Page 37 of Prince of Vice
"Please be seated," Judge Dolan says, his voice stern but fair. I glance down at my notes, my fingers itching to turn the thin pages of the legal pad. But then, it happens - a sudden sensation of being watched, a prickling at the nape of my neck. My gaze lifts, scanning the crowd until it locks onto him.
He is an imposing man, broad shouldered and muscular, his dark suit straining against the flex of his biceps. His face is all sharp angles and deep-set lines, with eyes so blue they're almost ice-cold, and a contemptuous sneer curling his lips. He exudes danger, menace radiating from his very pores, and even though the room is packed with people, there's no doubt in my mind that his attention is focused solely on Primo and me.
"Miss Moretti," the clerk calls, and I jerk my gaze away, heat flooding my cheeks. "The dates for expert witness designation?"
"Ah, yes," I stammer, flipping through my calendar. "April 17th."
"Very well," the clerk replies, making a note on his own schedule. I steal another glance at the brooding stranger, curiosity gnawing at my insides like a ravenous beast.
We continue to go through the dates, finally leading up to setting the trial date itself in just one week.
"Court adjourned," Judge Dolan finally declares, and the room erupts into a cacophony of voices. As we gather our things, I can feel the stranger's cold eyes still boring into us, sending shivers skittering down my spine.
"Who is he?" I ask Primo once we step outside, casting a surreptitious glance over my shoulder. The man approaches, his strides confident and predatory.
"Doesn't concern you," Primo replies tersely, but I can see the muscle in his jaw twitching, betraying his unease. The stranger stops in front of him, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills.
"Primo," the man grunts, a hint of an Irish brogue coloring his voice. Their exchange is curt, clipped, and as they part ways, Primo's hand falls to my elbow, steering me toward the car.
"Who was that?" I demand once we're safely inside, the doors locked and the engine purring beneath us. "And don't give me that 'it doesn't concern you' crap."
"Isabella, please," he murmurs, but there's a pleading note in his voice that makes my heart ache.
"Did our time together mean nothing to you?" I snap, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "How can you still not trust me?"
"Fine." He exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. "His name is Declan O'Leary. Second in command of the Irish mob, also known as the Westies."
My heart skips a beat as I process this information, a cold knot of fear forming in my stomach. But I swallow it down, steeling myself for whatever comes next.
The car hums beneath us as Primo navigates the congested city streets as we make our way out to his mansion. Tension hangs heavy in the air, a palpable presence between us. I feel a tinge of fear mixed with curiosity as he begins to speak.
"Declan O'Leary..." he murmurs, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "The Westies...they've been hungry for power and control for a long time, always looking for ways to undermine us."
"Undermine you how?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
"By questioning our legitimacy," he replies, his jaw set and eyes focused on the road ahead. "Have you ever wondered why our name isn't the most Italian sounding?"
I shake my head. "I never really thought about it."
"During the unification of Italy, my ancestors changed their surname to escape persecution," Primo explains, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. "At least, that's always been the excuse. I don't know whether it's actually true or if something more sinister happened with our lineage. But with my father now in prison, others have taken the opportunity to question our place at the head of the New England crime syndicate."
My pulse quickens as the implications of his words sink in. "Do you think Declan will make a move against you?"
He shakes his head. "Not directly. He'll likely try something more insidious, like influencing the trial."
"His name isn't on the witness list," I point out, my mind racing.
"Doesn't matter," Primo says dismissively. "He might try to influence the witnesses in other ways, without having to take the stand himself."
"Good point," I concede, my thoughts turning to the upcoming trial. "We should discuss who will testify."
Primo's silence is deafening as he navigates the car through the cityscape, the tall buildings casting dark shadows over us. Our situation feels heavy on my chest, but I refuse to let fear consume me.
The mansion looms ahead, a symbol of the power and control that has been challenged by those who dare to question the Maldonado name. As we pull into the driveway, Primo takes a deep breath and turns to face me, his eyes filled with determination.
"I've already taken care of the witnesses," he says coolly. "The family has always had witnesses lined up for these sorts of matters."
"Are you telling me that you have bribed witnesses?" The words taste like bile in my mouth as I spit them out.