Chapter 169
Chapter 169
A mute woman of unknown origin, coincidentally found by me, and coincidentally developed this pathological dependence on me. There are never that many coincidences in this world.
I stood up and looked through the one-way glass of the conference room into the adjacent ward.
The old woman had been given a sedative and was now lying asleep in the hospital bed.
Even in her sleep, her hand still clutched tightly to a silk scarf I'd left with her.
Her weathered face was covered in wrinkles, like a withered tree, only coming alive when she saw me.
I touched the panda blood test report in my coat pocket, and that suspicion at the bottom of my heart grew clearer and clearer.
Who were my biological parents? Why did I end up in the slums? Did this old woman know something? Or was she herself a piece of my past puzzle?
"Let's take her back to the manor," I turned around, looked at Vincent, and made my decision.
The hesitation in my eyes was gone, replaced by absolute clarity and coldness.
"Since she only recognizes me, I'll keep her by my side. Whether those mercenaries were after her or the secrets behind her, as long as she's in my hands, the truth will come out eventually."
I did feel pity for her, but more than that, I needed to uncover my own origins.
Vincent looked at me, the corners of his lips slowly curving into an indulgent arc.
He stood up, walked to my side, wrapped his large hand around my waist, and pulled me into his arms.
"Alright." He lowered his head and kissed the top of my hair, his voice cold and resolute. "Since you've decided to keep her, I'll double the guards at the manor. I'll have Antonio continue investigating. Whatever force is behind her, as long as they show themselves, I'll clean them up for you."
I leaned against his solid chest, looking at the old woman through the glass window, my gaze gradually deepening.
I'd keep her by my side for now.
As for her family, or whoever wanted her dead, they'd come looking eventually.
When that time came, all the secrets would surface.
Since last night's mercenary attack, Vincent had raised the manor's security level to maximum.
The entire castle was surrounded by Corleone family elite guards so tightly that not even a fly could get through.
For absolute safety, Vincent completely banned me from going out.
But he didn't shelve our engagement plans.
The next morning, several black armored vehicles with Paris plates drove into the manor.
Vincent had used his private connections to bring Paris's top haute couture workshop's chief tailor and entire team to Switzerland.
In the spacious dressing room, several assistants in black uniforms carefully took my measurements.
The chief tailor held a soft measuring tape, showing me various expensive fabrics and lace in heavily French-accented English.
Vincent sat on a single sofa not far away, legs crossed.
He wore a dark gray shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, holding a thick stack of blueprints in his hands.
He wasn't looking at the complicated fabrics—his deep black gaze remained locked on me, as if examining a rare treasure that belonged to him.
"Take the waistline in another half inch." Vincent suddenly spoke, his tone coldly unquestionable. "She's too thin. It needs a more fitted cut."
The tailor immediately nodded respectfully and modified the data in his notebook.
After the tailoring team left, the room fell quiet.
I walked over to Vincent and pulled the papers from his hands.
It wasn't a dress design—it was a hand-drawn jewelry sketch.
On the paper was a vintage yet aggressively styled ring setting.
The edges of the setting were designed as sharp thorny vines, with the space in the middle perfectly fitting the emerald diamond he'd placed on my finger last night.
"What's this?" I looked at the sharp lines on the sketch, somewhat surprised.
"The engagement ring." Vincent smoothly gripped my wrist and pulled me into his lap. "That emerald's original setting was too outdated. It didn't match you. I drew a new setting design. The manor's basement has a complete set of jewelry polishing equipment."
He lifted his head, his deep black eyes looking straight at me, his tone carrying matter-of-fact obsession: "I'll forge this ring for you myself. The token of the Corleone family mistress can't be made by others."
I looked at his cold, hard profile, feeling something strike my heart hard.
This man who commanded wind and rain in the underworld, who was accustomed to solving problems with guns and blood, was willing to sit at a workbench and polish those tiny pieces of metal and diamonds for me.
I said nothing, only straddled his legs, wrapped my arms around his neck, lowered my head, and kissed his lips actively and passionately.
The dark fire in Vincent's eyes ignited instantly.
His Adam's apple bobbed as his large hand immediately gripped the back of my head, taking control and deepening the kiss.
His tongue dominantly pried open my lips and teeth, carrying the familiar scent of cedar, wantonly plundering my breath.
The temperature in the room rose sharply.
His rough fingers slid down my spine, his fingertips carrying a trembling heat as they explored under the hem of my loungewear.
Just as our breaths intertwined and reason was about to collapse, a deliberately heavy footstep sounded at the door.
I froze, breathing slightly heavily as I turned my head.
The old woman was standing at the dressing room door at some point.
She wore a clean cashmere sweater, holding a glass of warm water, staring hard at Vincent.
She made no sound, but those cloudy eyes were filled with undisguised scrutiny and disapproval.
She looked like an extremely strict elder examining a scoundrel trying to steal away her precious child.
Vincent's hand under my clothes froze.
He took a deep breath, the veins on his forehead throbbing.
The mighty head of the Corleone family, repeatedly interrupted in his own territory by a mute old woman of unknown origin—and he couldn't even pull his gun.
The two of them faced off silently across a few steps.
The old woman didn't back down. She even stepped forward, her withered fingers gripping the water glass tightly, clearly ready to throw the water if Vincent dared continue.
"Damn it." Vincent cursed through gritted teeth.
He released me in frustration, straightened my disheveled clothes, then stood up.
He swept a cold glance at the old woman, then looked at me, his voice dangerously hoarse: "I'm going to the basement to polish the ring. I'll deal with you tonight."
With that, carrying an aura cold enough to freeze someone to death, he strode out of the room.
After Vincent left, the old woman immediately came over.
She took my hand, looked me up and down, and only after confirming I hadn't been bullied did she breathe a long sigh of relief.
I looked at her protective appearance, finding it amusing, but feeling more puzzled.
I led her to sit at the desk.
I took out a blank notepad and fountain pen from the drawer and pushed them in front of her.
At the hospital earlier, I'd noticed that although her fingers were stiff, her fingertips had calluses from long-term pen use.
Since she could understand my words, perhaps she could write too.
"Why are you so dissatisfied with him?" I leaned back in the chair, looking at her calmly. "He's my future husband."
The old woman froze.
She looked at the paper and pen on the desk, hesitation flashing in her eyes. After a moment, she still picked up the fountain pen.
Her movements were somewhat rusty, her hand shaking badly, but the handwriting that fell on the paper was extremely fluid—beautiful French-style cursive English.
[He's not good enough for you.]