"Gina..." he opened his mouth, his lips constantly spilling blood, and he coughed softly, the froth staining his face red, "...Why?"
He felt as if he were still in a dream.
But the pain was so real.
The knife was lodged in his heart, in a place meant to kill him.
The woman swiftly put on her clothes. She turned and looked at Isabella, gazed at Isabella's incredulous green eyes, and said softly, "I'm Vincent's person."
"Cough cough cough..."
Isabella started coughing again, blood staining his cheeks, all covered by the sprayed blood froth.
"No..."
He seemed to be rejecting this fact, murmuring, "Impossible..."
But how could it be impossible?
Planting spies and assassins in each other's camp, then striking when the other side is lax – isn't this what people like them often do?
If Gina Turner was a spy sent by Vincent.
It wouldn't be all that surprising.
But he still didn't want to acknowledge this fact.
