Chapter 183
Jerry adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses on his nose, his calm gaze behind the lenses carefully observing Vitale, who was nearly driven mad by possessiveness and frustration.
He had seen Vitale remain composed in the midst of gunfire, calculate coldly at the negotiation table, and manipulate power struggles within the family with ease. But rarely had he seen him like this—showing an almost childish stubbornness and obvious pain over a woman's rejection.
"Mr. Luca," Jerry's voice remained steady, carrying the calm typical of a doctor and a subtle hint of persuasion, "I understand how you feel. It's tough to see someone you love pull away from you because of trauma."
"I'll do everything I can, using my expertise and experience, to help Ms. Lorraine overcome her psychological shadows. You can trust my abilities."
Jerry then shifted his tone, becoming serious and firm, his eyes locking onto Vitale's, which burned with unwilling frustration, "However, until I'm sure her psychological trauma is under control and she has rebuilt a sense of safety, I must advise you not to touch her proactively, especially in ways that carry obvious sexual implications or feel forced."
Seeing Vitale's brows furrow instantly, a flash of offended anger in his eyes, Jerry continued calmly, "You need to understand that this kidnapping incident, especially the impact of Eva's death in front of her, and her first deep realization of the violent side of the world you represent, has planted seeds of fear in her subconscious."
He pointed to Isabella, asleep on the bed. Though she looked peaceful now, the intense resistance and physical trembling from earlier were still fresh in memory.
"Her reaction to a man's touch, especially from a man she subconsciously both relies on and has recently developed fear toward—that is, you—could trigger strong physical rejection."
"Things like trembling, stiffness, nausea, or even panic attacks. This isn't because she consciously dislikes you. It's a typical sign of post-traumatic stress disorder, where the brain's self-protection mechanism is overactivated."
Jerry paused, then used blunter words to drive the point home to Vitale, "In simple terms, right now, some of your intimate actions might not just represent love or desire to her. They could also be linked to the violence, coercion, and death threats she just experienced. Do you get what I'm saying?"
Vitale understood, of course.
And because he understood, he felt a near-hopeless anger and helplessness.
He never imagined that one day Isabella would have such a negative, even fearful, physical reaction to his touch.
This was harder for him to accept than any enemy's bullet or betrayal.
It meant not only had he failed to protect her, but because of events tied to him, she now instinctively rejected him as a person.
This made Vitale feel an unprecedented sense of defeat, his heart aching as if soaked in acid, bitter and painful.
The stronger his desire to hold her, kiss her, and possess her, the more ironic and painful it felt at this moment.
"I get it," Vitale finally forced out through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse and carrying a suppressed sense of defeat.
He took a deep look at the sleeping Isabella, as if trying to etch her image into the depths of his soul, then stood up somewhat unsteadily. Without another word, he turned and left the bedroom.
He needed to cool off, needed time to process this harsh reality.
And Jerry needed space to begin his treatment.
Under the effect of a strong sedative, Isabella sank into a long, twisted abyss of dreams.
The dream started brightly, even with a warm filter over it.
She returned to her college days, sunlight filtering through sycamore leaves onto the campus paths.
Back then, her sister Sonia hadn't yet been completely warped by jealousy and obsession. She would act like a protective hen, fiercely chasing off shallow guys who tried to bother Isabella, only to awkwardly shove a piece of chocolate into her hand moments later.
Isabella also saw Chris. Back then, his eyes didn't hold the later calculation and coldness, only the pure, almost burning adoration and affection of a young man. He would run across half the city just because of a casual remark she made, or clumsily play a guitar and sing off-key love songs...
These were fragments of a normal, beautiful life she once had but had long since shattered.
However, the warm filter suddenly broke.
The dream took a sharp turn, becoming cold and menacing.
Isabella saw her father, Mason.
The stubborn yet upright old lawyer who was endearing in his way, and her nerdy but kind younger brother, Zane Lorraine.
They were roughly grabbed by Barton's men, tied up like livestock, and thrown onto a dirty, cold floor.
Barton's face, kind yet chilling, appeared in the scene. He looked down at the terrified Isabella, his voice slithering into her ears like a venomous snake.
"It's all your fault, Isabella. It's your fault for falling in love with that mafia boss, Vitale."
"It's you who dragged your family into this bloody mess. Look at them—look at your father's terrified eyes, look at your brother's trembling body."
"They're facing death because of you, because of your foolish love."
"No! It's not true! Please! Don't hurt them!" In the dream, Isabella let out a piercing cry, desperately trying to rush over but blocked by an invisible barrier, "They're innocent! They don't know anything! Please let them go! I'll leave Vitale! I swear! I'll leave him forever! Just let my family go!"
She was willing to trade the most precious thing she had, even if it was the love she had just regained, a love etched into her very bones.
But Barton only laughed cruelly, his smile filled with the sick pleasure of revenge and twisted satisfaction.
"Too late, Ms. Lorraine," he said slowly, as if savoring a fine wine, "My Eva was killed by your Vitale, so I want your whole family to pay for it."
Barton's face suddenly loomed closer, filling her entire vision, his voice like a judgment from hell.
"Isabella, you'd better live in pain. Because the longer you live, the more you suffer, the happier it makes me."
As his last syllable fell, two sharp gunshots rang out.
Mason and Zane's bodies jolted, bright red blood blooming on their chests.
The light in their eyes quickly faded, turning into a hollow, dead gray. Blood sprayed out like cheap red paint, splattering all over Isabella.
Warm, sticky, with a heavy metallic smell.