Page 60 of Prince of Vice

"Thank you," he whispers, the vulnerability in his voice tugging at my heartstrings. "I'd like to see you again," he tells me. "Would tomorrow night work for you?" His voice trembles with anticipation. "If you have everything in order, we could spend the last night together before the trial."

"Tomorrow night," I agree, my pulse quickening at the thought. "I'll come to the mansion. Primo," I hesitate, "would you like to do another scene?"

A shiver runs down my spine as I remember our last rendezvous, but I wonder whether now is really the time for such distractions.

"Isabella, I would prefer to just spend time with you tomorrow night, if that's okay with you."

"Of course!" I reply.

"Good," he murmurs, relief evident in his tone. "We'll celebrate our special way after the trial is over and all of this is behind us."

"Until tomorrow night then," I say softly, hanging up the phone.

The moment I end the call, a wave of relief washes over me. Primo's decision to expose Constantino's treachery will undoubtedly help our case, but it's also a step toward finding justice for both him and his family. Determined to put those thoughts aside for now, I turn my attention to the final preparations for tomorrow.

In the dim light of my office, I jot down notes in my leather-bound notebook, reorganizing my thoughts and constructing a solid defense strategy. My fingertips dance across the pages, leaving behind a trail of ink as they weave together a story of truth and deceit. Finally satisfied with my work, I close the book with a soft sigh and gather my materials, filing them away for safekeeping.

Exhaustion settles upon my shoulders as I make my way to my bedroom. As I slip beneath the cool sheets, my mind begins to wander, imagining a life with Primo after the trial is over. Images of us together, exploring hidden passions and building a future free from the shadows of his past, flicker through my thoughts like scenes from an old film reel.

"Would that even be possible?" I murmur into the darkness, uncertain of what lies ahead for us.

My hand drifts to the rose gold necklace resting against my collarbone, its delicate chain warm against my skin. The symbol for St. Ives, which hangs at the center of the pendant, catches the moonlight streaming through the window, casting a soft glow on my chest. Though I may not be a practicing Catholic, the knowledge that Primo gifted me this token of protection, inspired by the patron saint of lawyers, brings me a sense of comfort.

"Watch over us, St. Ives," I whisper into the night, feeling the weight of the upcoming trial pressing down on me. "Guide my words so that the truth may be revealed. Only two more days," I think as I succumb to the darkness, my hand still clasping the necklace that binds us together. "Two more days, and we'll have our chance to change everything."

Sleep claims me quickly, and I drift through the abyss of dreams until the ghostly sound of footsteps down the hallway shatters my slumber. Blinking against the remnants of sleep, I try to focus on the unfamiliar noises, but dismiss them as the quirks of an apartment that has become almost foreign to me. Turning over, I allow my eyes to close once more.

Sudden, sharp pain sears through my arm as I'm wrenched out of bed, and a rough bag is shoved over my head. Panic blossoms inside me, tendrils of fear reaching into every corner of my mind. My heart beats a frenzied tempo against my ribs.

"Wh-what's happening?" The words leave my lips, muffled beneath the suffocating fabric.

"Shut up," a voice hisses. The cold steel of a knife presses against my throat, making me swallow any further protests.

As the world goes dark around me, I struggle to breathe, each inhale filled with the stale scent of the bag's confines. Time becomes an elusive concept, seconds stretching into eternity as I'm dragged somewhere unknown.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Primo

The dim light of the moon filters through the filmy curtains as I stand at the edge of my luxurious bed, the silky sheets inviting me to surrender to a night of rest. My fingers graze the cool fabric when an unfamiliar notification sound pierces the silence, startling me from my reverie. Heart pounding, I snatch up my phone, squinting at the screen as it reveals the unthinkable.

"Isabella," I whisper, my voice quivering with fear and disbelief. The blue dot on my phone indicates her rapid movements through the city, far from the safety of her apartment where she should be preparing for our trial or nestling into her own bed. Panic floods through me, adrenaline spurring me into action as I hastily dress, my thoughts racing alongside my pulse.

"Damn this place!" I hiss, cursing my secluded mansion as I stride into the garage, losing cell signal in its depths. The low growl of my car's engine reverberates around me as I peel out, leaving black tire marks as a testament to my desperation.

The signal returns, my eyes locked on the pulsating blue dot guiding me towards Isabella. Driving recklessly, I attempt to dial her number, but there's no answer. Guilt gnaws at me; I knew she should've stayed here with me. But I also couldn't bear to deny her request, to suppress her fierce independence that had drawn me to her in the first place.

After an agonizing ten minutes, the blue dot stops moving. Dread churns in my stomach, a stark contrast to the distant hope that maybe, just maybe, she's simply taken a midnight stroll.

But deep down, I know that isn't true. Too much time has passed, too many things could've happened to her by now. And if they have, I'll never forgive myself.

The abandoned warehouse looms before me like a relic of a bygone era, its corroded walls and shattered windows testament to the ravages of time. As I pull my car up as close as I dare without being detected, the headlights briefly illuminate a rundown van parked nearby before I dim them. It's the kind of vehicle that screams nothing but trouble.

Stepping out of my car, I take extra care to muffle the sound of the door closing, aware that every second counts in this precarious situation. My hands are steady as I grip the gun in one hand, the silencer already screwed in place. A fire burns within me, fueled by the thought of anyone daring to lay a finger on my Isabella. They won't survive the night.

I make my way around the van, peering inside only to find it empty. Voices echo from within the warehouse; it seems they're too preoccupied to notice my approach.

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