Page 50 of Prince of Vice

Good.

My heart clenches at the reminder that she's not living here with me. She has her freedom, and yet, I long to know every detail of her life, to protect her from the darkness closing in around us. This distance between us feels unbearable; I resolve to change it.

But for now, I need something to occupy myself. Deciding to get something to eat while I wait, I head toward the kitchen.

As I enter the kitchen, I find Constantino already there, devouring breakfast and perusing the newspaper. Our eyes meet, and we exchange terse greetings, the tension thick and palpable.

"Good morning, Primo," he says, and I can't help but notice the sly glint in his eyes.

"Morning," I reply curtly, turning my attention to the cappuccino machine, hoping it will distract me from the gnawing suspicion that my brother is up to no good. The hum of the machine offers no solace.

Constantino puts down the paper, a wicked smile playing across his lips. "You seem tense, brother. Anything you want to talk about?"

"Nothing that concerns you," I snap, feeling the bitterness well up inside me. The urge to confront him about his actions grows stronger, but I fear what that might unleash.

"Really?" Constantino raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair, observing me like a predator stalking its prey. "Because it seems to me that you've been preoccupied lately."

"Like I said," I growl, pouring the steaming liquid into my cup, "it's none of your business."

"Of course," he says, smirking, and I can't shake the feeling that he knows more than he lets on.

Taking a sip of my cappuccino, I feel its bitterness spread across my tongue. My gaze flicks to Constantino as he leans forward in his chair, scrutinizing me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.

"Primo," he begins, his voice dripping with feigned innocence, "how are our shipments coming along? You know, the times, amounts... and what about our people on the ground? How much money do we have floating around to keep the officials cooperative?"

My jaw clenches at his probing questions, the muscles in my neck tensing. The delicate china cup in my hand threatens to shatter under the strain of my grip. "I told you, it's none of your concern." Each word is a warning, a boundary drawn between us. "I am more than capable of handling things."

Constantino's lips curl into a smirk, and his eyes glint with something dark. "You may think so, brother, but these matters concern me more and more each day."

The anger within me flares, and I slam the cup down onto the countertop, deaf to the sound of shattering porcelain. The splatters of coffee on the pristine white marble mirror the chaos brewing inside me. "Enough!" I snarl, glaring at him. "I know you've been liaising with the Irish behind my back, Constantino. It needs to stop."

He remains unruffled, a picture of calm in contrast to the storm raging within me. "I've always been in charge of our dealings with the Irish," he retorts coldly. "I will do as I please with that business relationship."

"Like hell you will!" I shout, my hands curled into fists at my sides. "I am in charge, Constantino. Me!"

His laughter cuts through the air, a razor-sharp reminder of the power struggle between us. "You think you're in charge, brother? You're not as in control as you believe."

With a final derisive glance, he rises from his chair and leaves the kitchen. My heart pounds like a war drum, and I'm left with the broken pieces of my cappuccino cup and the bitter taste of betrayal.

As I stand amidst the shattered remnants of my morning ritual, my mind races with thoughts of Isabella's impending arrival. The mansion feels colder, more treacherous, every corner tainted by Constantino's ominous presence. I know that I must protect her from this darkness, to shield her from the ever-growing shadows.

But for now, I am alone in the wreckage, struggling to hold on to the tenuous threads of control that bind me to this life. And as I stare at the broken porcelain, I start to wonder if these fragments are a reflection of my own fractured soul.

The rage within me still burns, a fire stoked by the lingering sounds of Constantino's laughter. I leave the kitchen and pace the mansion halls like a caged beast, my shoes striking the marble floor with a rhythmic cadence that does little to calm my frayed nerves. The lush surroundings that once brought me comfort now seem stifling, suffocating—a gilded cage forged from my own ambition and desire.

I round a corner, my heart hammering in my chest, and there she is. Isabella, a vision in her tailored suit, her bright hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of ink. She stands before me, a defiant angel in this den of vipers, her eyes blazing with an intensity that rips through the veil of my fury.

"Where have you been?" I snarl, my anger momentarily taking hold as I close the distance between us. "You should have been here sooner."

"Primo," she retorts, the fire in her eyes never wavering, "you don't control my every move. You can't dictate where I go or who I see."

"Isabella, I need to know where you are," I argue, desperation seeping into my voice. "You're my attorney, and the trial is just around the corner."

"Your concern for the trial is understandable," she says, her tone measured, "but it doesn't give you license to control me."

The tension between us crackles like electricity, and in a sudden surge of emotion, I press her against the wall. My hands find purchase on her slender waist, and I lean in, my face mere inches from hers. "I thought you liked being controlled," I whisper, my breath hot against her skin. "I thought you enjoyed submitting to me."

My arousal surges at the feel of her against me, my cock stiffening as the urge to dominate her consumes my thoughts. I imagine turning her around, taking her right here in the hallway, driving into her with a primal intensity that leaves no doubt as to who is truly in control.

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