Chapter 157
Annie didn't know which word she had said wrong, and she didn't dare to speak again.
She thought this tense, murderous atmosphere would linger for a long time, until a loud bang broke the silence.
The villa's door was forcefully pushed open from the outside, slamming against the inner wall with a deafening echo.
Harold appeared at the doorway, out of breath. His suit jacket was messy, his tie loose, and tiny beads of sweat covered his forehead. It was clear he had rushed back in a hurry.
His eyes anxiously scanned the living room the moment he arrived, locking onto his wife, Annie. Seeing her pale face and frightened eyes but no obvious injuries, he let out a barely noticeable sigh of relief.
But then, his gaze fell on Vitale.
When he saw the man radiating a cold, deadly aura, Harold's heart skipped a beat. All his efforts to stay composed crumbled under Vitale's piercing stare.
That gaze was too sharp, too icy, as if it could cut through his body and reach the deepest parts of his soul.
Harold had met all kinds of people—threatening, flattering, cunning—but none like Vitale. Just one look from him sent a chill down Harold's spine, making it nearly impossible to control the trembling in his body.
Taking a deep breath, Harold forced himself to look away from Vitale's eyes. He quickly walked over to Annie, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and whispered to comfort her, "It's okay, Annie. It's okay now. I'm back."
He led Annie to the sofa, trying to regain control of the situation—or at least handle this sudden crisis in the way he was used to as a politician.
Adjusting his tie and clearing his throat, he looked at Vitale and said, "Sir, welcome to my home, though the way you've arrived is a bit unusual."
"I'm Harold. May I ask what important matter brings you here so late at night for a face-to-face talk?"
"Perhaps we could start with a cup of coffee and chat calmly?"
As soon as he finished speaking, Vitale moved.
He didn't even glance at Harold. Instead, he casually picked up a red rose from the crystal vase on the table.
Then, with a dagger so fast it left a blur, he sliced cleanly at the base of the rose's stem with precision.
There was a faint sound.
The bright rose head separated from the stem, falling onto the polished wooden table. It rolled a few times, scattering a few petals.
Annie let out a startled cry, her body jerking back in fear.
Harold's brows furrowed tightly, the smile on his face freezing instantly. His expression turned even uglier.
This wasn't a signal for coffee. It was a blatant warning and a show of contempt.
Only then did Vitale slowly raise his eyes to look at Harold.
A cold, deadly smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.
"Do I look," Vitale's voice was low, even a bit hoarse, yet every word struck clearly into everyone's heart, "like I'm just here for coffee?"
He took a step forward, his shadow looming over Harold and Annie on the sofa.
"I want to see those friends of yours."
"Or, Harold, you can choose to tell me straight away where they're hiding with my woman, in which rat hole, and save me the trouble of tearing apart this pretty house of yours."
Harold's heartbeat faltered.
He hadn't expected the man to be so direct, so ruthless.
His mind raced, trying to come up with an excuse that could temporarily get him out of this, something that would distance himself from most of the blame, buy time, or even shift the trouble elsewhere.
"Sir, I think there must be a misunderstanding here," Harold said, spreading his hands and trying to make his voice sound sincere and innocent, "I'm a law-abiding citizen, a candidate dedicated to public service and clean politics. How could I know your enemies or hide anyone? Someone must be framing me on purpose to ruin my campaign..."
He didn't get to finish.
Because Victor, standing just behind Vitale, moved without warning.
His actions were even faster than Vitale's slicing of the rose, and far more deadly.
No one even saw how he drew his gun. There was only the crisp sound of metal, and the next second, the cold barrel was pressed firmly against Harold's right temple.
The icy touch of the metal made Harold feel as if his blood had frozen in an instant.
Victor wore a cruel, almost mocking smile on his face. He leaned down slightly, speaking in a cold, clear voice near Harold's ear, loud enough for only those close to hear, "Misunderstanding? Harold, I suggest you rethink your words. My boss," he nodded toward Vitale, "hasn't slept in over thirty-six hours. Do you know what a hungry, exhausted, and completely enraged cheetah does to its prey?"
Victor pressed the gun harder, making Harold's scalp sting as his head tilted involuntarily to the side.
"It tears it apart and eats it, not leaving even a scrap of bone behind."
"As for this gun of mine, it's got a bit of a bad temper. It tends to go off by accident. If it happens to fire here, I bet the police will show up pretty quick."
"I might get locked up for a few days for breaking in or accidental manslaughter, but you should know, people like us go in fast and get out just as fast."
Victor's gaze was sharp as a blade, as if it could slice through all of Harold's pretenses, "But you, Harold—your political career, your dream of becoming governor, and this life you've fought so hard to build up to this point—it'll all be over."
Seeing the undisguised terror in Harold's eyes, Victor dropped another bombshell, "You thought your little tricks were clever? Setting up anonymous accounts under Elliot's name to pin the disaster on your rival while extorting some cash on the side—a two-for-one deal? Or was it three? Too bad, though. Our boss hates being used, especially by politicians like you who play dirty games from the shadows."
The mention of Elliot's name and the anonymous accounts shattered the last of Harold's fragile composure.
His pupils contracted sharply, then dilated, filled with utter disbelief and fear.
They knew.
They had somehow uncovered even this!
How could they have found out so quickly?
Harold looked into Vitale's cold, merciless eyes and felt the gun barrel at his temple, ready to take everything from him at any moment.
He knew he was finished.
Against desperados like these, all his political maneuvers and lies were useless.
They didn't buy into any of that. They wanted results—Isabella's whereabouts—and they'd stop at nothing to get them.
He didn't want to die.
Especially not in his own home, dying in such a pathetic, worthless way.
He hadn't become governor yet. He hadn't tasted the peak of power or crushed Elliot under his heel!
He couldn't die like this!
But Harold also didn't dare betray that group.
Those people who called themselves Thorn of Justice weren't good guys either. They were ruthless, with a fierce thirst for revenge.
If he gave them up, even if he survived today, he might face endless pursuit and retaliation later.
His political career would still be ruined, and he might die an even worse death.
Caught in this impossible choice, gripped by extreme fear, Harold was drenched in cold sweat. His face was as pale as paper, his lips trembling, but he couldn't utter a single word.
Victor lost patience and pressed the gun harder, "Speak! My patience is even shorter than the boss's!"
Harold flinched violently, his survival instinct finally overpowering his fear of the future.
He suddenly raised both hands in complete surrender, his voice shrill and distorted from sheer terror, "Okay! Okay! I'll talk! I'll tell you!"
"They did pass through my house. I just provided the back door for them to avoid danger temporarily. I swear, they were very careful and didn't stay long."
"Really, they left from the small dock behind my house on a boat they had prepared in advance. They went down the small river channel behind the house, heading deeper into the lake area. That's all I know, I swear!"
Harold, as if grasping at a lifeline, eagerly tried to clear himself, "As for that anonymous account, they forced me to set it up. They said they needed an account like that to receive some funds, and it had to be disguised with Elliot's information."
"I didn't get a single cent of the money, I swear. All I want is to become governor and serve the people. I don't want to be involved in any of this. I was forced into it."
His excuses were weak, full of blame-shifting and self-justification.
But Vitale and Victor didn't care about Harold's motives, whether noble or not. They just needed information.
Victor glanced at Vitale, asking with his eyes, "What do you think?"
Vitale had been listening in silence, his headache worsening from extreme anger and anxiety, as if countless tiny hammers were pounding inside his skull.
He slapped his temple hard a few times, trying to stay alert through the pain.
His eyes were bloodshot, but his gaze was terrifyingly sharp.
Vitale looked at Harold, who was desperate to distance himself and scared out of his wits, and said hoarsely, "Send someone to check behind the house right now. See if there's really a river channel, a dock, and any traces of a boat. Hurry!"
He needed confirmation.
He needed to act immediately.
Harold's words could be true, or they could be the desperate ramblings of a man on the brink of death, or a mix of truth and lies meant to mislead.
But he didn't have time to interrogate slowly or sift through every detail.
Any possible lead, no matter how small, he had to seize and follow right away.
Isabella was waiting.
Somewhere he didn't know, enduring fear and torment he couldn't even imagine.
That thought burned like a red-hot iron, making every nerve in Vitale's body scream.
He had to find her.