Page 36 of Prince of Vice

The door to Judge Dolan's chambers swings open, revealing a mousy girl with wide eyes and a nervous smile. She clutches a stack of papers in her trembling hands as if they're the only thing keeping her grounded. I recognize the look all too well – fresh out of law school and eager for experience, only to be met with the harsh reality of low pay and thankless work.

"Judge Dolan is ready for you," she announces, her voice wavering slightly under Greg's condescending gaze. A pang of sympathy strikes me, but I know better than to show it. The legal world is cruel to those who display weakness.

"Thank you," I say, offering her an encouraging smile as I follow Greg into the judge’s chambers. The room feels stuffy and oppressive, the air thick with the scent of old leather. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, adorned with countless framed accolades and photographs of Judge Dolan shaking hands with politicians and celebrities alike. The pretentious atmosphere is suffocating, reminding me that in this room, we are mere pawns in a game played by those who wield true power.

I slide into one of the leather seats, feeling the cool material press against my back as I face Judge Dolan behind his imposing mahogany desk. Greg takes the seat beside me, his smug demeanor replaced by a veneer of obsequiousness, his eyes gleaming with something akin to hunger.

"Miss Moretti, Mr. Daniels," Judge Dolan drones on, his voice monotonous and heavy, "I presume you are well aware that this case is bound to be high profile." His fingers tap rhythmically on the polished surface of his desk, betraying a hint of impatience. "Given its nature, I've decided to authorize that this trial be filmed and broadcast."

Greg's response is immediate and enthusiastic. "That's perfect, Your Honor! We welcome the media's presence."

My heart tightens in my chest, and my nerves flare, an involuntary shiver racing down my spine at the thought of cameras capturing every moment of the trial. My mind races, assessing the potential consequences for Primo and myself. Yet, defiance surges through me, and I know I cannot give in now. With a forced smile, I muster the courage to speak. "If it's Your Honor's decision, I will respect it." My voice is steady, but the knot of anxiety in my stomach remains.

"Excellent," Judge Dolan says, his eyes scanning both our faces. "I expect a clean and professional trial from both parties. You're dismissed."

Greg rises from his seat with nauseating enthusiasm, already agreeing with the judge even before we exit the chambers.

As soon as the heavy oak door closes behind us, Greg's facade crumbles, and he sneers at me. "You look pretty nervous, Isabella. Not sure you can handle everyone watching when I get your client convicted for all those murders he committed?"

My jaw clenches, and I force myself to remain composed. "Why don't you focus on what Primo is actually on trial for, and remember that everyone is innocent until proven guilty?" I retort, refusing to let him intimidate me.

"Believe me, I intend to prove just that," Greg smirks, his words dripping with arrogance. "And you won't get in my way." With that, he strides away.

I make my way back to the entrance of the courthouse, Greg's words ringing in my mind. What does he mean by not letting me get in his way? I can feel the uncertainty settle upon my shoulders as I make my way through the bustling crowd, their voices blending into a cacophony that only heightens my anxiety.

As I push open the heavy glass doors and step outside, the sunlight is almost blinding, casting sharp shadows across the courthouse steps. The air is thick with anticipation, and I feel as though everyone is watching me, scrutinizing my every move as if they already know the outcome of Primo's trial.

"Isabella!" A voice calls out from somewhere behind me. I turn to find no one, only the whisper of the wind carrying the sound away. Shaking off the eerie sensation, I focus on the task at hand - defending Primo. My heels click against the pavement as I cross the parking lot, the sun now a comforting warmth on my skin. Settling into the driver's seat, I take a deep breath and start the engine. The hum of the car feels like an anchor, grounding me amidst the storm of emotions that threatens to consume me.

As I drive, I let my thoughts drift back to Greg's blatant arrogance. It must be nothing more than the bravado of a desperate man, I tell myself. But a nagging voice in the back of my mind whispers, what if it's not? I remember what Primo told me about men like Greg. About how they can be dangerous when cornered. I grip the steering wheel tighter.

Approaching my apartment building, the familiar sight offers some semblance of solace. I park the car and gather my things, my mind already racing with strategies and counterarguments, legal precedents and case studies. The door to my apartment creaks open, revealing the chaotic sanctuary that is my home.

"Focus, Isabella," I tell myself, dropping my bag on the cluttered kitchen counter. "You can do this."

Chapter Seventeen

Isabella

The heavy oak doors of the courtroom creak open, and I step inside, Primo's reassuring presence by my side. The anticipation of the first major pre-trial hearing hums in the air as murmurs from the gathered crowd buzzes through the gilded chamber. Reporters jostle for space, their cameras flashing like lightning. A shiver runs down my spine, but it's not fear – it's excitement.

"Here we go," I whisper to Primo, feeling the warmth of his hand on the small of my back. He gives me a nod and a half-smile, his eyes filled with determination and something else - desire.

"Isabella Moretti, late as always," Greg sneers from across the room, his voice dripping with condescension. "And still without a second chair, I see."

"Someone like Isabella doesn't need a second chair when facing such a weak opponent," Primo interjects, his voice cool and steady.

Greg's face flushes with anger, his lips pressed into a thin line. He casts an irritated glare at Primo before turning away.

"Thank you," I murmur, leaning close to Primo's ear. His scent, a mix of sandalwood and leather, fills my senses. "But don't rile him up too much. It'll only make things worse."

"Understood," he replies, his breath warm against my skin.

As we settle into our seats, I can feel the expectation pressing down on us. The whispers and stares from the gallery are like tendrils wrapping around my throat.

"Order in the court!" the bailiff bellows, and the room falls silent. With a steadying breath, I straighten my spine and fix my gaze on the judge's bench, ready for battle.

"Judge Dolan presiding!" the bailiff announces, and the courtroom rises as one. The air crackles with anticipation, a living thing that wraps around me like a snake.

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