Page 15 of Prince of Vice

The sun spills through the stained glass windows of my office, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the polished mahogany floor. I sit behind my imposing desk, my thoughts heavy like the leather-bound books that line the shelves. A knock on the door pulls me out of my reverie.

“Come,” I say.

The door to my office creaks open and Charlie slips in, his face a canvas of worry. He shuts the door quietly behind him, as if trying not to disturb the tense atmosphere. I can tell he's bearing bad news.

"What is it?" I ask, not bothering with pleasantries.

“I haven't been able to find another lawyer to take your case." The words spill out, heavy with disappointment.

I'm on my feet in an instant, pacing the dim confines of my office like a caged animal. Panic ignites within me, a wildfire threatening to consume rational thought. "That can't be! What about Sal? Or Mickey?"

"Dead and missing," Charlie replies, his voice laced with frustration. "Every name I checked, all the same."

"Dead and missing?" I repeat, incredulous. "How is that even possible?"

Charlie's eyes flicker with uncertainty. "I don't know. Something's off."

"Is someone interfering with our case?" The question hangs in the air like an unwanted guest. "From within the family, or outside?"

"Could be," he admits, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. "It's suspicious that we can't find any of our usual lawyers, the ones who know how to handle cases like ours – bribing judges, threatening witnesses, that sort of thing. But at the same time, none of my sources have heard anything about threats to attorneys."

He meets my gaze, concern etched into the lines of his face. It's clear that Charlie takes this matter personally, his unwavering loyalty to the family driving him to find answers.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the issue at hand. "So," I begin, my heart heavy with trepidation, "do you think Isabella is our best shot?"

Charlie sighs, his eyes downcast. "For now, keep working with her. I'll keep looking for another attorney, but she might be our best bet for handling all the pretrial work." He hesitates, gauging my reaction. "I'm confident I can find someone else before the trial."

I groan in frustration, the weight of uncertainty settling on my shoulders like a leaden cloak. "I don't like this, Charlie. I don't like it one bit."

"Neither do I," he agrees, his voice somber. "But we have to play the hand we're dealt, at least for now."

"Fine," I concede, clenching my fists. "What else did you find out about her?"

"Her background checks out," Charlie says, and I can tell he's choosing his words carefully. "Her father had a massive gambling debt from the race tracks. Loan sharks were after him before he died."

"Loan sharks?" I repeat. It adds depth to Isabella's story, making her situation more relatable and, dare I say, human.

"Yep," Charlie confirms. "In fact, they were the ones who killed him – not because of any mob connections, although that worked in our favor. They took care of the mess after he lost your father's trial. And now, those same loan sharks are after Isabella because she inherited her father's legal practice."

A heavy sigh escapes my lips. Isabella's story checks out, corroborating what she had told me before. It's another indication that she is, indeed, trustworthy. But can I truly trust her with my life, my future?

"Thanks for looking into it, Charlie," I say with genuine gratitude. "Keep me updated on any new developments."

"Of course." He nods solemnly before departing, leaving me to wrestle with my thoughts once more.

I force myself to sit back down at my desk and try and contain some of my anxious energy. My fingers drum impatiently against the smooth wood as I wait for Isabella to arrive.

Annoyance simmers within me at the thought of her refusal to live in the mansion during our time working together. Now that I know she’s going to be handling things for the time being, she needs to fall into line. The fact that she insists on keeping her other clients only fans the flames. I want her undivided attention; I don't want to compete with anyone else for her focus. Today, I decide, I will bring this up again when she arrives.

The door swings open, and there she stands, looking stunning even in casual leggings and a top. She can sense me staring at her outfit and fidgets slightly.

"I figured we'd be working long hours," she explains, "so I dressed comfortably."

Her figure is a distraction I can hardly afford, the curve of her hips and swell of her breasts tempting me to imagine ripping off her clothing and taking her on the very desk at which I sit. She tests me, pushes me, and it ignites a primal desire to show her who's in control. But before I can indulge in those fantasies, an internal voice of reason reminds me there is much at stake. I need to focus.

"Isabella," I begin, trying to keep the edge out of my voice, "I've been thinking about our arrangement. I still believe it would be better if you lived here during the trial. And I must admit, I find it difficult to accept that you're not giving me your full attention by keeping other clients."

She arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Primo, we've been over this. I value my independence and my career. I'll give you all the time and attention necessary to win this case, but I won't sacrifice everything else in my life for it. There are other people who also need my help."

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