Chapter 168

Chapter 168

Vincent stubbed out his cigar completely in the crystal ashtray, lifted his gaze, and his pitch-black pupils held an unquestionable finality.

"Tomorrow morning, I'll have Antonio send her away—to a safe house on the other side of the Alps, or directly hand her over to Swiss intelligence. Either way, she can't stay by your side."

Rationally, I knew Vincent was right.

I'd never been some bleeding-heart saint.

Growing up in the slums where it was eat or be eaten, I understood better than anyone that getting tangled up with trouble of unknown origin usually led to a dead end.

The Corleone family had just weathered internal turmoil. Keeping a woman with a twenty-million-dollar bounty on the dark web at the manor right now was like painting a target on our foreheads.

But every time I closed my eyes, the image of her in that cramped wardrobe, shielding me with her body, flooded my mind.

That desperate protective gesture, those eyes full of devotion, despair, and pleading—they were like an invisible thorn lodged in the most hidden corner of my heart.

Combined with the Rh-negative blood type I'd just discovered days ago, that absurd intuition in the pit of my stomach grew stronger.

If I just sent her away like this, I would regret it.

I didn't speak. I simply straightened up from the sofa and straddled Vincent's lap.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and lowered my head, pressing my cheek against the cool hollow of his throat.

I felt his body stiffen slightly, then his large palm instinctively cupped my waist.

"Keep her here, will you?" I softened my voice, letting it carry a coquettish plea that felt foreign even to me.

My fingertips slipped inside his open shirt collar, lightly caressing his solid chest. "She's been so terrified. Right now, aside from me, she doesn't recognize anyone. If we send her away, she won't survive."

Vincent's breathing grew heavier, and his fingers at my waist tightened abruptly.

"Elena, don't gamble with your own safety." His voice was low and hoarse, carrying a trace of helpless warning, but the terrifying murderous intent had already dissipated by half. "If those mercenaries could find this place, it means her whereabouts are exposed. Keeping her at the manor will only draw more killers."

"But you're here, aren't you?" I lifted my head and looked straight into his eyes, the corners of my lips curling into a smile. I leaned in and bit his jaw lightly. "You're the head of the Corleone family. Can't you protect me?"

That sentence struck precisely at his need for control and his pride.

The scorching darkness in Vincent's black eyes surged instantly.

He stared at me for several seconds, then let out a defeated sigh, his Adam's apple bobbing violently.

"You're my weakness," he ground out through clenched teeth, then gripped the back of my head and kissed me forcefully, seizing control.

The kiss came on fierce, carrying the punishing weight of his surrender.

He pried open my lips with dominance, driving in deep, plundering the last bit of air from my lungs.

I tilted my head back, responding to his demand without reservation.

In the dark study, reason was cast aside completely.

His rough palm tore open the men's shirt I wore, pinning me hard against the wide leather sofa.

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

The reckless entanglement lasted until daybreak.

I was so exhausted I couldn't lift a finger, falling into deep sleep right there on the sofa.

Vincent cleaned me up, wrapped me tightly in a thick cashmere blanket, and carried me back to the newly tidied master bedroom.

I don't know how long I slept before a piercing crash of shattering porcelain jolted me awake.

Immediately after came the terrified screams of maids and the dull thud of heavy objects hitting walls.

The sounds came from the guest room at the other end of the hallway.

I snapped my eyes open and threw off the covers.

Vincent wasn't in the room—probably dealing with the aftermath of last night's mercenary attack.

I grabbed a robe, threw it on, and rushed out of the master bedroom barefoot, not even bothering with shoes.

The guest room door stood wide open, chaos inside.

The floor was littered with broken glass, torn sheets, and smashed lamps.

Several maids cowered outside the door, too afraid to approach.

The old woman stood in the center of the room like a crazed beast.

She clutched a sharp shard of glass in her hand. Her withered arms were slashed with several bloody cuts, blood dripping from her fingertips onto the carpet.

Her eyes were bloodshot, her throat emitting shrill, desperate screams like a mother wolf who'd lost her cub—desperate and mad.

"Don't go near her! She's gone insane!" a maid warned when she saw me.

I ignored her, walked straight into the room, stepped over the wreckage, and stopped three paces in front of her.

"I'm here." I looked at her, my voice calm and gentle.

Hearing my voice, the old woman's entire body froze.

She whipped her head around, staring at me intently.

The moment she made out my face, the glass shard fell from her hand.

The madness and terror in her eyes receded like a tide, replaced instantly by overwhelming joy and grievance.

She scrambled toward me on all fours, threw her arms around my waist, buried her face in my chest, and sobbed uncontrollably.

She cried with heartbreak, tears and snot smearing my robe.

Her withered fingers gripped my clothes so tightly they nearly tore the fabric, as if letting go for even a second would make me vanish again.

I sighed, lifted my hand, and gently patted her trembling back, letting her bloodied hands leave marks on me.

"Call the doctor," I told the stunned maids at the door.

Half an hour later, Vincent arrived at the manor with specialists from Bark's medical team.

Seeing the wounds on the old woman's hands, his expression darkened dangerously, but given my insistence, he held back his anger. He immediately arranged for a convoy to take us to a private hospital in downtown Zurich.

The hospital's top floor was completely sealed off by Corleone family guards.

The old woman refused to leave my side for even a moment.

Blood draws, brain CT scans, X-rays—I had to hold her hand through it all or stay within her line of sight.

If I moved away even slightly, she would immediately fall into extreme panic and even try to pull out the IV needle in her hand.

After an entire morning of tests, all the reports were finally delivered to the VIP conference room on the top floor.

The chief psychiatrist sat across from Vincent and me, holding a thick medical file, his expression grave.

"Mr. Corleone, Miss Elena." The doctor adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone professional and rigorous. "Aside from chronic malnutrition and old injuries, the patient's physical condition shows no life-threatening illnesses, but her psychological state is extremely poor."

He pushed several brain scan images toward us.

The doctor pointed at data on the report. "Additionally, regarding her muteness, we examined her vocal cords. While there is old damage, it shouldn't prevent her from making any sound at all."

I frowned slightly. "Are you saying she's faking it?"

"No, she's not faking." The doctor shook his head. "In psychiatry, this is called 'conversion disorder,' or psychogenic muteness. She must have experienced something extremely traumatic in the past—trauma that exceeded her psychological capacity to cope. Her brain activated a self-defense mechanism, subconsciously severing her language function. It's not that she doesn't want to speak—the psychological terror makes her unable to speak."

I leaned back in my chair, the image of her trembling in the wardrobe flashing through my mind again.

What kind of person, what kind of event, could drive someone into this state of living death?

The conference room fell into brief silence.

Vincent said nothing, just turned to look at me, his deep eyes filled with inquiry. He'd clearly sensed something suspicious about this whole affair.