Page 70 of Prince of Vice

"Teddy? What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Really, Isabella? By now I thought you'd have learned that Primo doesn't just let bad things happen to the people he loves," he replies with a smirk.

"Love?" I stammer, taken aback by his choice of words. "No one said anything about love."

He shrugs and leans back in the chair, his light eyes twinkling with amusement. "Call it what you want. But don't think Primo would leave you unprotected."

"Are you staying here tonight?" I glance around the room, wondering where Teddy plans to sleep.

"Right by the door," he answers, sensing my unspoken question. "To make sure no more pesky kidnappers come after you."

A mixture of gratitude and relief settle deep into my bones. Primo's forethought and Teddy's presence provide a sense of security I didn't realize I needed. The day finally catches up to me, and I sink into the soft mattress, allowing the darkness to claim me.

Over the next week, the trial drags on, each day bringing fresh challenges and revelations. Witness after witness is called to the stand, their testimonies scrutinized and dissected. Constantino watches from the stands his predatory gaze on my back unnerving, but I feel confident in our case. We're saving the final blow for last – exposing him and his treacherous schemes.

As the sun sets each evening, I return to the hotel room, my body and mind aching from the day's battle. Teddy is always there, a silent sentinel guarding my door. Our conversations are sparse, but there's comfort in the familiarity of his presence. With every passing day, I grow more determined to bring the truth to light, fueled by the support of those who believe in me.

The final day of witness testimony dawns, and I can feel the electric anticipation crackling in the air as I step into the courtroom. My heart races with a mixture of excitement and dread, knowing that today will be the culmination of all my efforts. The room seems bathed in an eerie, golden light, casting a surreal glow over the proceedings.

"Constantino Maldonado," I call out, my voice steady and resolute despite the pounding in my chest. There is a collective hush among the audience as he rises from his seat, his eyes locked onto mine. As he makes his way to the witness box, I notice the wolfish glint in those icy orbs – a stark reminder that I'm dealing with a dangerous man.

He places his hand on the Bible, and I observe how his movements are cold, deliberate, and calculating, even for such a simple act. I take a deep breath, drawing in the scent of old wood and musty leather that fills the courtroom, and steady myself for the battle ahead.

"Mr. Maldonado," I begin, meeting his gaze with unwavering determination. "Can you tell us where you were on the night in question?"

"Of course," he replies, his voice smooth and practiced. He rattles off a series of quick, simple answers, clearly prepared for every query I might throw his way. But I am not deterred – I know that beneath that polished veneer lies a web of deception, and I'm determined to untangle it.

As I guide him through the events of that fateful night, he follows along easily enough, providing each expected answer with effortless charm. But then, I see it – the chink in his armor that I've been searching for. Unable to resist the opportunity, I turn the tables on him, catching him in an inconsistency that leaves him faltering.

"Mr. Maldonado, you claim that you were visiting your Father on the night of the murder. Isn't that correct?"

"Yes," he replies coolly.

"Permission to approach the witness," I ask the judge.

"Granted," Judge Dolan replies.

I make my way over to Constantino and hand him a ledger.

"Can you inform the Court what this is, Mr. Maldonado?" I ask.

He looks at it briefly and then tries to hand it back to me.

"It appears to be a log of visitors," he says.

"Hold onto that just a little bit longer," I say to him. "And if you could direct your attention to your entry on the night in question."

He scans the page and I continue.

"How long does it say you were visiting with your father on the night in question, Mr. Maldonado?"

He considers the page. "Approximately four hours."

"Wow! Four hours," I exclaim, turning to look at the jury briefly. I turn back to Constantino. "That's a pretty long visit, and quite late at night, don't you think?"

He shrugs, never one to lose his composure. "We had a lot to talk about, I guess."

"No doubt," I reply. "Could you inform the jury how long your visit was the week prior."

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