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...
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The Lounge wrapped itself around me the moment I stepped inside.
The bassline pulsed through the floor and carried the crowd with it, dancers moving beneath the lights that fractured and spilled across the room.
Every detail sat exactly where it belonged. The club, the people inside it, the machine of it all-they were my work, my reach made visible, an empire.
It ran without falter, a kingdom that answered only to me.
The men and women who ruled Chicago's underworld glanced up as I passed, their nods curt, their respect genuine. I returned the gesture without breaking stride, the faint curl of a smile slipping through because for once this wasn't about business.
Not tonight.
Goat had already claimed his throne in the VIP, his grin broad, his arms draped around two girls on each side. He called out over the roar, raising his glass in greeting, his laugh shaking the booth.
I let him have the moment and took a seat further back, the leather cool beneath me, the view from here giving me the sweep of the floor below.
"Feels different tonight," I said, not so much to him as to myself, watching the crowd lose itself in rhythm and drink.
"Damn right," Goat shot back, lifting his glass higher, already gone to the night. "You gotta take it in when it feels like this."
I let my shoulders sink against the couch, allowed the sound to bleed into me, allowed the sight of people burning themselves out on music and lust to quiet something restless in my chest.
The change in tempo came slow, a blues riff spilling over the speakers, dragging the frenzy of the room into something slower, heavier, and I leaned into it with my drink in hand.
"To the high life, however fleeting," Goat declared, raising his glass with the arrogance of a man who never considered consequence.
Zane's voice cut through, practical as ever, sharp where Goat was reckless. "We're not staying late."
"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 approached, their dresses painted to their bodies, their heels meant to draw eyes, perfume thick enough to drown in.
My breath nearly stalled when I caught sight of one of them. For a split second, I thought it was Frankie.
The same dark hair falling in untamed waves, the same sharp brown eyes that could pin you to the spot, the same appeal that pulled you in without permission.
