Chapter 125
"Anytime," Vitale finally spoke, his tone carrying a strange kind of deliberation, "but not tomorrow. Tomorrow won't work."
Frand raised his eyebrows in surprise, forgetting even his pain, "Tomorrow won't work? Why? Are you having afternoon tea with the Pope or something?"
Vitale turned his head, and a trace of something almost gentle appeared on his face.
Seeing such an expression on the face of a man who had just squeezed his wound and threatened to lock him up with Sonia felt downright creepy.
"Tomorrow," Vitale said with a hint of anticipation, "I have a date with Isabella."
"A date?" Frand repeated the word as if he'd never heard it before.
The surprise on his face turned into pure absurdity, his eyebrows shooting up even higher, "You? A mafia boss? Do you even know what a date is?"
"Is it the kind of date where you show up with a gun, in a bulletproof car, with a truck full of bodyguards trailing behind, clearing out the entire restaurant? Or is your idea of a date just dragging someone to your turf and saying, 'Now you're mine'?"
The more Frand spoke, the funnier he found it. He even forgot his own situation and couldn't help but tease, "Do you need me to teach you? I don't do true love, but I've got some experience in making women happy..."
"I know how to go on a date," Vitale cut him off, his tone calm.
He wasn't angry. Instead, he seemed to feel a sudden urge to share, taking a few steps toward Frand.
"Like in those romantic movies."
"I'll buy tons of her favorite flowers and stuff the whole trunk with them. Then, I'll trick her into thinking there's a weird noise in the trunk and ask her to open it and check..."
Vitale paused, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, as if he could already see Isabella's surprised and delighted expression.
"When she opens it and sees a sea of flowers, I'll take her to a restaurant I've booked—a spot on the top floor with a view of the entire city at night. Candlelit dinner, a violinist playing her favorite songs in the background. I'll order the dishes she loves and watch her smile."
"And finally," he concluded, "I'll use my body to please her, making sure she has a perfect day."
After saying this, he looked at Frand, as if waiting for feedback or just wanting to show how well thought-out his plan was.
Frand, on the other hand, was completely stunned.
His mouth hung open, the ointment on his face forgotten and uneven, as he stared blankly at Vitale.
He'd known Vitale for too long—long enough to trace back to their days as struggling teens on the streets.
Vitale's family background was stronger, and he rose faster. For a while, Frand was just one of the lackeys following behind him.
They'd fought together, split loot together, pissed on walls in the dirtiest alleys, shared the crudest jokes and the wildest ambitions.
Frand had seen Vitale in countless ways.
He'd seen Vitale deal with traitors without a flicker of emotion, seen him navigate deals with all kinds of people for the family's benefit with ease. He'd even once privately believed that Vitale had no basic interest in women, since he rejected every advance thrown at him, his eyes never showing a hint of feeling. For a time, Frand genuinely questioned Vitale's preferences.
But now, Frand felt a wave of dizziness and unreality.
He looked at the almost lovesick brightness in Vitale's eyes—a light so foreign and so blinding.
Blinding enough to make someone like him, used to darkness and blood, feel completely uneasy.
Frand suddenly covered his face with his hand, letting out a groan-like wail, "God, Vitale, you've changed. I can't handle this. Seriously, this hurts more than taking ten punches from you."
Vitale watched his exaggerated reaction, not annoyed at all. Instead, he let out a low chuckle.
"I hope when you find true love, you won't say the same."
Frand immediately dropped his hand, shaking his head vigorously as if trying to shake off a terrifying thought, "No! Never! I'll never find true love! I'm not getting trapped by that stuff! Love is a cage, a weakness, a poison that turns people into idiots!"
His tone was fierce, as if he was convincing himself, "I want to be free, have lots and lots of different women, enjoy their bodies and their admiration, and then leave whenever I want! That's who I am, Frand!"
The smile on Vitale's face faded a bit, but it didn't disappear.
He looked at Frand, his gaze calm but carrying a clear warning.
"Up to you," Vitale said, "That's your choice. But there's one condition—"
His voice lowered, the familiar pressure of a mafia boss subtly resurfacing, "You don't touch Isabella. She's my woman. Don't even think about it."
Frand rolled his eyes dramatically, the bruises and bandages on his face making the gesture look somewhat comical.
"Of course I won't touch Isabella!" he almost shouted, "She's your woman now. Anyone who touches her is dead! I want to live a few more years and enjoy my many women, thank you very much!"
Hearing this, Vitale seemed pleased.
He nodded, that almost gentle expression returning to his face, as if Frand had made a very wise decision.
He didn't say more, turning around and gripping the door handle again, ready to leave.
"Vitale!" Frand called after him.
This time, there was no teasing or complaint in his voice, but a rare, serious hesitation.
Vitale stopped but didn't turn back.
Frand licked his lips, choosing his words carefully, "I heard you took Isabella to that restaurant—the one only the family's core members and most important guests can enter?"
He paused, lowering his voice even more, "You know what that means, right? It's not just any restaurant. It's a signal, a declaration. You shouldn't have been so impulsive. I know I'm in no position to advise you—hell, one minute I wanted to cut off my own fingers, the next I was plotting how to kill you, but..."
Frand took a deep breath, as if making up his mind, "I can't just watch you become a target for so many people. Your position, Vitale—you know better than I do how many are eyeing it."
"Including me, of course. Though I can't anymore—I lost to you, I admit it. But what about the others? The ones hiding in the shadows, the ones who seem like allies? Showing your weakness so openly in a place that symbolizes the core of power—it's too dangerous. For you, and for her."
Frand finished speaking.
The warehouse fell dead silent.
The two doctors had long stopped moving, holding their breath, wishing they could blend into the walls.
Vitale's hand on the door handle didn't budge.
A few seconds later, he let go.
Then, he slowly turned around.
In that moment, Frand's heart stopped.
Because he saw that all the gentleness, anticipation, and even the silly innocence from when Vitale talked about the date had vanished completely from his eyes.
In its place was a raging fury.
Vitale didn't speak.
He didn't even look at Frand.
He walked straight to the heavy table in the center of the room. Under everyone's, especially Frand's, terrified gaze, Vitale raised his freshly bandaged left hand and clenched it into a fist.
Then, without any buildup, without any shout, he calmly, yet with overwhelming force, smashed it down.
A deafening crash!
The sturdy, heavy wooden table split right down the middle.
Wood chips and dust exploded outward, and the bottles, glasses, and cigar boxes on the table crashed to the ground, making sharp or dull breaking sounds.
Vitale pulled back his fist, the white bandages on his hand quickly staining red with seeping blood.
But he seemed to feel no pain, standing there with his chest heaving slightly, head lowered, staring at the mess at his feet.
Frand was utterly dumbfounded, his mouth half-open, forgetting even to breathe.
The two doctors behind him were pale as ghosts, frozen in place.