Chapter 167

Chapter 167

I didn't know how long it lasted, but the gunfire outside gradually subsided.

The master bedroom door was kicked open from outside.

"Elena!" Vincent's voice rang through the room, tinged with rare panic and tension.

I immediately pushed open the wardrobe door.

Vincent strode over, gripping a still-smoking submachine gun. Seeing me emerge from the wardrobe unharmed, his iron-hard face finally showed a trace of life.

He dropped the gun and yanked me out of the wardrobe, his hands clamping tightly on my shoulders as his gaze swept over me rapidly.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was hoarse.

"I'm fine." I pressed my hand against his, frowning slightly as I glanced at the bloodstains in the hallway outside. "What happened out there?"

Vincent's eyes darkened, a heavy murderous intent churning in their depths. "A group of professional mercenaries, well-equipped. They used high-grade explosives to blow open the manor's side entrance. They've been subdued. Antonio is interrogating them in the dungeon now."

The moment he finished speaking, the old woman crawled out of the wardrobe behind me.

When she saw the blood-stained gun at Vincent's feet, her pupils contracted violently. She let out a shrill scream.

She scrambled backward on all fours, hiding behind me, her hands clutching my legs as she trembled violently.

Vincent looked at her, his brow furrowing tightly.

"Call the doctor," I instructed the guards outside.

Minutes later, Bark's medical team's family physician rushed over carrying his medical kit.

The master bedroom had been half-destroyed by the explosion. I took the old woman to the adjacent guest room.

The moment the doctor approached to examine her, the old woman reacted like a cornered wild animal, frantically waving her arms and even grabbing a nearby lamp to hurl at him.

"Ah! Ah!" Hoarse screams tore from her throat as she desperately shrank into the corner of the bed.

The doctor helplessly stepped back and turned to me.

I approached, trying to calm her. Miraculously, whenever I drew near, her emotions stabilized slightly.

She clutched my hand tightly, pressing her face against my palm like a drowning person grasping a lifeline. She wouldn't let anyone else touch her—she even knocked away the water a maid brought her.

The doctor observed for a long time before speaking gravely. "Miss Elena, the patient is experiencing a severe episode of post-traumatic stress disorder—PTSD. She must have suffered tremendous trauma in the past. The gunfire and explosions just now triggered her traumatic memories."

"Then why does she only recognize me?" I looked at the old woman clinging to me.

"Psychologically, when people are in extreme panic, they instinctively seek a safe haven," the doctor explained. "Subconsciously, she's made you her anchor—someone she trusts most, or a kind of spiritual refuge. In her perception, only you can protect her."

I looked into the old woman's bloodshot yet adoring eyes. That strange sense of familiarity surged through me again.

"Everyone leave," I waved my hand.

Only the two of us remained in the room.

I sat on the bed's edge, letting her hold my hand.

Like soothing a child, I patiently patted the back of her hand and spoke to her in the calmest tone. Though she couldn't hear, the rhythm seemed to relax her gradually.

Not until dawn broke did she succumb to exhaustion and fall into deep sleep.

Even in her dreams, her brow remained furrowed, her fingers clutching my sleeve tightly.

I carefully pried her fingers loose, tucked her in, and turned to leave the guest room.

The moment I opened the door, I found Vincent leaning against the hallway wall.

He'd changed out of his blood-stained clothes into a black shirt, collar slightly open, an unlit cigar between his fingers.

Seeing me emerge, he said nothing, just strode forward and swept me into his arms.

"Vincent..."

"Shut up." His voice was terrifyingly hoarse.

He carried me straight through the hallway and kicked open the study door.

The heavy oak door closed behind us, shutting out the outside world.

He pressed me directly onto the wide leather sofa.

His kisses rained down, carrying a trace of gunpowder smoke and a suffocatingly intense possessiveness.

He kissed urgently, fiercely—as if confirming my real existence, or venting the terror of nearly losing me moments ago.

I didn't push him away. I wrapped my arms around his broad back, tilted my head up, and responded to his demands without reservation.

In the dark study, only our intertwined breathing and the friction of fabric filled the air.

His rough palm traced up my waistline with undeniable dominance.

In this night that had just witnessed blood and gunfire, we confirmed each other's warmth in the most primal way.

After intense passion.

I leaned against Vincent's chest, wearing his black shirt.

The study was filled with faint cedar scent and the aftermath of desire.

Vincent reclined against the sofa back, one arm around my waist, the other finally lighting that cigar. Crimson light flickered in the dimness.

"What did you find out?" I smoothed my disheveled hair and asked softly.

Vincent exhaled pale smoke, a cold gleam flashing in his dark eyes.

"Those mercenaries weren't after me." His voice was cold, carrying calculated certainty.

I froze, looking up at him. "What do you mean?"

"Antonio cracked their leader." Vincent's slender fingers toyed with a strand of my hair. "This group took a hidden bounty on the dark web. The amount was twenty million dollars, requiring a live capture."

He paused, his gaze boring into mine. "Their target wasn't anyone from the Corleone family. It was that old woman you picked up on the street yesterday."

My heart lurched, my brow furrowing tightly.

"That's impossible." I reflexively objected. "She's just a vagrant who can't even speak. Who would spend twenty million to capture a harmless mute?"

"That's why I had Antonio investigate her background." Vincent stubbed out the cigar in the crystal ashtray, his tone growing extremely grave. "We had her blood sample and fingerprints from the police station. Antonio mobilized all of the Corleone family's intelligence network, accessing missing persons databases across Europe, medical records, even immigration DNA databases."

"And?" I stared at him intently.

"Blank." Vincent's eyes were unfathomable. "No records. Her fingerprints, DNA—completely untraceable in any European system. She's like a ghost conjured from thin air."

The study fell into deathly silence.

Images flashed through my mind—the old woman desperately protecting that tattered canvas bag on the street, her agile movements in the wardrobe, and the incredibly complex look in her eyes when she gazed at me.

"An old woman who wanders Bahnhofstrasse yet is hunted by elite mercenaries, completely untraceable in all European databases." Vincent's defined fingers gently stroked my cheek, his voice low and dangerous. "Elena, the person you brought back is no ordinary woman."