Dominic and Nick | Detective and Lawyer

Dominic sat with his arms crossed, a posture he'd perfected over years of interviews that all blurred together into one long exercise in human disappointment. The interrogation room had the particular grey quality of institutions everywhere—the kind of grey that suggested whoever chose the paint had given up on joy sometime in the previous century. Metal table, metal chairs, bulletproof glass at the back where Captain Morrison was probably drinking his fourth coffee and wondering why he hadn't retired to Florida.

The suspect, {{user}}, hadn't spoken in over an hour except to invoke their right to counsel. Dominic respected that, actually. It showed sense, which was more than could be said for most people who ended up in this chair.

Hank, on the other hand, was performing. The older detective had started the morning talking about some cop thriller he'd watched, and now he was living out his cinematic fantasy with all the subtlety of a dinner theatre production. He'd already spilled cold coffee down his shirt during an aggressive stand-up manoeuvre that had achieved nothing except making the janitor's job harder.

Dominic let him continue because stopping Hank mid-performance was like trying to stop a freight train with a stern look. Better to let it run its course.

"Listen here you good for nothing hoodlum," Hank said, leaning so close that Dominic could see {{user}} flinch from the spray. "You think you're so slick sitting there all quiet? That'll get you nowhere. In fact, the silence just proves that you're guilty in not just stealing but killing that poor family just running their little shop. You make me sick."

Dominic's hand was already moving, catching the back of Hank's uniform with the practiced ease of a man who'd done this before. He gave a small shake of his head. The older detective's face reddened, but he stepped back.

"It's best we just wait for {{user}}'s lawyer to come since it is their right," Dominic said, the words flat and final. His posture remained perfect—back straight, shoulders squared. Even sitting still, he radiated a particular kind of authority that had nothing to do with volume and everything to do with absolute certainty. "We will wait for as long as we need to."

Hank muttered something that might have been agreement and slumped into his chair.

The silence that followed had weight to it. Dominic was comfortable with silence. He'd learned early that most people would fill quiet spaces with confessions, excuses, or lies—anything to make the pressure stop. He simply watched {{user}} with the patience of a man who'd sat through longer waits, darker nights. His mind was already working through the case file, organizing facts with the methodical precision he applied to everything. The robbery-homicide. The witness statement. The evidence that was circumstantial at best.

Something about it didn't fit right, like a drawer that wouldn't quite close because something inside was crooked.

An hour crawled by. Dominic didn't fidget. He'd trained that impulse out of himself years ago, right alongside the urge to flinch at loud noises and the tendency to check every shadow for threats. Control was everything.

A knock finally broke the silence.

"Come in," Dominic said.

The door swung open, and time did something strange. It didn't stop—time never had that kind of consideration—but it certainly slowed down enough for Dominic to register every detail of the man who walked in.

The lawyer was tall. he was taller than Dominic that it registered immediately. He wore a suit that probably cost more than Dominic's monthly salary, pressed so perfectly it looked like it had been ironed while he was still wearing it. His hair was blonde and purposefully dishevelled in that way that took either natural luck or careful product—Dominic suspected both. But it was the eyes that caught him. Sky blue, sharp as broken glass, and carrying the kind of confidence that came from winning.

The man walked like he owned the precinct. Not with arrogance, exactly, but with the easy assurance of someone who'd walked into worse rooms and walked out victorious.

"Nicholas Cirillo," the lawyer said, and his voice had the smooth quality of expensive bourbon. "Nick for short. I'll be representing {{user}} during this questioning."

He took the seat beside {{user}} with fluid economy, setting down a leather briefcase that probably had its own insurance policy. His hands moved to his tie, loosening it just enough to suggest he was settling in for however long this took. When he looked up, he was smiling, but it was the professional smile of a man who'd weaponized courtesy.

"I'll be providing legal guidance for {{user}} so you may all continue," Nick said. "Sorry to disturb your questioning, but I have to say that you have the wrong person. The witness isn't exactly reliable."

Dominic felt something tighten in his jaw. Lawyers. He'd dealt with enough of them to know they came in two varieties: the ones who knew their client was guilty and performed anyway, and the rare ones who actually believed in innocence. This one was harder to read.

"Your little client said they won't talk unless they got a lawyer around," Hank said, puffing up like a rooster with something to prove. He was sizing Nick up, and from the way his shoulders had tensed, clearly feeling outmatched. "If they don't talk we'll keep them here all day and night if we have to. Maybe even a week."

"Actually, you can only keep them here for 24 hours," Nick corrected, and there was something in his tone—not quite condescension, but a close cousin—that made Dominic's brow twitch. "Let's get this on then, gentlemen. My son is waiting outside. I promised him we'd go see the movies then have dinner out to his favorite pizza place. Authentic pizza, of course."

Dominic's attention sharpened. "You brought your son to a precinct?" He couldn't keep the edge from his voice. "This isn't a daycare for children. This is a place for criminals who are on their way to facing justice. Rather irresponsible for a lawyer."

Something flickered across Nick's face—there and gone in an instant, but Dominic caught it. He'd spent too many years reading people not to notice. Defense. Maybe irritation. The lawyer's shoulders had gone rigid beneath that expensive suit.

"The female detectives seemed more than happy to help me out a little bit by playing nanny for a while," Nick said, his tone still polite but his eyes matching Dominic's coldness degree for degree. "Detective Garcia even offered to show him the break room vending machine. Children are remarkably adaptable when you raise them right."

The implication hung in the air like gunsmoke.

Dominic felt his jaw clench. This man—this lawyer with his perfect suit and his casual arrogance—had walked into his interrogation room and immediately started making judgments. About procedure. About parenting. About responsibility.

Hank looked between them like a spectator at a tennis match, clearly recognizing he'd lost control of the room to forces beyond his comprehension.

"The suspect," Hank tried weakly.

Dominic forced himself to exhale slowly through his nose. He'd learned this technique from the department therapist—the one Julia had insisted he see after the nightmares got bad enough that Jake started asking questions. Count to three. Release. Don't let civilians see the cracks.

He turned his attention deliberately away from Nick, focusing on {{user}} with the full weight of his professional authority. This was his job. His purpose. The law might not be perfect, but it was the line between order and the chaos that had once torn his family apart.

"Now that your lawyer is here, {{user}}, it's about time we get to those questions," Dominic said, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the table. His voice was level, controlled. "You have no reason to keep your lips sealed anymore."

Nick's hand moved to the briefcase, producing a legal pad and an expensive pen in one smooth motion. He clicked it once—a small, deliberate sound in the quiet room.

"My client is prepared to answer questions," Nick said, his tone shifting into something more formal, more guarded. "Within reason. And I'll be evaluating each question for relevance and legality before they respond."

"This isn't a negotiation," Dominic said flatly.

"Everything's a negotiation, Detective," Nick replied, and now there was something else in his voice—something harder beneath the professional veneer. "You want answers. I want my client treated fairly. We can work together, or we can waste everyone's time while I file motions about improper procedure." His eyes flicked briefly to Hank. "Including harassment and intimidation tactics."

Hank sputtered. Dominic raised a hand to silence him.

The two men—detective and lawyer—regarded each other across the metal table. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, that particular frequency that gave everyone headaches after too long. Behind the glass, Captain Morrison was probably taking notes. Or sleeping. Hard to tell with Morrison.

Dominic thought about the case file. About the family that had died during what should have been a simple robbery. About the witness who'd sworn {{user}} was the one they'd seen fleeing the scene. About justice, and how it was supposed to work in a world where it rarely did.

He thought about Jake, waiting for him at home, probably doing homework at the kitchen table with Bullet lying at his feet. About Julia, who'd taught him that the law was supposed to protect people, not just punish them.

And he thought about this lawyer, who'd brought his son to a precinct because apparently he'd promised the kid pizza and movies, and wasn't going to break that promise even for a murder case.

Something about that stuck in Dominic's mind like a splinter.

"Let's start simple," Dominic said finally, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd made a decision. "Where were you on the night of October 23rd between the hours of 8 PM and midnight?"

Nick's pen hovered over his legal pad. His blue eyes met Dominic's dark ones, and for a moment, there was something almost like understanding between them. Two men who'd built their lives around control and discipline, sitting on opposite sides of a table, trying to find truth in a room designed for lies.

"You can answer that," Nick said quietly to {{user}}, though his eyes never left Dominic's.

And in that moment, Dominic realized this interrogation was going to be longer than he'd planned. Not because {{user}} wouldn't talk, but because this lawyer—this infuriating, meticulous, protective lawyer—was going to fight him on every single point.