Page 34 of Prince of Vice

"Goodnight, Primo," she replies, her eyes searching mine for a moment before they flicker away.

I find myself drawn to her, desperate to taste the sweetness of her lips. She seems to anticipate my intentions, her breath hitching ever so slightly. But as my face hovers inches from hers, doubt seizes me. The uncertainty of my fate looms over us, casting a shadow on the fragile bond we've formed. It would be selfish to let her get attached, only to leave her heartbroken if this trial costs me my freedom.

"Sleep well," I manage, forcing myself to step back.

"Thanks, you too," Isabella whispers, her gaze now fixated on the floor.

Turning away, I retreat to my bedroom, my chest heavy with regret and longing. As I climb into bed, the silky sheets offer little comfort against the turmoil raging within me. My thoughts drift back to Isabella's conviction that someone had orchestrated the setup, manipulating events from the shadows. Who could it be? What twisted motive lies at the heart of this conspiracy?

The possibilities swim through my mind, each more sinister than the last. Sleep eludes me as I grapple with the mounting questions, but eventually, the darkness claims me. Even in slumber, my restless thoughts continue to churn, seeking answers that remain shrouded in mystery.

Chapter Fifteen

Isabella

My eyelids flutter open, the faintest hint of dawn's light seeping through the heavy curtains. Despite how late I slept, my body protests its early awakening. As I tiptoe to the door, the mansion remains eerily silent, as if everyone is still asleep, held captive by the night's velvet embrace. My stomach rumbles with hunger, a gnawing sensation that drives me to explore the somewhat unfamiliar halls in search of sustenance.

I glide through the corridors, my bare feet whispering against the cold marble floor. Primo’s silk dress shirt clings to my form like a second skin, a thin veil between me and the world around me. The grand walls of the Maldonado mansion are adorned with photos, each frame cradling a moment frozen in time. As I walk, I feel the eyes of history bearing down on me, the specters of the past watching from their gilded perches.

"Is this really where I belong?" I murmur, an uneasy sensation settling into the pit of my stomach.

A particular photo catches my attention, and I pause, my breath hitching in my throat. My father stands among a group of men, their eyes sharp and calculating. There, among them, is Primo's father, Johnny Maldonado, his dark gaze piercing through the photograph and straight into my soul. My heart twists, caught between loyalty to my family and the undeniable pull I feel toward Primo.

As a lawyer, I'm well-versed in the art of negotiation and manipulation, but the Mafia world is a different beast altogether. The Maldonado family, with their complex web of alliances and betrayals, embodies everything I've tried to distance myself from. And yet, here I am, representing them in a trial that could change the very course of their criminal empire.

Shaking off the tendrils of doubt that threaten to ensnare me, I continue onward, finally reaching the haven of the kitchen.

I step inside, and the aroma of coffee beans envelops me like a warm embrace. My stomach growls impatiently, urging me to hasten my breakfast preparations. I busy myself with grinding the beans and setting up the coffee maker, the familiar motions soothing my frazzled nerves.

"Are you one of Giovanni's whores?" a cold voice cuts through the silence, startling me.

I look toward the entrance to find Constantino leaning against the doorway, his dark hair disheveled, and his piercing green eyes fixed on me with an air of disdain. The sharp angles of his face and the predatory gleam in his gaze make him appear as though he's been plucked from the pages of a Gothic novel.

"I'm Primo's lawyer," I reply tersely, bristling at his crude remark. "Isabella Moretti. We've met."

"Oh, right. I remember now," he drawls dismissively, pushing himself off the doorframe and sauntering over to the kitchen island. He slides onto a stool with an air of entitlement that rankles me. "Make another pot of coffee for me, will you?"

I grit my teeth, torn between acquiescing to maintain a polite façade and snapping back at him for treating me like a servant. Reluctantly, I set about making another pot, my hands trembling slightly with indignation.

"Tell me, Ms. Moretti," Constantino begins, drumming his fingers on the countertop, "How is Primo's trial coming along?"

"Fine," I say curtly, my senses prickling with unease. His questions feel like probing needles, digging beneath the surface to unearth our strategy.

"Really? Such detail. It must be riveting," he smirks, his emerald eyes gleaming with amusement and something darker – perhaps malice or curiosity. "What are your plans for the defense?"

"Constantino, why are you so curious?" I ask, unable to maintain my composure any longer.

He feigns a smile, his lips stretching into a chillingly disingenuous grin. "Of course, I'm worried about my older brother. How could I not be?" Despite his words, my intuition screams that there's more to his interest than just fraternal concern.

My thoughts whirl with confusion and frustration, my heart thumping wildly in my chest as I try to decipher the enigma that is Constantino Maldonado. I pour out the coffee, the dark liquid swirling in my cup.

"Perhaps if you're so worried about your older brother, you can help shed some light on what was going on that night," I suggest, my voice wavering slightly under his scrutiny. The kitchen seems to shrink around us, and I feel as though I'm suffocating.

Constantino waves his hand dismissively, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know anything, and I wouldn't be of any help. If you were doing your job and looking through all the evidence, you would already know that." His words sting like a slap across my face, and I struggle to maintain my composure.

I watch in disbelief as he saunters over to the freshly brewed coffee, his movements both fluid and predatory. He grabs a cup and takes a sip, his lips curling in distaste. "This is very bad," he sneers, dumping the contents into the sink with a clatter that lingers in the cavernous room.

Constantino smirks at me, his mockery palpable. "Good luck with the trial," he drawls, his gaze raking me up and down as if I'm merely an object for his amusement. "Even if Primo goes to prison for the rest of his life, at least he can say he got to fuck his lawyer. We should all be so lucky."

---