𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗩𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗮 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗲.
𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐞
I am the judge, the jury, and the executioner.
Francesca "Frank" Monroe. One of the most successful criminal defense attorneys in the history of Illinois. The woman everyon...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The Lounge hit me with its usual neon-drenched vibe the second I walked in. The bassline thrummed through the floor, syncing perfectly with the buzz of conversation. Dancers moved under flashing lights, and the air was thick with the heady mix of top-shelf whiskey, expensive perfume, and a hint of cigars.
Everything was in its place. My empire—dark, dangerous, but undeniably mine—ran smoother than a Swiss watch.
As I passed the VIP section, a few familiar faces—Chicago's underground elite—nodded in recognition. I nodded back, a rare grin slipping through. Tonight wasn't about business.
The Lounge was Goat's spot. He swore it was for the drinks, but Zane and I both knew better. It was the half-dressed dancers and deafening music that kept him coming back.
"Finally!" Goat shouted, throwing himself onto a plush leather couch in the VIP booth, a girl tucked under each arm. He'd snagged the perfect spot, overlooking the chaos of the dance floor below.
I rolled my eyes and settled on a red leather couch a little farther away. "Vibe feels different tonight," I said, lounging back.
"Damn right! Gonna soak it all in," Goat said, lifting his drink like it was some grand proclamation.
Same for me. Tonight was about stepping back, letting loose. The club was alive, electric, and I needed this. Watching the crowd was oddly grounding.
The music shifted, sliding into a slower, bluesy beat. The energy dimmed, and I leaned into it, the buzz making everything feel just a little lighter.
"To the high life, however fleeting," Goat announced, raising his glass dramatically.
I smirked, clinking mine against his. No work, no overthinking—just this night.
"We're not staying late," Zane called out over the music, his tone all business.
"Stop being a buzzkill, Zane!" Goat yelled back, his grin as reckless as ever. "Hey, ladies! Got any friends to keep these boys company?"
"Hard pass," Zane said, but Goat didn't even hear him.
Nonetheless, one of the girls pulled out her phone, tapping out a quick text. I could already tell this night was about to go off the rails.
I was mid-sip of my bourbon when two women strutted into our VIP section. They were decked out in skin-tight dresses that clung to every curve and heels that could've doubled as weapons. Without hesitation, they slid in between me and Zane, their perfume so overpowering it practically smacked me in the face.
"Mind if I have a sip?" one of them purred, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.
"Knock yourself out," I said flatly, sliding my glass her way.
