Chapter 26
SONYA
The sound of shrieking sirens still bounce around in my head as if I’m back at the Mancini home, the image of red and blue lights bleeding through the windows, painting patterns on the ceiling.
I can still see Rodolfo dead on the floor, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, foam dribbling down his chin.
Now I sit in a police precinct in a windowless interview room, trying to steady my breathing while my heart thumps loudly in my chest. Thoughts race through my head—am I in danger, or just tangled in someone else's disaster?
My knuckles are white against my thighs as I rub them back and forth, wondering how much of myself I can keep hidden tonight.
The door opens without preamble, and a tall detective strides in, his suit clean and pressed, his expression neutral as his gaze moves over me. I allow myself to breathe when I see Kelly slip in behind him. They both sit opposite the table from me.
“Are you okay?” Kelly asks.
The detective’s lips are pressed into a thin line, but he doesn't say anything.
“I'm okay.”
I start to reach for my sister's hand over the table, then think better of it as I look at her uniform and badge. She's family, but right now, she has to be a cop.
The detective clears his throat, his mouth still tight, and I automatically don't like the guy. “Ms. Wallace.”
“Detective.”
“Can you tell me what you were doing at the home of Rodolfo Mancini today?”
“I was consulting with a client. You must know I'm a lawyer.”
His pupils constrict—he doesn't like the answer or my tone. Kelly shifts in her seat, flashing me a look that silently says, “cool it.”
“You make house calls for clients? Or just this particular client?”
“I deal with domestic abuse cases. Terrible ones where women are beaten half to death or have to run away in the middle of the night with nothing but the clothes on their backs. I consult wherever my client needs me—the hospital, the bus station or airport, women's shelters, the car they’re living in—”
“But that is not the case with Genevieve Mancini,” the detective points out, cutting me off. “She also has her father's protection.”
“Had,” I correct.
“Had,” the detective agrees through clenched teeth.
I clasp my hands over my bump and meet the man’s gaze. “My clients are my clients.”
“Yes, but how many of your clients have been part of your boyfriend's rival crime syndicate?”
It takes all my willpower to remain stone-faced. “What boyfriend?”
“You're telling me that Matvei Volkov is just an acquaintance?” The detective flips open a folder and slides a picture across the table. It shows Matvei and me on the sidewalk after the shooting at Genevieve’s and Samson's wedding.
I laugh sharply. “What Matvei Volkov was that night was a tool to help me get back at an ex. That's all. In return, he gave me money for the law firm I'm planning to start. It's all documented in a signed contract. I can provide that for you if you'd like.”
I don't look at Kelly, because she and I have too many secrets to keep a straight face.
“You expect me to believe that?” The detective arches a dark brow.
“Do you have any proof to the contrary?” I counter.
His gaze slips down to my bump.
Damn it.
“Do you want to get a warrant for a DNA sample? Or maybe just grill me about my personal sex life?” It's a dare, but I'm tired.
“We'll keep that in our back pocket for now,” the detective says smoothly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kelly trying not to roll her eyes.
“Can you tell us what happened?”
I tell them exactly what happened, for Kelly's sake but also for mine, because I have nothing to hide. No matter what this asshole cop is trying to suggest.
My mind spirals, caught between dread and disbelief as I'm taken back to the horrifying day I've been through.
The edges of reality blur—every sound is amplified, every movement suspicious.
In the span of minutes, my world has narrowed to the pulse beneath my skin and the weighted glances that seem to measure my guilt.
The room grows smaller as the detective continues to ask question after question, the boundaries closing in with every passing second.
Genevieve's tear-streaked face flashes in my head, her grief raw and unfiltered.
My brain scrambles for meaning as I recount every single detail, wondering if there was something I missed, something else I should have noticed.
The uncertainty gnaws at me, feeding the fear that maybe, in some way, I'm already implicated just by being here.
Finally, the detective decides he's finished. Either that, or he's grown tired of questioning me. He pushes to his feet, gives me a stern look as he tells me not to leave the city, then strides out, leaving Kelly and me alone.
“Thank God,” I groan, trying to stretch the kinks out of my back. “This chair is possibly the most uncomfortable thing I've ever sat on.”
“It's not supposed to be comfortable,” Kelly points out and smiles a rough smile, one that's missing her usual warmth. “What the hell is going on, Sonya? What the fuck happened?”
“Exactly what I told you. And that's all I know. It was horrifying, Kells. He just fell and started seizing, making these horrible noises like he was trying to escape his own body and whatever was happening within it. I don't think it was a heart attack.” I shiver at the memory.
Kelly's mouth presses together, and I know she wants to say something but can't.
“I'm sorry to put you in this bad spot. But I'm glad you're here.”
“Where the hell else would I be but pulling your ass out of trouble yet again? Seriously, is it your perfume or something?” I'm glad to see her being herself, to see the spark back in her green eyes.
“I wish I knew,” I sigh.
The chair scrapes against the floor with a cringe-inducing screech as Kelly stands up and motions for me to follow. “I called you-know-who to come get you.”
“Just don't let Detective Nixon know.” I nudge her shoulder with mine as she leads me out of the interrogation room.
Every shadow seems stretched and unfamiliar, as if each one is complicit in what took place today.
There's a hollow ringing in my ears, and for a moment, I can't tell if it's the echo of sirens or the pounding rush of my own blood.
The officers' voices fade into a distant hum, and all I can do is clutch the thin hope that the truth, whatever it is, won't shatter me.
The fluorescent hallway lights flicker overhead as Kelly ushers me to a different room, our shoes squeaking against the floor.
Somewhere down the corridor, voices murmur, the thud of boots mingling with the faint, metallic scent of fear.
I grip the cuffs of my sweater sleeves, fighting the tremor in my fingers, trying desperately to hold on to reality as the walls seem to narrow around me.
My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears as we walk. The detective’s questions along with my own linger, swirling in my mind like smoke, impossible to grasp or ignore. I wonder if the world outside will ever feel safe again, or if some shadow of this moment will follow me wherever I go.