Page 37 of Velvet Chains (The Dark Prince of Boston #2)

Chapter Thirty: Ruby

A lek was parked outside my house ten minutes early, engine running, gloves on. He didn’t honk. He didn’t need to. I’d been pacing in the front hallway since dawn, watching the frost on the windows recede like time itself was peeling back the edges of something I didn’t want to see.

Rosie was spending the night at Julian’s, playing with her new toys, while I watched this house crumble around me.

The cleaners were coming today—thank God—-so at least I didn’t have to worry about that.

I locked the door behind me, shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my coat, and climbed into the passenger seat.

The silence between us was the loud kind—thick with everything we weren’t saying.

It was time. I couldn’t keep putting it off. I had to go see Lucy Darnell. I kept imagining her face. I’d looked her up. Columbia Law, Special Counsel since '21. Every photo said the same thing: woman who does not waste time.

“You look like hell,” Alek said gently, eyes fixed on the road as he pulled away from the curb.

“Thanks.” My voice cracked despite the layers I’d wrapped around it. I’d gone with a navy pantsuit, plain white shell, low heels. No jewelry. No color. Just enough makeup to look like I was holding it together.

“You sleep?” he asked.

I shook my head. “You?”

“No.” He glanced at me, jaw tight. “This isn’t good news. I mean, I think there might be a way to contain it, but a special counsel interview is...not ideal.”

“You’ve always had a knack for understatement.”

“It’s what makes me such a good lawyer.”

I tried to laugh, but it wouldn’t happen.

“Has he been around?”

I shook my head. “Not since Christmas. But he did leave a present for Rosie in the mail.”

He furrowed his brow. “What was it?”

“A book,” I replied. “A Dr. Seuss book. Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are .”

“That’s a good book,” Alek said. “Are you going to give it to her?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “I checked the front page. He signed it. ‘From your friend, Key.’”

Alek nodded. “At least he didn’t write ‘from your dad’.”

“Small blessings, huh?”

There was nothing else to say. We’d already burned through all the moral questions, all the what-the-hell-were-you-thinking rounds. Now there was just the drive.

“They know,” I said quietly.

Alek’s hands tightened on the wheel. “They suspect. That’s different.”

“I covered up a murder, Alek.”

“You protected yourself. Your daughter. And they don’t have proof. You didn’t file anything. You didn’t doctor a report. You didn’t lie to law enforcement—”

“What if today is the day they flip the script?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, more softly than I expected: “Then we make them regret ever trying.”

Boston blurred past the windows in pale winter gray, all salt-stained roads and bare trees and the occasional string of stubborn Christmas lights still clinging to iron fences.

The DOJ office was downtown, sterile and looming in a way that felt personal.

When Alek pulled into the underground garage, he killed the engine and looked over at me.

“You ready?”

“Never.”

“Okay. Well, fake it.”

“Got it.”

He reached over, squeezed my hand once, then let go. “Don’t volunteer anything. Don’t get defensive. Let me do the heavy lifting.”

“Thank you, counsel. I know how this works. I did pass the bar.”

“You were top ten, if I recall.”

“Eighth.”

“Overachiever,” he said. I almost smiled. Almost. “But look, right now you’re the target. Let me be the shield. Even if I wasn’t top ten, I know what I’m doing.”

“You were twelfth. You did okay.”

“Thanks, mom. Okay. Ready to fake it?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Then I opened the door and stepped out into the cold.

Alek and I rode the elevator up in silence, his jaw clenched, my pulse fluttering in the hollow of my throat like something trying to get out.

The DOJ’s Boston office was modern and bright, but it still smelled faintly of antiseptic and fear—like hospitals, courthouses, funeral homes.

Places where people waited for bad news dressed in their best lies.

When the doors opened, a receptionist with a tight bun and a tighter smile greeted us. “How can I help you?”

“I’m DA Ruby Marquez. I’m here to see Ms. Darnell.”

“Of course, ma’am. I’ll let her know.”

She picked up the phone and dialed a number. After speaking quietly into the receiver, she flashed us a big smile. “Special Counsel Darnell will be with you shortly. Please have a seat.”

We were early. Of course we were early.

I sat in one of the sterile lobby chairs, hands folded in my lap like I was waiting for judgment. Alek stayed standing, pacing in slow, measured lines like a man trying to map out every possible move before the game began.

Five minutes later, the door opened, and I recognized her immediately. “Go ahead, please,” the receptionist said. “We have the conference room all set up for you.”

Lucy Darnell looked exactly like the pictures I’d found—elegant, ageless, and calm in a way that made me nervous. Her hair was salt-and-pepper sharp, pulled back into a twist. Her gray suit fit like armor, and the smile she offered me was the kind that meant nothing.

“Ms. Marquez.” She extended her hand. “Thank you for agreeing to come in.”

Her grip was warm, firm, forgettable—perfect. “Of course,” I said.

“Mr. Ivanov.” She nodded at Alek with polite recognition. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long, Ms. Darnell. I would like to say it’s good to see you, but the circumstances might prevent me from that,” Alek said, voice like glass. “Hopefully this is as routine as your invitation made it sound.”

Lucy smiled again. “That depends on your client’s answers.”

Before Alek could reply, the door behind her opened again. Two men walked in. I recognized them, too—Fitzgerald and Hayes. FBI.

Neither of them said a word. They didn’t need to.

My stomach dropped.

“Is this a joint interview?” Alek asked sharply.

“No.” Lucy’s voice was cool. “This is a Special Counsel inquiry. Ms. Marquez is not under arrest, nor is she being detained. But I’ve asked Agents Fitzgerald and Hayes to observe, given the scope of their ongoing investigation. Transparency benefits all of us, doesn’t it?”

I didn’t sit.

Neither did Alek.

“Are we recording?” I asked, because I needed to hear the answer out loud.

“Yes,” Lucy said. “Standard procedure. But again—this is not a custodial interrogation.” She gestured to the chairs around a polished table in the conference room. “Shall we?”

Alek pulled out my chair for me, which was either performative or affectionate—I couldn’t tell anymore.

I sat, spine straight, eyes forward. He took the seat beside me.

Fitzgerald and Hayes stood behind Lucy, arms folded.

Lucy opened a folder and smoothed her hands across the paper like she was about to read me my fate.

I looked at her hands: perfect nails, trimmed, transparent manicure with white trim. Not a tremor.

“Let’s begin,” she said.

Lucy pressed a button on the small digital recorder in the center of the table. A soft beep followed, and her voice took on a crisp, formal cadence.

“This is Special Counsel Lucy Darnell, Department of Justice. The date is December 28th, 2025. The time is 9:04 a.m. We are conducting a voluntary interview at the DOJ Boston office regarding ongoing inquiries into organized crime activity in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and potential obstruction of justice. Present in the room: myself, Special Counsel; Ms. Ruby Marquez, District Attorney for Suffolk County; Mr. Alek Ivanov, acting as legal counsel for Ms. Marquez; Special Agents Fitzgerald and Hayes of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, attending in an observational capacity.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice clear despite how dry my mouth felt.

“And you understand you are not currently under arrest or charged with a crime?”

“I do.”

Lucy nodded once, then turned a page in her folder. “Let’s begin with some background. Can you describe your professional relationship with Mickey Russell?”

Alek’s leg shifted slightly beside mine. I could feel his alertness like static. I folded my hands together.

“I prosecuted Mr. Russell years ago for attempted murder and felony assault in a domestic violence case involving his then-wife, Lily Russell.”

“It’s my understanding that there was some debate at the time about the severity of the charges. Can you walk me through your reasoning?”

“I asked my boss at the time, DA Lenta, to pursue more severe charges.”

“Why?”

“I pushed for it to be tried as an attempted homicide charge, not a domestic violence dispute. Mr. Russell wouldn’t take a plea agreement. He believed that, in his capacity as a doctor, the jury would see that he hadn’t intended to harm his wife.”

“But you believed he was trying to kill her?”

“I did. I still do,” I replied. “So did the jury.”

“What happened?”

“He served a seven-year sentence, was released early under a cooperation agreement with the state, not my office.”

Lucy’s pen tapped once against the edge of her folder, then stilled. “Ms. Marquez, are you aware that following his release, Mr. Russell entered into a federal cooperation agreement?”

I blinked. “No.”

“You didn’t know he was cooperating with the FBI?”

“No.”

“You didn’t know he was providing information about the Callahan family?”

I forced my voice to stay even. “No.”

Lucy nodded as if she’d expected the answers and had already planned her next play. She slipped a page from the folder, turned it over, and pushed it across the table.

It was a black-and-white printout of a man—thinner, older, eyes sunken but still alert. Mickey Russell. A chill ran down my spine as I thought about his hands around my neck as he tried to choke me to death. As I thought about him calling me a bitch, telling me he was going to kill me.

Alek looked at me, just for a second, before he looked back at the photo.