bring a notebook. No recordings.”
The compliment landed like a pebble in a lake: small sound, long rings. I didn’t know if I wanted to smile or hide.
Papa joined us for the tour, taking pictures of the courtyard like he was going to Yelp-review it. At goodbye he hugged me hard. “Work, rest, call me. Fiero di te.” And then I was alone with a schedule that looked like it could bench-press me.
The next days blurred into protocols and polite hallways.
Ferraro kept a cool orbit: courteous, useful, distant. He assigned duties like I was anyone—observer badge; sit in the corner; take notes; shadow the intake nurse; learn the template; never speak before spoken to; always ask before asking (yes, that is a thing).
In group he was Socratic and surgical. “Define construct validity.” “Differentiate state and trait anxiety.” “You cannot treat a measure as an outcome.” He spoke in clean lines that made people straighten. I watched everyone greeting him—“Dottore,” “Professore”—as if the honorifics were part of the air-conditioning.
He was… appropriate. Helpful, even. My shoulders began to come down from my ears. Maybe Rome had been a nightmare in a different timezone, and this was the real version of him: rules, distances, adults only.
The work was real. I learned to read microexpressions without making patients feel watched, to timestamp notes, to file without losing the order of the day in the order of the drawer. I was also very alone. Residents were older, busy, polite-nod people. No Luisa to drag me out for gelato and boundaries. Matteo still silent (three messages, zero return). Papa called nightly, and I lied nightly. “Everything’s fine,” I’d say, and swallow the rest.
A week in: knock after dinner.
“Director would like to see you,” said Dottoressa Benedetti. “To discuss your progress.”
The words made my ribs tighten like stays. “Now?”
“Now.”
We walked. Instead of the main office, we turned down a quieter wing—residential. She stopped at a door. “His private office,” she explained. “For confidential discussions.” Knock. She left.
“Entra, Isabella,” Ferraro called.
Every instinct screamed turn around, run, invent a plague. But professionalism is a trap I step into willingly. And he had been nothing but correct all week.
Just a progress meeting. Just talk. I opened the door.
Smaller room. Bookshelves, a tidy desk, two chairs, a sofa. Lamp light, not dim—pleasant. No wine in sight; just a carafe of water and two glasses lined up like soldiers.
He gestured to the chair opposite him, posture formal. On the desk: my observation notes, tabbed. “Sit,” he said, not unkind.
I sat, palms damp, pretending I wasn’t nineteen and vibrating. He folded his hands.
“Let’s discuss what you’re seeing,” he said. “And what you think you’re seeing.” He paused, weighing the next sentence like a scale. “And then we’ll speak about boundaries—yours, mine, and the institution’s—so that your month here remains exactly what it should be: educational.”
My heart banged once, hard—fear, relief, I don’t even know.
He poured water, slid the glass toward me without touching my fingers, and looked me in the eye the way a surgeon looks at a scan.
“Begin,” he said.