Chapter 120
The car fell into a brief silence, with only the low hum of the engine and the shifting lights of Thalassia's nightscape streaming past the window.
Isabella felt a cold exhaustion creeping up her spine. It wasn't from the evening's maneuvering, but from the realization that she was always being sheltered within a carefully woven web.
A web spun by Vitale's control and Henley's loyalty.
Henley glanced at her through the rearview mirror, a flicker of complicated emotion passing through his ever-vigilant eyes.
"Yes, that was arranged by Mr. Luca," he said, pausing as if choosing his words carefully, "I believe Colt will be there soon. Our people will get him inside."
Isabella frowned, her fingers unconsciously tightening on the fabric of her skirt over her knees, "What exactly does Vitale want?"
Henley stayed quiet for a few seconds.
The car stopped at a red light, the red glow filtering through the window and casting a harsh outline on his face, making his features look especially rigid.
"Mr. Luca found out that Sonia slapped you," he finally said, his voice as calm as if he were talking about the weather. "He wants to teach Sonia a lesson. So, he's having Colt find out about Sonia's affair, and then—"
He didn't finish, but the meaning was clear enough.
Isabella didn't feel the expected satisfaction or sense of revenge.
Instead, a pale, hollow feeling gripped her.
She remembered Sonia's words at the club, the real fear in her eyes.
Now, Vitale was about to direct that same fear—or worse, something more violent—between Sonia and Colt.
"How did Vitale find out?" she asked, her voice trembling in a way she hadn't noticed herself. "Henley, did you break your promise? You said you wouldn't tell Vitale, that you wouldn't make him worry."
Henley's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.
The light turned green, and the car moved forward, merging into traffic.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Martinez," he said, a rare strain in his voice, "Mr. Luca gave a new order. From now on, I have to report everything about you to him immediately. I can't hide anything."
He paused, then added in a tone close to self-mockery, "I don't want to end up like Chris, crippled."
Chris.
The name pierced the stifling atmosphere in the car like a cold needle.
Isabella took a deep breath, and the questions she'd been suppressing finally found a way out.
"Chris's legs..." her voice was soft, "was it really Vitale who cut them off?"
Henley looked at her through the rearview mirror, his gaze brutally honest.
"No," he answered bluntly, "He broke them himself when he jumped from a second-story window while trying to escape. The whip marks on his back, though—those are from Mr. Luca."
He slowed the car slightly, as if to make his next words clearer, "Mr. Luca would never actually do something like that to Chris. You know, Chris's wife—or ex-wife now—has a brother who's a judge in Seraphim. Very influential."
Isabella touched her forehead, a delayed realization making her almost dizzy.
"So that's where Chris got his confidence."
"Yes," Henley continued, "After Chris got out of the hospital, he wanted to sue Mr. Luca. But Mr. Luca had already prepared a way to deal with it."
"He sent photos and videos of Chris messing around with other women—lots of them, very clear, spanning a long time—to that judge."
"So now Chris is divorced, lost his biggest backer, and is ruined by the scandal. Mr. Luca sent him far away just to make sure he never bothers you again."
The information flooded over her like a tidal wave.
Isabella leaned back in her seat, feeling her heart pounding heavily in her chest.
She had no idea that in the shadows she couldn't see, Vitale had done so much for her.
The cruelty and extremes she once thought defined him were, in reality, calculated moves of intimidation and cleanup.
The fear and rumors she endured were severed at their roots by him in ways more hidden and thorough.
A hot, complicated emotion churned in Isabella's chest.
It was gratitude, it was fear, it was an understanding that almost hurt.
She wanted to see him, right now.
She wanted to touch his real face, to look into those eyes that always hid too many secrets, to ask him how much more weight he carried for her that she didn't know about.
"Henley," her voice was slightly hoarse with emotion, "turn around. I want to see Vitale. Now."
Henley shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Martinez," he said, a trace of genuine regret in his voice, "Mr. Luca flew to Eldoria last night. There are some issues there he needs to handle personally."
Worry instantly gripped Isabella's heart, "Will it be dangerous?"
Henley's lips seemed to curve up slightly.
"No, it won't be," he said, his tone flat but full of certainty, "The danger is for them."
At the same time, in Eldoria, inside a remote seaside warehouse.
Under dim lights, dust floated slowly in the beams.
Vitale stood in the center of the warehouse, his tailored black suit looking out of place in the rough surroundings, yet exuding an overwhelming authority.
He held a gun in his hand, the barrel pressed firmly against the forehead of the man in front of him.
The cold metal against skin left a shallow indent.
The man opposite was tall and burly, with short-cropped blond hair and a vicious scar running from his brow to his jaw.
His name was Frand Wright, once a partner of Vitale's in the early days of the family business, even seen by outsiders as his right-hand man at one point.
Now, at Frand's feet lay a dropped long knife, its blade glinting coldly in the dim light.
His hands were raised above his head in surrender, but his face carried a near-taunting smirk.
"Vitale, we're friends," Frand said, his voice rough with a southern Eldoria accent, "Calm down. I didn't betray you. I just..."
He licked his dry lips, his grin widening to reveal tobacco-stained teeth, "I just wanted to take over your territory while you're distracted by a woman, not focused on business. It's just business, right?"
Vitale's face showed no expression.
His deep gray-blue eyes, shadowed, were like tempered steel—cold and deadly.
He didn't speak, only raised his left hand.
Two sharp, powerful slaps landed, so hard that Frand's head jerked to each side, his cheeks quickly swelling red, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
The cocky smirk finally vanished from his face, replaced by a dark, offended glare.
"Stop pretending, Frand," Vitale's voice was low but cut through the howling wind in the warehouse, "You're a dangerous man. You love killing and bloodshed, enjoy the thrill of controlling others' lives. So you're not scared of me as a person."
He leaned forward slightly, pressing the gun harder against Frand's forehead, "But you're scared of this."
Frand's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly.
He wasn't afraid of Vitale, or rather, not of Vitale as a man.
They'd known each other too long, had seen each other at their worst, their bloodiest.
But a gun—that was different.
He'd seen a woman running for her life with a child in her arms, only to be caught by a bullet, her head exploding like an overripe watermelon, brains and blood splattering on a dirt wall.
He'd seen a young cop holding up his service weapon, shouting to drop the guns, only to be riddled with bullets from a hidden machine gun, his body jerking like a rag doll.
Frand was only five then, hiding behind a rotting barrel, warm, rusty-smelling blood splashing across his face.
Since then, the sound of bullets cutting through the air, the flash of gunfire, became his deepest nightmare. No matter how much violence he later inflicted on himself, that childhood fear never truly left him.
Frand tugged at the corner of his mouth, forcing another smile, but this one was dangerous, like a taut wire.
"You, looking like this right now..." he said slowly, eyes locked on Vitale, "you're like an enraged leopard. I've heard this side of you only comes out for one woman."
He paused deliberately, watching Vitale's reaction, "That Isabella, right? Your new pet? Or your weak spot?"