Chapter 7
SONYA
“What about the Marcus case?”
I rifle through the folders in front of me until I find the tab with the correct name. “We filed the emergency injunction for the restraining order. Given the evidence we have, I believe the judge will approve it.”
“Good.” My boss’s voice is tight. “The sooner we can do that, the sooner she can get out of town until the trial.”
“I’m just glad the judge set the bail so high and didn’t believe any of his bullshit.”
A sweet sense of satisfaction runs through me.
It’s a terrible case, and my boss and I both know my client will have to ultimately move across the country to get away from the man, and even then there’s no guarantee.
As it stands, we’ve established a small security detail, comprised of off-duty police officers who donate their time to keep her and her son safe.
“I think her sister lives in California,” my boss says. “She’s got somewhere to go for a while, at least.”
“Good. I don’t want her or Anthony to have to suffer until the trial. I can’t imagine the kid going to school and having to hear about how his father tried to kill his mother.”
“Okay, what about the Marston case?”
I try to focus on the next case, but my mind is still on Sylvia Marcus.
I met her in the hospital, recovering from being beaten so badly she nearly died.
Her son had been placed in temporary foster care while she was recovering because her in-laws, powerful and wealthy, had been implicated as well.
I’d seen the bruises on her neck, the contusions on her head.
I’d read about the number of stitches she had to get, the rod in her leg, and other things I didn’t want to think about anymore until the trial.
It's always the same story and always horrible. But to me, each client is like my first all over again, and I feel their pain just as deeply as I did the first time.
I find that in my line of work, people often blame the victim.
Why don’t they just walk away? Didn’t they know who the guy was before they married him?
But they’ve never walked in her shoes. They’ve never been a woman who has nothing and is suddenly offered comfort, money, and shelter by someone who pretends to be Superman but ends up being Lex Luthor, or worse.
They’ve never found themselves with their self-esteem being chipped away, their sense of self degraded until they don’t know who they are anymore.
They’ve never been completely powerless, having to choose between violence and being out on the streets because they no longer have anything that belongs to them.
Even knowing all this, I still fell for Samson’s charisma and good looks. Somehow, he got past my armor and managed to keep his authentic self from me. I’m just glad I dodged that bullet.
Never mind the questionable choice I made to sleep multiple times with his mobster brother—a literal killer and a man whose name sends shivers down the spines of not just police officers, but the criminals they arrest.
Still, my body betrays me. As I think about Matvei, a blush spreads all the way up from my toes to the top of my head, matching the heat rising with the memories.
“Sonya?”
I’m shaken from my reverie, realizing my boss is staring at me. “Sorry.” I clear my throat and give him the file he requested.
The outside door to our small office opens and closes. I hear the receptionist greet whoever just walked in.
“So this one is kind of a special case. We’re going to have to proceed carefully because even though we have evidence of assault, he’s called the cops on her before, too. It’s a power move, but it’s still on record, and you know some people will look for any excuse to—”
There’s a brief knock before the door opens and our receptionist leans in. “Sorry to bother you, but there’s someone here to see you, Sonya.”
“Me? I don’t have any appointments today.”
“I don’t think this is a client.”
My boss and I look at each other, then at the receptionist.
“Does he look—” I drop my voice— “dangerous?”
Our unflappable receptionist has faced down her fair share of angry, vengeful, and abusive husbands, as well as the occasional wife. When she bites her lip, I know something’s up.
“He’s very calm and courteous,” she replies, which means he does indeed look dangerous.
My boss reaches under his desk for his baseball bat before he nods and follows me to the door. An enormous bull of a man looks up as I approach.
“Can I help you?”
“You are Sonya Wallace.” It’s a statement spoken in a thick Russian accent, not a question.
“I am. And you are?”
Instead of answering, the man rises. “Mr. Volkov sent me for you. You have a dress fitting appointment for the wedding.”
My head whips around to my boss and the receptionist, both of whom are looking at me with wide eyes. I wave my hand at them, feeling myself flush. “I’m just someone’s date for a wedding,” I tell them. “It’s not my wedding.”
The two relax slightly.
“I don’t have an appointment with him,” I tell the big man. “Mr. Volkov might be able to take off in the middle of the day, but I have clients who rely on me. I can’t just leave.”
“Do you eat lunch?”
“What does that have to do with anything—"
“Do you take a lunch break?” He cuts me off.
“I usually work through—”
“Then this counts as your lunch break.” Again, it’s a statement, not a question. “You can say no now, but Mr. Volkov will not be happy if he has to come here himself.”
It’s obvious this guy is not taking no for an answer, and neither will Matvei—not that I’m surprised. I sigh and look at my boss, who shrugs as if to say it’s up to you.
“Fine. But it’s only a lunch break. You bring me right back here after we’re done.”
“I will,” the man promises solemnly.
“What did you say your name was again? And can I see some ID?”
Annoyance flashes across the big man’s face, but I’m not about to get into a random car with a random stranger just because he says Matvei sent him. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his ID, and hands it to me.
Evgeny Fedorov, State of Illinois. It looks legit, and Matvei mentioned this man’s name more than once in Prague, enough for me to understand he’s important.
I hand back his ID and turn to my boss. “If I don’t text you or if I’m not back in an hour, call the police.”
I’m only half joking, and everyone in the room knows it. Even Evgeny, who, as he holds the door open for me to step out into the late summer warmth, murmurs, “You don’t have to worry. Mr. Volkov will have more than my head if I let anything happen to you.”
“I’m not sure that makes me feel any better,” I admit.
Evgeny doesn’t say anything more as he leads me to a late-model luxury sedan with the windows blacked out and opens the door for me. He remains silent the entire time we drive to wherever we’re going.
The mystery is solved when we glide to a stop in front of a famous and famously expensive boutique. I’m immediately ill at ease when Evgeny ushers me in.
The space is way too luxurious, and the saleswoman is unable to hide the judgment and disdain on her face as she takes in my figure.
I forget about the saleswoman and her judgment the moment Matvei steps into view, rising out of the shadows like a vengeful vampire from a romance novel.
His scent envelopes me as he comes close, his lips warm when they brush my cheek.
“Hi,” I say, then groan internally because it sounds so inane.
“Hello there.” God, is his voice deeper than I remember? It rumbles to the very marrow of my bones.
“I was at work, you know. It would’ve been nice to receive a request for an appointment so I could’ve planned around this.”
“Evgeny told me you are on your lunch break. It’s not a problem, is it?” He turns and strides toward a room at the back of the boutique.
I trot to keep up. “You didn’t know that when you sent your bodyguard for me.”
“He is not my bodyguard; he is my most trusted lieutenant.”
I catch up. “I have no idea what the hell that means, exactly, but that’s beside the point. Next time, just ask. Better yet, let me get my own dress. I’m perfectly capable of shopping for myself.”
“Not for this wedding, you’re not,” Matvei replies.
I stop and glare at his back for a few seconds before following him into a private dressing room where a woman waits with flutes of champagne.
“Thanks, but I have to get back to work soon. I can’t drink.”
Matvei and Evgeny enjoy the champagne, swapping a few words in Russian.
“Do you always send your second in command to run errands for you?” I ask.
“Only when it’s important.” Matvei makes himself comfortable in a chair that’s too small for his frame. Somehow, he still manages to look at ease.
The saleswoman who was glaring at me when I walked in enters from a separate door on the other side of the room, pushing a rack with multiple gowns on it.
“Here are a few of the dresses you requested, Mr. Volkov. I have the others in the back, and they’ll be brought up shortly.”
The woman is entirely professional, but I can’t tell whether she’s nervous or trying to flirt as she keeps flashing looks at him under her long, dark eyelashes.
“You don’t even know what I like to wear,” I say to Matvei. My excitement from seeing him in person again is quickly overcome by annoyance at his high-handedness. “That’s not how any of this works.”
“Today it is.” The comment brooks no argument, but the lawyer in me takes over.
“Fine. I’ll try your choices, but if I don’t like any of them, I’m choosing my own.”
Matvei shrugs as if he’s indifferent to the idea, which I’m guessing is completely untrue.
The saleswoman pulls a dress off the rack and leads me into the small, curtained alcove where she helps me put it on.
“It doesn’t fit,” I tell him as I step out of the dressing room. The woman’s slight smirk tells me she’s thinking the same thing. It’s tight in all the wrong places, highlighting the fact that I don’t look like a model or Samson’s fiancée.