Chapter 187
Vitale's fingertips lingered on Isabella's slightly swollen lips, the warm and soft sensation hitting him like an electric current, rushing straight to the parched depths of his heart and stirring a trembling wave of longing.
He almost lowered his head again, desperate to claim the sweet fragrance that had just soothed his raging soul.
But the moment this thought surfaced, another voice echoed clearly in his mind.
It was Jerry's voice.
Just a few hours ago, after seeing Amboni off, Jerry had turned back deliberately and spoken to him in a stern, warning tone, "Mr. Luca, I know you've been waiting a long time, and it's been tough for you."
"But I must remind you again, and I'm pleading with you as a professional doctor—if you want to be with Ms. Lorraine in a healthy way in the future, instead of pushing her into a cycle of mental breakdowns, then please, control your physical urges."
Jerry adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his gaze behind the lenses cold and devoid of any hint of humor, "Right now, she's only temporarily awake from the deep therapy induced by medication. Her consciousness is back, and her logic is clear, but that doesn't mean her psychological trauma is fully healed, nor does it mean she's ready for any intimate contact that feels forced or pressured."
"My patient, Ms. Lorraine, has just gone through being kidnapped, witnessing violence, facing near-death experiences, and dealing with the fear tied to your identity—a series of extreme mental shocks."
"Her nervous system is like a rubber band that's been overstretched and suddenly released. It might look like it's back to normal, but the internal structure is damaged and extremely fragile."
"Any excessive stimulation, especially if it's not something she initiates or wants, could snap it again."
Jerry looked straight into Vitale's eyes, his tone carrying a hint of pleading, "I don't want—I absolutely don't want—to see my patient, who I've worked so hard to stabilize, fall ill again due to fear and stress, or worse, because of my momentary lapse or your inability to control your desires."
"That would be a disgrace to my career, and it would be a permanent loss for you."
"I hope you can understand my intentions. Can you do this? For her sake, and for your long-term future together."
At the time, Vitale had agreed on the surface, but deep down, he felt a bit dismissive.
In his view, Jerry was a doctor who understood pathology and psychology, but not the deep, bone-deep attraction and possessiveness between him and Isabella.
Vitale believed that as long as Isabella was awake and recognized him, her fears would naturally fade. They'd be like before—a single glance could ignite their passion. Whatever psychological trauma she had would melt away in the heat of his love and desire.
But now, as he faced the awake Isabella, looking into her clear yet still weary blue eyes that instinctively showed a faint trace of caution when he got close, Jerry's words rang in his ears like a warning bell.
He understood.
Isabella being awake didn't mean she was healed.
Her fear and barriers were rooted deep in her subconscious, not something a few sweet words or a kiss could easily erase.
Her kiss just now was more about pulling him out of his pained roaring—a brave and caring act of rescue—rather than an invitation of desire.
If he gave in to his impulses now and demanded more, he risked shattering the fragile sense of safety and trust she had just started to rebuild, pushing her back into a shell of fear.
This realization hit him like a bucket of ice water, dousing the burning desire in his heart and leaving behind a cold sense of frustration.
But he had to hold back.
For Isabella, and for his own long-term future.
At the same time, another person's words surfaced in his mind.
When Victor learned that Isabella was tormented by Eva's death, he had privately suggested to him, "Vitale, I know you want to use Eva to lure out Marco, but look at Isabella. She's soft-hearted. Even though Eva held her hostage, Eva did help her too."
"Letting her keep thinking Eva is dead, carrying the weight of someone's life on her shoulders, isn't good for her recovery."
"Sometimes, the truth is harsh, but it can be more freeing than a kind lie."
"Tell her Eva isn't dead. At least let her know you didn't really kill the girl who saved her."
Vitale thought about this all night.
On one hand, he needed Eva alive as bait to draw out the well-hidden Marco.
On the other hand, he couldn't bear to see Isabella continue to be tormented by guilt and fear.
Telling her the truth carried risks, but maybe, as Victor said, it could be a kind of release for Isabella.
Now, looking into Isabella's eyes—filled with complex emotions but no longer completely closed off to him—and feeling the lingering warmth of her lips, Vitale finally made up his mind.
He forced himself to tear his gaze away from Isabella's tempting red lips, bringing it back to her clear blue eyes.
He cleared his throat, his voice rough from the earlier shouting and the intense emotions swirling inside him.
"Isabella..." he started, his tone carrying a rare, almost cautious probing, "Are you still blaming me?"
The question came out of nowhere, yet it cut straight to the heart of the matter.
Isabella felt a jolt inside, as if she hadn't expected him to ask so directly.
Did she blame Vitale?
Rationally, she shouldn't.
As she had just analyzed herself, Vitale had his own code of survival and rules of the world he lived in.
Those anti-mafia people were just as vile and brutal, if not more so, often exploiting human weaknesses with precision.
Vitale's counterattacks, though bloody, were at least to protect her and everything he cared about.
His world was like that—black and white, with no mercy for enemies.
But her body and subconscious had their own memories and judgments.
Her body still remembered the soul-deep tremor of fear when Vitale suddenly fired a shot at Eva's feet in the woods.
Isabella still recalled the chilling sensation creeping up her spine when he calmly mentioned taking care of the people covering their retreat.
These physical reactions had nothing to do with logic; they were direct imprints of trauma.
Did she blame him for his cruelty?
Maybe not.
But she feared the unpredictable and uncontrollable consequences that cruelty might bring.
Isabella was afraid that Vitale would be completely consumed by that dark side, and even more afraid that she herself would be caught up in it.
Or worse, be dragged into it and become someone she no longer recognized.
She stayed silent for a long time, so long that Vitale's heart slowly sank, thinking she was silently admitting to that blame.
Finally, Isabella took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if trying to expel the nightmares and chaos pent up in her chest.
Her gaze turned unusually calm, even carrying a hint of scrutiny.
"Vitale, I don't blame you," she answered clearly, her voice steady, "From your perspective, you probably did what you thought was necessary."
"I just need time to process it, to adjust."
Isabella paused, her eyes locking onto Vitale's as she asked the question that had been weighing on her mind since she woke up, a question that had become a knot in her heart even in her nightmares, "But, Vitale, can you tell me—did you really kill Eva?"
The question came with an almost stubborn need for confirmation.
Since waking up, Isabella had thought about it endlessly, replaying countless details.
The Vitale she knew was cold and ruthless in his methods, but he wasn't the kind of brutal monster who took pleasure in tormenting or killing without reason.
His violence always had a clear purpose and efficiency.
Someone like Eva, who had lost the ability to resist and might still have some use—did he really need to kill her?
Just to vent anger?
Moreover, Isabella carefully recalled the explosion.
The flames shot into the sky, the sound was deafening, the vehicle was torn apart...
But in an explosion of that magnitude, if Eva had really been in the car, there should have been more horrifying sights.
Yet, though she was terrified and breaking down at the time, she didn't seem to remember seeing large splatters of blood.
Her memory was a bit hazy, but this doubt, like a seed, had taken root and sprouted in her heart.
She needed an answer.
An answer that would help her truly understand his reasoning and free herself from the heavy burden of indirectly causing Eva's death.
When Vitale heard Eva's name come from Isabella's mouth so clearly and calmly, he was momentarily taken aback.
Then, the corners of his mouth curled up uncontrollably into a relieved smile.
His woman was truly smart.
She was scared, she broke down, she was tormented by nightmares, but beneath the ruins of chaos and fear, she still held onto her sharp observation and clear thinking.
She hadn't been completely drowned by her emotions; she could still calmly analyze the doubts.
Isabella's intelligence and resilience made him proud, but also pained him.
He didn't answer directly. Instead, he reached out, gently taking Isabella's hand—the one not attached to an IV—and held it in his palm, his fingertips unconsciously playing with her slender fingers in an intimate way.
"Yes," Vitale finally spoke, his tone frank, even carrying a faint trace of satisfaction at a plan well-executed, "Eva isn't dead."
He felt Isabella's fingers suddenly curl in his palm, her breath catching instantly.