Chapter 170

Chapter 170

I glanced at the line on the paper, my brow arching slightly.

A mute woman wandering Bahnhofstrasse, who couldn't even get enough to eat, could write in an exquisitely educated aristocratic cursive script, and even thought the all-powerful mafia don wasn't good enough for me.

Her identity was definitely more astonishing than I'd imagined.

"You're wrong." I didn't pursue questions about her origins. Instead, I pushed the notepad aside and looked seriously into her eyes. "He's the only person in this world who deserves me."

The old woman frowned, seeming very disapproving, and grabbed the pen to continue writing.

I pressed down on her hand.

"You don't know what I've been through." I looked out the window at the rolling snow-capped Alps, my voice so calm it held no ripples, as if telling someone else's story.

"I grew up in the slums. For half a piece of moldy bread, I had my ribs broken by street vagrants. I scavenged for food in garbage heaps like a stray dog. The first thing I thought about every morning when I opened my eyes was how to survive the day."

The old woman's hand holding the pen trembled violently, shock and pain instantly flooding her cloudy eyes.

"Later, the Rossi family took me in." I withdrew my gaze and looked at her. "I thought it was salvation, but it was actually hell. They treated me like a bargaining chip to be bought and sold at will, tried to send me to a perverted old man in exchange for benefits, and lied to me that Vincent had killed my father."

"Vincent was the one who pulled me out of that quagmire." The corners of my lips curved slightly, a tenderness I hadn't even noticed surfacing in my eyes. "He gave me a gun, taught me how to kill, gave me the power and confidence to protect myself."

"In this cruel world, no one cares whether I live or die—only he does." I looked straight into the old woman's eyes, enunciating each word. "He paved the way for me with half of the Corleone family empire. He'd rather die himself than let anything happen to me. So it's not that he's unworthy of me—it's that I willingly choose to stay by his side."

The study fell into dead silence.

The old woman stared at me blankly.

Large tears rolled from the corners of her wrinkled eyes, falling onto the wooden table and spreading into wet spots.

A suppressed, broken whimper came from her throat.

Trembling, she reached out her withered hand across the table and rested it extremely gently on top of my head.

She stroked my hair softly. The gesture was so light, so tender, as if I were a lost and recovered fragile treasure, carrying an intense love and guilt so thick it was suffocating.

My body stiffened slightly. In a place like the slums, I'd long grown accustomed to cold stares and fists. No one had ever looked at me with such heartbroken eyes.

She withdrew her hand, picked up the fountain pen from the table, and forcefully wrote a line.

She pressed so hard the pen tip nearly tore through the paper.

[Feel sorry for you.]

Looking at these words, an inexplicable sour sting rose in my chest.

This sense of blood connection emanating from her very bones made it impossible for me to maintain my surface composure any longer.

"Who are you exactly?" I gripped her withered wrist in return, my gaze locked onto her, not missing any micro-expression on her face. "Why are you so good to me? Do you know something about my origins?"

The old woman's tears flowed even more fiercely.

She shook her head desperately, then nodded frantically, her emotions spiraling into extreme agitation again.

She broke free from my hand, grabbed the pen, and rapidly wrote a sentence on the notepad.

Her hand shook so badly she could barely hold the pen. The handwriting was distorted and messy, but I still clearly understood those few words.

[Selena is precious.]

I stared at the name on the paper, my pupils contracting sharply. My brain felt like it had been struck hard with a sledgehammer, instantly going blank.

Selena.

Who was Selena?

Was it me? Or her possibly deceased daughter?

If it was her daughter, why would she mistake me for Selena? If it was me, then who... exactly was she?

I clutched the notepad tightly, the paper crumpling in my palm.

The panda blood test report, her out-of-control ecstasy when she saw me, the mercenary pursuit, the twenty-million-dollar darknet bounty...

All the clues converged crazily at this moment, like a giant net, trapping me completely.

Looking at the old woman crying and trembling before me, that absurd suspicion at the bottom of my heart finally broke through completely.

"Selena."

I murmured the name softly.

In Europe, it was a very common name.

I guessed Selena was someone she cherished most—perhaps her lost daughter, or someone irreplaceable in her memory.

Seeing her tear-stained face and emotions on the verge of collapse, I put the fountain pen back in her hand and probed cautiously: "Who is Selena? Your family? Tell me, maybe I can help you find her."

Hearing the word "family," the old woman's whole body shuddered.

The glimmer of light that had just risen in her eyes extinguished instantly, replaced by extreme terror and resistance.

She shook her head desperately. Her withered fingers loosened, and the pen rolled onto the carpet.

She pulled her hands back into her sleeves, hugging her shoulders tightly, curling herself into the corner of the chair. She even closed her eyes, refusing to look at the notepad on the table anymore.

Her psychological defenses were extremely thick. Whenever core memories were touched, her brain instinctively chose to escape.

Seeing her resistant posture, I didn't force her further.

Growing up in the slums, I knew better than anyone that forcibly tearing open someone's wounds would yield nothing but dripping blood and more thorough madness.

"If you don't want to write, then don't." I tucked the notepad into my pocket and pulled out a tissue to wipe the tears from her face. "Go rest."

The old woman opened her eyes and glanced at me cautiously. Only after confirming I wasn't angry did she tightly grasp my hand, press it against her cheek, then turn and return to the guest room.

In the evening, Vincent emerged from the basement.

He carried a faint scent of metal and polishing tools. His dark gray shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing his forearms—taut, scarred muscle beneath smooth skin.

He walked into the study and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, lowering his head to inhale at my neck. "Thinking about that old woman?" His voice was low.

"She's hiding a lot of secrets." I leaned into his embrace. "But I can't get anything out of her right now."

"Then set it aside for now." Vincent turned my body to face him, looking straight into my eyes. "Tonight the Zurich Financial Association is holding a banquet at the lakeside manor. Financial magnates and bankers from all over Europe will be there, along with several old-timers from the underworld."

I raised an eyebrow. "You're taking me?"

"Not just attending." Vincent's fingertips traced my lips, his eyes carrying unquestionable dominance. "I'm taking you to connect with Europe's core power players. The mistress of the Corleone family can't only show her face in New York. I want all of Europe to know—you're my only co-ruler."