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...
"We should forgive our enemies, but not before they are hanged."
- Heinrich Heine
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If I hadn't set that trap at the gala, Sarah would still be alive. That was the truth, and no amount of spin could change it. She died because I got sloppy, because I wanted to win so badly I didn't stop to think about who else might get caught in the blast. An innocent woman was dead, and her blood was on my hands.
Sawyer reached over and squeezed my hand, his grip warm and solid. "Don't do this to yourself, Frankie. She made her own choices. This isn't on you."
I pulled my hand away. He meant well, but the words just bounced off me. I knew where the blame belonged, and no pep talk was going to move it.
I walked out of the room before the guilt could swallow me whole, heading to my personal gym. The gym was the only place that made sense when my head got like this, the one spot where I could strip everything down to sweat and fists and pain. Sawyer followed, of course. The man was relentless.
I shot him a look, but he was already pulling on a pair of gloves like this was just another Tuesday. "Let's fight," he said.
Fine. If he wanted to stand in front of me while I fell apart, that was his choice.
I went at him without any kind of plan. My swings were wild, my feet all over the place, and every punch missed by a mile. He dodged without even trying.
"Get your shit together," he said, stepping around me like I was moving in slow motion. "Breathe. Focus. This isn't how I trained you."
I ignored him and swung again. His fist caught my jaw before I even saw it coming, and the impact snapped my head back hard enough to rattle my teeth. I staggered, more pissed off than hurt.
"Focus," he said again.
That word lit something in me. I lunged at him, sloppy and completely reckless, and he put me on the mat with an uppercut that came out of nowhere.
He crouched down and offered me his hand. I smacked it away.
"Don't touch me." I rolled onto my side, cradling my jaw, breathing hard. The pain was sharp, but it felt good. It gave me something else to think about.
"That's enough," he said, already pulling off his gloves.
"The fuck it is." I dragged myself up, legs shaking, arms like lead. "Again."
He looked at me for a long moment, like he was deciding whether I was worth the trouble. Then he slid the gloves back on. "Fine. But anger alone doesn't win fights. You know that."
I tried to listen. I really did. But every time I swung, the guilt was still there, hanging off my arms, pulling me off balance. His counters landed clean, one after another, until his fist buried itself in my ribs and I doubled over, gasping.
