He's her enemy. Her obsession. And the only man who has the power to destroy her.
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My name is Frank Monroe, and I am the most dangerous woman in Chicago. Not because I kill, but because I make it legal. I'm the lawyer the Irish mob calls when...
"Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged."
- Samuel Johnson
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"What's wrong?" I muttered into the phone, knowing full well I wouldn't like the answer.
"Hector, your cousin's at it again," Zane snapped. "Daniel's stirring up shit, and I'm not dealing with it anymore. You need to get down here, now. It's fucking bad."
I rubbed the edge of my temple, the pressure behind my eyes already fucking blooming. Zane wasn't one to lose his temper over small things, and if he was this close to snapping, it meant Daniel had crossed another fucking line. Again.
Daniel Pierce, the family screw-up no one had the guts to cut loose. He had the bloodline, the name, and every opportunity to succeed, but none of the discipline. For years, I had been the one holding him back from the edge, dragging him out of the wreckage of his own fucking reckless choices, hoping each time would be the last.
But Daniel never fucking learned.
"I'm coming," I said flatly before ending the call and sliding the phone into my pocket.
I reached Daniel's apartment faster than I thought possible, practically breaking down the door the second I arrived.
Zane and Logan had him restrained against the couch, struggling to keep him upright. His eyes were blown wide, pupils shot, body limp in the way only drugs could cause. He was drenched in sweat, stinking of booze and chemicals, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days.
If it had been up to them, they'd have tied him to the damn chair. It would've been a mercy at this point.
"What the fuck did he do this time?" I demanded, taking in the mess of a man barely being held upright by my crew. His face was gaunt, his skin pale, and the bruising under his eyes told me he hadn't been sober in a long time.
"He's using again," Zane said through clenched teeth. "I found this on him."
He handed me a small plastic bag filled with pills. I didn't need to ask what they were.
I stared at it for a second too long, the fury slowly building up.
Without a word, I crossed the room, grabbed Daniel by the collar, and dragged him toward the bathroom. He stumbled, feet barely moving beneath him, his weight a burden I was done fucking carrying.
I threw him into the tub and twisted the faucet without pause. The spray hit cold and hard, and he thrashed beneath it, cursing and choking as it soaked him.
"It's cold, Hector, Jesus.. it's fucking cold!" he sputtered, curling up in the water, trying to shield himself from the shock of it.
He sounded scared. Good.
I crouched beside the tub, staring down at the pathetic shell of the man who shared my fucking blood. "You were clean," I muttered, not even sure who I was trying to convince. "You were fucking clean, Daniel. We've had this conversation a dozen times. Last year, you ran over a guy and I buried the evidence. You promised me that was the last time. You swore on your mother's grave you'd get your shit together. And this is where you end up? Again?"
