Chapter 160
Eva didn't explode in anger or storm out as Isabella had expected.
She just stayed silent, her deep green eyes like two bottomless wells, reflecting no light and hiding any emotions beneath.
That silence lasted nearly a minute, so oppressive that Isabella could hardly breathe.
Just as Isabella thought she had offended Eva and was about to apologize,
Eva spoke, her voice even lower and colder than before, "Do you know how what we're doing now is any different from the mafia?"
Isabella was caught off guard by the sudden question.
Eva didn't wait for an answer and continued, her tone dripping with sarcasm, "Kidnapping an innocent woman. Oh, right, you wanted to remind me earlier that you're not even married to Vitale, just his girlfriend, huh?"
"Using her to threaten her man, to get what we want, intimidating, torturing, filming those disgusting videos—doesn't that sound familiar?"
Isabella opened her mouth to argue but found herself at a loss for words.
Because what Eva said was, to a large extent, true.
Even if the motives were different, the cruelty of the methods was the same.
"I..." Isabella's voice faded weakly, "I never took part in those things..."
"But you've enjoyed the wealth and protection he gained through those methods, haven't you?" Eva pointed out sharply, "You live in his castle, wear the designer clothes he buys, go out with bodyguards trailing you. Do you think all this glamour just fell from the sky? Every penny is stained with someone else's blood and tears, or more directly, with the stench of rotting corpses."
Isabella's face grew even paler.
These words whipped at the conscience she had been trying to ignore.
She couldn't deny that Vitale's world was dark, and she was indeed sheltered under the wings of that darkness, choosing to only see the side touched by sunlight.
"So," Eva leaned forward slightly, her icy green eyes locking onto Isabella, "don't talk to me about innocence. In this mess, no one is truly innocent. You're just luckier—or unluckier, depending on how you see it. You've become a more valuable bargaining chip."
Isabella felt a bone-deep chill, not just from the surroundings but from the undeniable logic in Eva's words.
She tightened her arms around her knees.
"But," Isabella swallowed hard, still trying to find a crack of humanity, "at least you didn't really do to me what they said you would. After the video, I know that if it weren't for you or Mr. Barton's orders, I might have already..."
"Might have already been dead, naked, and humiliated, dying at the hands of those pieces of trash," Eva finished for her, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather, "Yes, that's right. So what? Do you think that proves we're kinder than the mafia? More noble?"
She let out a cold laugh, full of self-mockery and deep exhaustion, "It only proves that our goals are clearer, our plans more precise. We don't want to ruin the bigger picture over some momentary urge or pointless cruelty. That's all. Don't mistake survival tactics for kindness."
"But I'm still grateful to you," Isabella insisted, a faint but stubborn light flickering in her blue eyes, "In a situation like that, any bit of restraint meant a chance for me to survive. I know deep down you're not as cold as you seem. I can feel it."
Those words, like a small pebble tossed into a frozen lake, finally stirred a real, intense ripple in Eva's eyes.
"Don't call me kind!"
Eva suddenly stood up from the chair, knocking it over with a loud crash.
She braced her hands on the wooden crate, looming over Isabella, who shrank back in fear. The cold mask she had worn finally shattered.
Her breathing grew heavy, her chest heaving as she stared down at Isabella.
"It's because I was damn kind that I believed that pathetic bastard who came begging for help."
"I thought he was just a poor businessman driven to desperation by the mafia."
Eva's voice trembled with raw emotion, each word forced out through gritted teeth, soaked in blood and hatred, "I begged my father to help him, to give him shelter, to give him work. My father, my mother—they were soft-hearted, good people. And what happened?"
Eva slammed her fist into the concrete wall beside her, the dull thud echoing as her knuckles split and bled, but she didn't seem to notice.
"That bastard was a mafia spy. He figured out everything about our family. Then one night, he brought his people, and they killed my parents! Right in front of me! My father died in a hail of bullets trying to protect my mother. My mother, holding his body, screaming, was stabbed by them..."
Eva couldn't go on. She turned her head away sharply, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably with the immense grief and hatred she had suppressed for too long.
Though she quickly clenched her jaw and forced the trembling down, that brief moment of collapse was staggering.
Isabella was stunned. She curled up on the bed board, covering her mouth as silent tears streamed down her face.
Not for herself, but for the deep, unhealed wound behind the seemingly unbreakable Eva.
For the first time, she felt so vividly how hatred could completely reshape a person, turning her into a weapon of revenge—cold, sharp, and at the same time, imprisoning herself in the hell of the past.
The room was filled only with Eva's heavy, restrained breathing. After a long while, she slowly turned back.
The vulnerability and pain on her face were gone, replaced by that extreme coldness, now even harder and more distant than before.
Only a trace of redness lingered in her deep green eyes.
Eva bent down, picked up the fallen chair, her movements sharp and controlled again, as if the outburst had never happened.
"So, keep your naive gratitude and probing to yourself," Eva said, her voice calm again, "The only reason I'm alive is to spill mafia blood in memory of my family. Vitale is a key pillar of that filthy empire. He must pay the price. And you..."
She glanced at Isabella, whose face was pale, a fleeting, complex emotion flashing in her eyes, too quick to catch.
"You're just a tool to achieve that goal. A troublesome one, but useful for now."
With that, she stopped looking at Isabella, picked up the medical tray from the floor, and turned toward the iron door.
"Eva!" Isabella couldn't help but call out as Eva's hand touched the doorknob, her voice choked with tears, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
Eva's hand paused on the knob but didn't turn back.
"Stay put," she said finally, her tone flat, "Don't do anything stupid. Stay alive, and you might have a chance to see your Vitale again—if he's still willing to risk himself for you."
The iron door opened and closed.
Isabella was left alone in the cold cell, the echo of Eva's raw, pain-filled roar still ringing in her ears.
She slowly slid down onto the bed board, hugging her knees and burying her face in them.
A breakthrough seemed to have appeared, yet it also felt completely blocked.
Eva's hatred was so deep-rooted, so personal, that it was almost impossible to shake.
Isabella's earlier distaste for the mafia had been more about morals, but Eva's hatred was a blood feud, a fight to the death.
Would Vitale really come for her?
Would he step into this deadly trap clearly set for him, just for her?
Isabella didn't know.
All she felt was endless cold, loneliness, and a deep fear of what lay ahead.