Chapter Text
~~~~~
I
The sun bathed Hannibal’s Florentine mansion in golden light, the warmth of its rays catching the coppery tones in his hair. In the sunlight, his amber eyes gleamed like aged whiskey held to a flame, the rich, darker hues shimmering with flecks of gold, reminiscent of a tiger’s eye stone. He savored a sip of espresso from the fine china cup in his hand—a brew crafted with the meticulous care he afforded all his culinary creations. The deep, rich flavor rolled over his tongue, and the coffee's aroma mingled with the crisp morning air.
On the table beside him lay the morning edition of La Nazione. Bold black letters screamed from the front page:
IL MOSTRO DI FIRENZE COLPISCE ANCORA
(The Monster of Florence Strikes Again)
Hannibal’s lips curled into a subtle, knowing smile. The accompanying image—a candid photo of Lorenzo Moretti, smiling and unassuming—stood in stark contrast to the gruesome manner of his death. Moretti’s body had been discovered splayed on his back, arms outstretched with palms upward, almost as if in surrender. His closed eyes and serene expression seemed a mockery of the violence done to him. His torso had been meticulously carved, organs removed with surgical precision, and the corpse was surrounded by partially burnt coins and banknotes. It was a tableau of “Divine Punishment,” a chilling representation of retribution for a life steeped in greed and corruption. The poetic irony was not lost on Hannibal. Moretti, a man whose empire thrived on exploitation, now lay dead within the walls of that very empire.
Finishing the last of his coffee, Hannibal stepped back inside, placing the empty cup in the sink. The opulence of his home—its shimmering chandeliers, ornate furnishings, and bright marble interiors—seemed almost irreverent against the dark truths it concealed.
Hannibal dressed with practiced precision, sliding into a tailored three-piece suit and adjusting the cuffs as he caught his reflection in the mirror. His golden-brown bangs fell neatly over his forehead. Satisfied, he picked up his leather briefcase and stepped out, passing manicured hedges and the small marble replica of Michelangelo’s David in his garden.
His sleek black Alfa Romeo GTV V6 Coupé awaited him. The leather seat adjusted to his body with a soft creak. As he twisted the key in the ignition, the engine purred to life with a mechanical clatter that quickly smoothed into a deep, resonant hum. Placing his briefcase on the passenger seat, Hannibal began the familiar drive into Florence. One that had become a comforting routine.
The Ponte Vecchio always offered a tranquil moment, its picturesque charm a balm for the weary mind. On rare occasions, Hannibal would stroll along the bridge with a sketchbook, capturing whatever sparked his inner muse, onto paper. Today, however, the bridge was anything but serene. A crowd had gathered, their murmurs rising in a dissonant symphony. Hannibal slowed, his eyes drawn to the commotion. The Carabinieri were busy cordoning off the scene where a body had been strung up in a grotesque display. The latest victim of Il Mostro, no doubt. To the untrained eye, it was a horror show; to Hannibal, it was an exquisite piece of performance art, grotesque yet captivating.
His gaze lingered, cool and detached, like a curator assessing a masterpiece. The subtle curve of his lips betrayed his quiet satisfaction. He absorbed the scene—the horror, the morbid curiosity of the crowd, the efficient chaos of the officers—with a chilling calm.
Unable to resist, Hannibal parked his car at the Garage delle Terme and made his way back to the bridge. He edged through the throng, hoping for a closer view, but was intercepted by an officer.
“Signore, deve stare indietro,” the man instructed. (Sir, you need to stay back.)
Feigning ignorance, Hannibal asked, “Cos’è successo, agente?” (What happened, officer?)
The officer glanced back before replying, “Un uomo è stato ucciso e fatto a pezzi, lasciato appeso al ponte.” (A man was killed, dismembered, and hung from the bridge.)
Hannibal’s gaze drifted past the shrouded corpse. Instead, his eyes were drawn to a younger man standing among them. At first glance, there was little remarkable about the figure: a tumble of unruly curls framed his face, offset by glasses that caught the pale light filtering through the clouds. His faint stubble hinted at a man too preoccupied, or perhaps too indifferent, to bother with his appearance. The plaid shirt, ill-fitted and slightly wrinkled, and the worn corduroy pants seemed almost comically mismatched with the sharply dressed officers around him.
And yet, this man held a strange gravity.
Hannibal watched as he pulled on a pair of gloves, his movements unhurried. There was a care to his motions—methodical, measured—tempered by a hesitation that suggested more than inexperience. As he peeled back the sheet to reveal the corpse beneath, his expression didn’t harden, nor did it falter. His eyes swept over the grisly scene, as if he was dissecting it. There was no detachment, no rote efficiency. It was like he wasn’t just seeing the scene but inhabiting it, letting it settle into him.
Standing nearby, Jack Crawford exchanged words with Rinaldo Pazzi. Hannibal noted them with mild interest, recognizing Jack from his early days back at John Hopkins, before turning to the scene again.
“Quel giovanotto sembra fuori posto,” Hannibal murmured to an officer standing beside him, his tone carrying the faintest trace of amusement. (That young man seems out of place.)
The officer huffed in response. “È un agente dall’America. Non ho idea del perché ci abbiano mandato un principiante.” (He’s an agent from America. I have no idea why they sent us a rookie.)
Hannibal’s lips curved into a ghost of a smile. A rookie? Perhaps. But the agent carried himself with the same confidence as a senior officer. There was a tension to him, not anxious, but taut with purpose. For a moment, the agent’s eyes met Hannibal’s across the chaos of the scene. The connection was brief but undeniable, causing a strange spark inside Hannibal he had never felt before. Those eyes seemed to carry a quiet storm. A curiosity, maybe some weariness, and a hint of pain.
When Pazzi’s voice barked over the crowd, commanding the area to be cleared, Hannibal let himself be herded away with the rest. Still, he lingered at the edge of the scene, his attention returning to the young agent. The man stood unmoving, a solitary figure amidst the commotion, his head tilting slightly as he closed his eyes. There was an oddity to the gesture, a quiet ritual, as though he were listening to something unheard, something invisible yet profoundly present.
Curious.
Even as Hannibal made his way to his car, the image of the man stayed with him. The rest of the day unfolded in muted tones, its usual rhythm feeling hollow and mechanical. Hannibal’s thoughts, sharp and restless, circled back to the agent with the searching eyes.
He did not yet know the man’s name. Hannibal knew their paths would cross again. And when they did, he intended to find out everything about the agent.
***
II
Hannibal's office was a blend of traditional elegance and professional modernity. The historic building in which it was located, had a façade featuring elements of Renaissance architecture. He parked his car and stepped out, entering the building. The waiting area was adorned with replicas of famous paintings, and rich, dark leather seats. The Birth of Venus, The School of Athens, among others. The area was well-lit by natural light seeping through tall, arched windows draped with heavy curtains.
Hannibal entered his private office, a reflection of his sophistication. High ceilings with wooden beams, terracotta tile flooring, walls lined with bookshelves, filled with medical texts and psychological treatises, some fictional literature as well. At the center of the room was a large, imposing desk made of dark wood. The patient's chair was positioned in a way that allows Hannibal to observe them against the light, giving him a psychological advantage during sessions. Diplomas and certificates were hung on the wall, along with awards for research. And perhaps the highlight of the office was the large replica of the Primavera on the wall behind Hannibal’s desk. His prized possession.
He was in the early stages of his psychiatry practice, and he was already catering to high-profile clients, which mostly consisted of the affluent, powerful and influential. He had already gained a bit of a reputation, helped further by word-of-mouth and through networking. His fellowship at John Hopkins definitely aided him.
His newest client who arrived fifteen minutes later, a real estate magnate, popped a cigar into his mouth, about to light it.
"This is a smoke-free area, Mr. Amante," Hannibal spoke, legs crossed.
Francesco Amante's influence did not put a dent into Hannibal's principles, rules, and personality. Even as Amante shot him a glance that was somewhere between surprise and vexation, Hannibal's unwavering gaze remained nonchalant and stoic. A subtle smile on his lips. Amante could pull a gun on him and even yet, Hannibal wouldn't budge from his seat.
Amante paused, sensing something in the young psychiatrist he couldn't put his fingers on. He slowly plucked the cigar out of his mouth and leaned back in his chair.
"Apologies." He tucked the cigar back into the inner pocket of his suit.
"Tell me about those death threats you've been receiving," Hannibal replied.
Amante almost snarled. "Knowing someone's out to get me, I'm not gonna sit back in my fucking couch and let it happen." His eyes glinted darkly. "You see... I prefer to be the hunter."
"Ah, the thrill of the hunt," Hannibal mused. "What do you hope to gain from being a hunter? Is it merely self-preservation, or something more profound?"
"It's about sending a message to those who think they can destroy me," Amante shifted in his seat. "And I wanna find the schmuck behind the threats."
"So it's the same person each time.”
"Yeah. He uses the same fucking email address."
"And what would you do once you find this individual? Would you simply put a stop to the threats or—"
"Everyone's out for blood." Amante whipped a sidearm out of the holster hidden behind his suit and pointed it at Hannibal. "I'll kill them where they stand."
Hannibal didn't even bat an eyelid at the muzzle of the gun pointed at him. "Do you believe violence is the most effective means of dealing with problems? Or do you take pleasure in the act itself?"
"I'm guessing you know the answer."
Hannibal's dark smile widened. "I believe I do. How would you do it? Would you do it quickly or pause to gloat?"
Amante put the gun away and leaned forward. "Slow is good. You savor each moment."
This. This was Hannibal's area of expertise. One the world didn't know about. The very idea of killing slowly, taking one's time to relish the thrill, was something he knew well. And enjoyed it too. The more the conversation advanced, the more Hannibal pushed Amante to hunt down the one sending the death threats and killing them through subtle manipulation. All this just because Hannibal wanted to see what would happen.
"I believe you would've hired a private investigator by now to track down the source of the death threats."
"So you want me to go after him?"
"I'm merely pointing out the usual course of action after a death threat has been sent to a powerful, influential man such as yourself. A private investigator, or the police."
Amante made a 'tch' sound. "The police are useless. But I am planning to hire a private investigator."
At some point, Hannibal passed a momentary glance to the clock, which announced the end of the session. "Well, Mr. Amante, I hope that when we meet next, there will be some developments."
Uncrossing his legs, he rose and gestured to the door. As Amante walked out, Hannibal followed, passing a courteous smile before closing the door after him. A long breath escaped his nose, now that he had a period of privacy in his office. These were moments dedicated to reading or sketching with a glass of fine Barolo.
But this time, Hannibal found himself sitting near his desk and letting his mind drift back to that newbie Agent back at the bridge. He had an eidetic memory so he remembered the Agent's face well, as well as their momentary eye contact. Hannibal pondered whether he needed to pay Pazzi a visit, although he was well aware the Inspector wasn't exactly a fan of rich people. He relied on their past encounters, nights when Pazzi had visited Hannibal's home regarding an investigation. They would either have dinner, or simply talk over glasses of wine. Hannibal's hospitality and inherent charm earned him a place on Pazzi's 'Rich people who aren't that bad' list. The inspector might not show it, but Hannibal was the only wealthy man he didn't mind talking to.
Apparently that was an honor.
Hannibal thought maybe he could ask Pazzi about the new Agent. He was also familiar with Jack Crawford, but only fairly. So, it might be odd asking him. Looked like it was time to invite the Commendatore to dinner.
Hannibal went back to his desk, picking up a piece of paper and writing in elegant cursive script with a fountain pen:
Commendatore Rinaldo Pazzi,
I hope this letter finds you well.
It is with great pleasure that I invite you to dinner at my residence. We have a lot to catch up on, and I have recently come across a culinary delight which I think you might enjoy, given your appreciation of the finer things.
Please join me at 8 PM this evening. I look forward to an engaging conversation, exquisite cuisine, and a glass of Vermouth.
Warmest Regards,
Dr. Hannibal Lecter M.D
Hannibal folded the flap of the envelope, sealing it with wax. The stamp which bore a crest with his initials on it was embossed into the wax. He mailed the letter on his way home.
***
III
Pazzi arrived right on time. His feelings about Hannibal were as conflicted as ever. On one hand, he had a certain respect for the doctor, his intellect and his refinement, but on the other, Hannibal remained unreadable. That unreadability kept Pazzi on edge, always scrutinizing, always trying to peer beneath the surface. Hannibal, naturally, noticed.
“What arouses your suspicions this time, Inspector?” Hannibal asked, his voice smooth with just a hint of amusement.
“Excuse me?” Pazzi replied, startled.
Hannibal gestured lightly to Pazzi’s frown and narrowed eyes. “That look. The same one you wear when interrogating a suspect.”
At that, Pazzi eased his expression and offered a half-smile. “Force of habit. My apologies.”
“Do you still harbor the same resentment toward me as you do others of my social standing?” Hannibal asked, leading him toward the dining table.
“You’re not an asshole, so that’s a start,” Pazzi said, his tone wry. “But, as a rule, the wealthier someone is, the bigger bastard they tend to be.”
“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment.” Hannibal handed Pazzi a glass of Spritz and set a plate of mushroom pâté crostini before him.
Pazzi took a sip, his brow lifting slightly. “Definitely a touch of Vermouth.”
“A favorite of mine.”
When Pazzi bit into the crostini, he almost hummed in appreciation, the flavors perfectly balanced. He suppressed the reaction, unwilling to give too much away. “So,” he said after swallowing, and a satisfied smack of his lips, “what’s this ‘culinary delight’ you mentioned in your letter? Not that your meals aren’t already delightful enough.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Inspector,” Hannibal replied with a small smile. “I am meticulous about even the simplest dishes. Take the gnocco fritto, for example.” He placed another dish on the table. “I prefer to source and cure my own meat. You’ve visited my home before; you’ve seen how much I enjoy crafting everything by hand.”
“I have.” Pazzi raised his glass but muttered under his breath just before drinking, “Show-off.”
Hannibal smiled faintly, taking a delicate bite of his own crostini. Their dinners always began with light conversation but inevitably shifted to weightier subjects. Tonight would be no exception. Pazzi often found himself discussing his latest case, begrudgingly accepting Hannibal’s insights. Hannibal’s intellect was undeniably helpful, often leading to breakthroughs Pazzi couldn’t achieve on his own. And though Pazzi hated to admit it, there were moments when swallowing his pride was worth the results.
Hannibal brought out the primo: mushroom risotto topped with freshly shaved truffles.
“I must admit,” Hannibal began as he set the dish down, “there’s another reason I invited you tonight.”
Pazzi placed a napkin on his lap, his expression expectant. “I suspected as much.”
“I couldn’t help but notice a new face among your team at Ponte Vecchio this morning. An American.”
Pazzi took a bite of the risotto and sighed appreciatively. “Divine, as always, Doctor.” He paused, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. “You must mean Will Graham.”
*Will Graham.* Hannibal repeated the name in his mind, tasting it as though it were a fine wine. The name echoed through the chambers of his memory palace, planting the seed of a new room. It was empty now, its details and features yet to take shape. But that would change in time.
“Jack Crawford is an old acquaintance of mine,” Pazzi added. “We worked on a case together years ago. Some criminal fled from America to Italy. Since then, we’ve kept in touch. With Il Mostro , Jack thinks the MO matches the one of a killer from back in the States. They have a title for him, something long. Anyway, Jack brought the agent along for… experience, I suppose. Says the kid’s gifted. Special, even. Only time will tell.”
“Interesting.” Hannibal smiled. “I’d like to meet him.”
“Why?”
“I knew Jack briefly during my fellowship at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. It would be pleasant to reconnect. And if this agent is as exceptional as you suggest, I’d like to understand him better. Call it a professional curiosity.”
Pazzi’s chewing slowed, his gaze skeptical. “You’re strange, you know that?” He shrugged. “But fine. Jack should be at the precinct tomorrow. I’ll give him your contact—maybe he’ll stop by.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll come to the precinct myself.”
Pazzi raised a brow, surprised. “You? At our humble precinct? Didn’t expect that.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
The rest of the dinner passed in comfortable conversation, eventually circling back to the Il Mostro case. Hannibal’s insights, offered with practiced ease, were as sharp as ever. Pazzi’s shoulders gradually relaxed, his initial wariness softened by the rich flavors of the secondo , a cabernet-braised osso buco. Hannibal, ever the strategist, knew exactly how to reach his guest—through the stomach and, indirectly, the ego. Gaining Pazzi’s goodwill might seem inconsequential now, but it was always useful to keep the police close.
When Hannibal walked Pazzi to the door, the inspector left content, albeit a little more indebted than he cared to admit. Hannibal, however, was already focused on what came next. He was rarely drawn to people without reason, even those he had yet to meet. Will Graham, he guessed, was probably twenty-five. About six years younger than him. Something about Will sparked an undeniable pull, though Hannibal couldn’t yet name it.
But he intended to find out.