The conversation thins as the tension winds tighter. Rodolfo's face pales, and beads of sweat gather at his temples. He lifts his cup with a shaky hand. The room seems to close in around him, every sound suddenly sharper—the tick of the old clock, the distant rumble of a car outside.
Genevieve notices. “Dad? Are you all right?”
He shakes his head, frowning. “Just tired. Too much coffee, I think.”
I note a flicker of fear in his eyes as he tries to stand, his knees buckling. The cup crashes to the floor, porcelain shards and coffee scattering across the rug.
“Dad!” Gen leaps to her feet. “Dad? What's wrong?”
Rodolfo collapses, his breath rattling in his chest.
“Dad!” Genevieve is screaming now, pushing at her father and patting his cheek, while he chokes on the white foam bubbling from his lips. “Someone help! Dad! Help!”
The room explodes in chaos as Genevieve screams for help, sobbing, her hands trembling as she tries to rouse her father. Rodolfo's bodyguards rush into the room, shouting, as Rodolfo gasps and seizes.
I dial 911. “I need an ambulance,” I tell the dispatcher as I watch the man take what is probably his last breaths. “Hurry.”
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?”
