Prince of vice, p.8
Prince of Vice, page 8
The door creaks open, and Primo steps into the room, his tall, imposing figure silhouetted against the darkness. I can tell from the way he moves that he's exhausted, drained from whatever business matters pulled him away earlier. His voice is thick with fatigue as he speaks.
"Isabella…you’re here?”
“Yes, and waiting for you," I reply, my tone sharp. "We have an emergency hearing on Monday, and we need to prepare."
"Ah, yes," he sighs, rubbing his temples. "I don't have the energy for this right now, Isabella. Can't it wait until morning?"
"No, it can't," I insist, rising from the armchair to face him. "I've been waiting here for hours, Primo. This is important."
"Fine," he grumbles, clearly not interested in discussing the matter further. He glances out the window and notices something. "Whose car is at the base of the driveway?"
"Mine," I admit, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "It broke down on my way here."
Primo seems lost in thought for a moment, his brow furrowed, before shaking his head and making his way toward the staircase. "I'm going to bed, Isabella. We'll talk about this in the morning."
"Primo, you're not going to bed," I declare, planting myself in the doorway. My heart races as I stand my ground, determined not to let him slip away without discussing the hearing. His dark eyes lock onto mine, a mixture of amusement and irritation dancing across his features.
"Isabella, don't play this game with me. You'll lose," he warns, leaning in close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his body. The intoxicating scent of his cologne fills my nostrils, and I find myself momentarily distracted by the rippling muscles beneath his shirt. He catches my lingering gaze and smirks, attempting to lean in for a kiss.
"Get off me!" I snap, raising my hand to slap him, but Primo's reflexes are too quick. He catches my blow effortlessly, laughing softly before bringing my fingers to his lips. His warm breath sends a shiver down my spine as he murmurs, "Such hands could be put to good use doing other things."
"Infuriating," I hiss, wrenching my hand free from his grasp.
"You may say that, but your body cannot deny that it wants me," he retorts with a devilish grin. I glare at him, my frustration boiling over.
"Why aren't you more concerned about the emergency hearing coming up?"
"Because I trust you," Primo confesses, his tone shifting to one of sincerity. "I believe you can handle it."
My breath catches in my throat, taken aback by his words. This is the first time he's shown faith in my abilities, and it both warms and unnerves me.
"Now," he says, his tone still somewhat amused. "I'm going to bed, and I wouldn't object to you joining me."
"Go to hell," I immediately snap back.
"Oh, sweet girl," he drawls. "I've already built my forever home there."
"I'm going home," I say to him.
"Oh, are you?" he asks, amusement dripping off his words. "And, how do you expect to get there with a broken-down car?"
"I'll walk," I say, gathering my things and heading for the door.
He blocks my path. I look up to fight him, but his features tell me it's not a good time to argue. His eyes are dark, and he looks downright angry.
"You will do no such thing, and you will not argue with me about this," he says. "You're so smart at what you do but so foolish other times." I open my mouth to say something, but he cups his fingers over my mouth. My eyes go wide, but he doesn't flinch. "Do you not realize who your client is? There are forces outside of this family who would happily kill you on the off chance that it hurts my chances at trial. And you think you're just going to walk home in the dark? That I would let you do so?"
"Fine," I relent, my anger dissipating at his unexpected concern. "But I'm not sleeping anywhere near you."
"Of course," Primo chuckles darkly, his eyes never leaving mine as he leads me to a lavish guest room. The room is furnished with luxurious decor and furnishings. The walls are painted a warm gold, and the floor is covered in plush carpeting. A large four-poster bed sits in the center of the room, draped with soft sheets and fluffy pillows. There is an antique armoire in one corner, and a large vanity table with an ornate mirror in the other. I take a few steps in and peer into the bathroom.
A luxurious spa tub sits in the corner, begging to be used. The moment I see it, I can't help but feel a pang of longing – it's been ages since I've enjoyed a nice soak, and my small apartment doesn't offer such indulgences.
Primo catches my gaze lingering on the tub and smirks. "Allow me." He strides over to the faucet and turns it on, filling the room with the sound of rushing water and the scent of lavender. My eyes follow him as he makes his way to the door, and I reluctantly admit to myself that there's something irresistible about this infuriating man.
Just as he’s about to leave, I blurt out, “Wait, you’re leaving?” The words leave my lips and I know that the shock is written all over my face.
He turns and stands at the threshold. He raises an eyebrow as he looks at me, his eyes moving up and down my body. “Just a moment ago you were going to slap me, and now you want me to stay? Which is it, Isabella?”
I stand there, trying to think of a way to recover. I shake my head. “No, you can leave,” I say, tripping over my words.
His lips lift into the smallest of smiles as he turns back towards the hallway. “As you wish, Isabella,” and then he disappears into the shadows.
Morning comes, and I wake to find a set of keys on my nightstand. Confusion washes over me; I hadn't heard anyone enter the room while I slept. Picking up the keys, I notice the Lamborghini emblem and feel a surge of unease. What is Primo playing at?
I get dressed and head to his office, but it's empty. Descending the grand staircase, I'm greeted by Charlie, who introduces himself with a warm smile. He doesn't say much about himself other than the fact that he's known Primo and the family for a long time. I imagine that's mafia talk for him being a high-up mobster.
"Primo asked me to give you a message," he says, handing me a folded note.
"Thank you, Charlie," I reply, trying to mask my curiosity. Unfolding the paper, I read Primo's words:
Isabella, I trust you'll take good care of the car – and yourself. You deserve nothing less.
The words leap off the page in Primo's unmistakable scrawl, and I can't help but feel a mixture of gratitude and annoyance. He just couldn't leave well enough alone, could he? My old car, deemed unsafe, and now replaced by a sleek, black Lamborghini Urus waiting outside like a mechanical guardian angel. The note continues, assuring me that Primo is confident in my ability to prepare for Monday's hearing. It's both infuriating and flattering that he believes in me so much, even as he disregards his own safety by removing his ankle monitor.
"Charlie," I say, turning to face him, "what do you know about this?"
"Primo has always been one to... manage things," he explains with a shrug. "It's easier on everyone if he thinks he's still in control."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" I demand, gripping the letter tightly in my hand.
"Perhaps not," he concedes, "but it might help you understand him better."
With a sigh, I step over to the window and press the keys. The lights of the Lamborghini flash in response, confirming its existence as more than just a figment of my imagination. The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine; it's hard to deny the allure of such power, the promise of protection it represents.
"Fine," I relent, looking back at Charlie. "I'll learn to play his game." But inside, my thoughts race - can I truly let Primo believe he's in control when I'm walking such a dangerous tightrope?
"Good," Charlie nods, seeming satisfied with my answer. "Now, if you don't mind, I've got things to attend to."
"Of course," I reply, watching as he disappears down the hallway. Left alone, I take a deep breath and brace myself for the task ahead. Returning to the upstairs office, I immerse myself in preparing for the hearing - because no matter how I feel about Primo's actions or my new car, there's one truth I can't escape: this case is the most important thing.
As the hours wear on, my frustration with Primo's recklessness only grows. But beneath it all, I feel a strange sense of gratitude for his belief in me. It's a twisted bond we share – and as much as I hate to admit it, I'm beginning to crave it more than ever.
Chapter Eleven
Isabella
Driving the sleek new Lamborghini to the courthouse, I can't help but admit to myself that I'm reveling in the feel of this luxurious machine. The purr of the engine sends vibrations through my body, making me feel powerful and alive. The car is fast, undeniably sexy, and, above all, it feels safe – like an iron cage surrounding me in a world that has become dangerous and unpredictable.
But despite the thrill of driving such a magnificent vehicle, anger simmers beneath the surface. Primo never showed up over the weekend to work on his case with me, and as the trial looms closer, I have no guarantee he'll even appear at the hearing today. I grit my teeth, resenting how much control he seems to have over me, both professionally and emotionally.
Pulling into the courthouse garage, I park the Lamborghini next to a row of more modest cars. As I step out, the prosecutor - Greg - notices me, his eyes narrowing as they take in the gleaming SUV.
"Nice ride," he sneers, leaning against his own sensible sedan. "I guess selling your soul," he eyes me up and down, "or maybe more," he adds, "to the mob really does pay off."
His comment stings, but I refuse to let him see it. Instead, I toss my hair over my shoulder and stride past him, chin held high. "Good morning, Greg," I say coolly, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Entering the courtroom, anxiety begins to gnaw at my insides. Primo still hasn't arrived, and I glance around the room, searching for any sign of his tall, imposing figure. Greg sidles up to me, his voice dripping with false concern.
"Your client's cutting it a little close, don't you think?" he taunts. "Or maybe he finally realized he doesn't stand a chance in court."
I clench my fists, on the verge of snapping back at him when a deep voice makes me shiver. "I'd be careful about the way you speak to my counsel if I were you."
Primo appears seemingly out of nowhere, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit that accentuates his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He exudes an air of calm confidence, and for a moment, I find myself captivated by the sheer force of his presence.
"Ah, Mr. Maldonado," Greg says, unable to hide his surprise. "Glad you could make it."
"Wouldn't miss it," Primo replies, his eyes never leaving mine. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have matters to discuss before the hearing begins."
With that, he takes a seat next to me, leaving Greg sputtering in his wake. As much as I hate to admit it, seeing Primo come to my defense makes my heart pound with both gratitude and desire. But I can't afford to let him distract me – not now, when so much is at stake.
"Hello, Isabella," Primo says with a smile, his eyes locked on mine. I refuse to return the greeting, my jaw clenched in frustration at his weekend-long absence. He doesn't seem bothered by my silence, casually adjusting his cufflinks as he sinks into the seat beside me.
"Come now, Isabella. I made it on time, didn't I?" he teases, trying to coax a response from me. I bite my tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much his cavalier attitude has gotten under my skin.
"Primo, I—" I start, finally ready to let him know exactly what I think of his antics, but I'm cut off by the sudden entrance of the judge.
"All rise," the bailiff announces, and we do.
"Please be seated," the judge commands, and we follow suit. With an air of gravity, Judge Dolan launches into the proceedings.
"Ms. Moretti, Mr. Daniels," he addresses us both, "I understand there's a matter of witness credibility to discuss before we move forward."
"Your Honor," Greg begins, his voice dripping with disdain, "the defense has listed several witnesses whose connections to organized crime are well-documented. We believe their testimony should be disallowed due to the inherent unreliability of such individuals."
“Does the prosecution have a list of such witnesses?” the judge asks.
“Yes,” Greg says. The clerk walks over to his table and grabs his copies. She hands one to me and then walks one back to the judge. I look over the list and my mind races. If the judge rules that these witnesses should be disallowed, we might as well just put Primo back into a jail cell ourselves. It would completely gut our case.
Judge Dolan looks over the list pensively. “Defense?”
"Your Honor," I respond, my mind racing for a solid counterargument, "the prosecution is attempting to introduce character evidence that has no bearing on the facts of this case. To strike our witnesses without consideration would be prejudicial to my client."
The judge narrows his eyes, weighing my argument carefully.
“Ms. Moretti, the prosecution brings up a good point as to the credibility of these witnesses. Do you have anything to say to that? I’m sure you’re aware that as the judge I have the ability to keep this all out of evidence.”
“I am aware, your Honor,” I reply. “But, if the issue with the witnesses is the truth of their statements, then the jury should be the one to decide who is more credible. If the prosecution is so certain that these witnesses can be impeached, then they should feel free to do so at trial, rather than trying to hide behind the bench and risk creating an appealable issue for the Court.”
I throw that last statement in as a subtle indication to the judge that I am not going to be a thorn in his side if he rules against me on this. The tension in the room is palpable, and I can feel beads of sweat forming along my hairline. Finally, he speaks, his voice firm and decisive.
"Ms. Moretti is correct. Unless the prosecution has evidence directly relating to the witnesses' credibility on the specific matters at hand, their character and personal associations are not grounds for dismissal and are matters for the jury to consider. The witnesses will be allowed to testify. The prosecution’s motion is denied.”
"Thank you, Your Honor," I say, relief washing over me like a cool wave.
"Very well, if there's nothing further," the judge looks between the two of us, neither of us getting up to speak, "This court is adjourned."
As everyone shuffles out, I steal a glance at Greg's scowling face. His frustration is evident, and a small, wicked part of me revels in his defeat. But I know that even with this victory, the battle ahead is far from won.
As the courtroom empties, I gather my papers and make my way toward the exit. Primo's presence lingers like a dark cloud, but I refuse to acknowledge him. Before I can slip away, his hand wraps around mine, stopping me in my tracks.
"Isabella," he says, his voice low and commanding. I grit my teeth, suppressing the urge to lash out at him.
"Let go of me," I demand, my tone icy. But Primo only laughs, pulling me into a small, windowless side room. He shuts the door behind us with a decisive click, leaving us alone in the dimly lit space. The air is heavy with tension, and I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Come on, Isabella," he chides, his grip still firm on my wrist. "You should know by now that such demands never work with me."
"Primo, this is not the time," I snap, irritation and exhaustion warring within me. "We have more important things to worry about."
"Exactly," he agrees, releasing my hand as he leans against the table. "Like Greg, for instance. Did you see the way he looked at you? Like he wanted to tear you apart."
"Greg's always been like that," I argue, rubbing my wrist where his grip had been. "It's nothing new, and it's not something we need to focus on right now."
"Isabella, listen to me," Primo insists, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. "I've seen men like him before. They're unpredictable, dangerous when they feel cornered. And believe me, he looks like he's about to do something foolish."
"Instead of obsessing over Greg, consider your own actions," I say, my voice edged with irritation. "You removed your monitor and put us all at risk. Besides, as far as dangerous men go, Greg’s the least of my worries right now,” I say, thinking about the messages I keep getting from the loan sharks. I push against his chest, trying to create distance between us. But he grabs my wrists, easily overpowering me, and pins me against the door.
"Seems we always end up like this," he murmurs, a wicked grin playing on his lips. My pulse races as I struggle to reconcile my attraction to him with my annoyance at his cavalier attitude.
"Let me go," I demand, my breath hitching.
"Isabella," he says, his voice low and husky. His lips barely brush mine as he adds, "You were fantastic in court today. I was particularly impressed with your oral skills." He smirks at his double entendre, and my cheeks burn with indignation.
"Primo, you need to stop—" but my words are swallowed by his sudden kiss, his mouth hot and insistent on mine. For a fleeting moment, I give in to the desire that's been simmering beneath the surface. His lips move against mine. I open my mouth and his tongue invades me greedily. I can feel myself falling into him as arousal courses through me. But then reality crashes in, and I remember that this is just another one of his games.
I bite down hard on his lip, a metallic taste flooding my mouth. He yelps and pulls away, freeing me from his grip. I take advantage of his momentary shock and wrench open the door.
"Isabella!" he calls after me, but I don't look back. Fear and adrenaline propel me through the courthouse, each step pounding out a frantic rhythm in time with my heart. When I finally reach my car, I fumble with the keys, my hands shaking.
As I slide into the driver's seat, the seriousness of what just happened begins to settle on my shoulders. Primo Maldonado, the man I'm supposed to be defending, has once again left me breathless and conflicted. And as much as I want to deny it, I can't help but feel that I'm in way over my head.
