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...
"People should either be caressed or crushed. If you do them minor damage they will get their revenge, but if you cripple them there is nothing they can do. If you need to injure someone, do it in such a way that you do not have to fear their vengeance."
- Niccolo Machiavelli
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I stood in my closet cursing at every option like the clothes had personally offended me.
Red was too loud, black was too stiff, and everything else just reminded me how long it had been since I'd done anything close to a date. Whatever the fuck this dinner was, it didn't deserve the title, but I still wasn't about to walk in looking like I hadn't tried.
"Enough," I muttered, yanking a little black dress off the rack. I paired it with my Louboutins and a small purse, left my hair loose and wild the way it always was, and kept my makeup light. Just enough to make a point without pretending I'd finally mastered the winged liner I still couldn't get right after years of tutorials. Red lipstick finished the look, the one thing I could always count on.
I glanced at the hallway clock. Seven forty-one. No chance I was walking in late, not for Hector Pierce.
I grabbed my things and headed out. "Sawyer, time to go," I called.
He stepped into the hall and stopped cold when he saw me. His eyes went wide for half a second before he caught himself. "Wow, you look—"
"Don't," I cut him off, my glare sharp enough to shut him down before he could finish.
He grinned and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. Forget I said anything."
He guided me toward the car, still grinning like he'd won something, and I let him have it. At least one of us was enjoying this.
Sawyer drove in silence, his jaw tight and his eyes fixed on the road. He didn't need to say what was running through his head because I already knew. He hated Hector Pierce with a ferocity that bordered on irrational, treated the man like a threat that needed to be eliminated rather than tolerated.
And while I wasn't Hector's biggest fan, I couldn't deny there was something in the way he looked at me that held my attention. It wasn't lust, not exactly. It was darker than that, yet more patient. He didn't stare at me like he already knew what he wanted. He studied me like a problem he was trying to solve, peeling back the surface and digging for whatever was underneath.
I hadn't decided yet whether that irritated me or intrigued me, but I knew it gave me something to use. Curiosity had power, and his interest was an opening into a world his family would never willingly let me near. That alone made this dinner more than just another obligation.
"Sawyer," I said, leaning forward so he could hear me. He glanced at me in the mirror, briefly, then looked back at the street. "What's wrong now?"
His grip on the wheel tightened. "I don't trust him, Frankie. Sitting out here while you go in there alone doesn't sit right with me. I fucking hate it."
