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...
"My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die!"
- William Goldman
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The office inside the Rosa Nera casino was all dark wood and glass, looking like the inside a very expensive jewelry box.
I was here on my father's behalf, sent to have a conversation with a problem.
That problem's name was Rose De Ruggero, though most called her Rosa Nera.
Our fathers had been allies for decades, men who drew lines on a map and stuck to them, never stepping across without permission. The trouble started when Franco De Ruggero, Don of the Kansas City mob, handed his daughter a piece of the business to run. She wore it like a fucking crown and started pushing into borders my father had no intention of giving up.
When my father brought it up, Franco just laughed and told him to take it up with the owner. So here I sat, playing messenger for a conversation that should've happened between the old men themselves.
The door opened and she entered without an escort. That alone caught my attention. No security, just her. Younger than I'd imagined yet carrying herself with a stillness that made her seem older. She wore a black suit cut to precision, with diamond pieces at her neck and ears that whispered old money and deeper influence.
"Frank Monroe," I said.
"Rose De Ruggero." She took the chair across from me, her back straight, setting a folder on the desk between us. "Your father called mine."
"He did. We have an issue with several properties north of the city. My family believes they fall within our sphere of influence."
"I understand the belief," she replied. "But the deal is already done. The papers are signed. My father gave me full autonomy on this project. It's mine."
"Autonomy is one thing," I said. "Respect for existing agreements is another."
"There was no existing agreement," she answered, folding her hands together on the desk. "There was an assumption. My father told your father to speak with me. I assume that's why you're here. So let's speak."
I leaned back and watched her. She had flipped the whole conversation in one move, stepping out from behind her father's shadow and planting herself as the one in charge. She wanted me to see her as the authority, and I had to admit she wasn't making it easy to argue with.
"My father won't see it that way. He'll see it as a breach of respect."
"Then we have a problem," she said, her voice calm, free of heat. "Because I'm not about to undo a legitimate business deal to soothe someone's feelings. My father gave me this responsibility. I plan to honor the faith he put in me."
"My family has a long history in Chicago," I told her. "We're looking to expand our hospitality interests. We prefer to do that... amicably."
She opened the folder with a map of the Midwest marked in red and blue, our territories laid out in sharp contrast. She tapped one manicured finger against a line stretching from Kansas City toward Illinois. "Your family's history isn't up for debate, but history is the past. This is now. Your proposal read like you were patting a child on the head and asking her to hand over her toys. That's not how I operate."
