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...
"Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, blood and revenge are hammering in my head."
- William Shakespeare
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I felt my thoughts drag themselves up from a dark pit, and after a monumental effort I pried my eyelids open and blinked against the harsh light, the world resolving slowly around a single clear fact—Michael sat close with his hand holding mine.
"Michael," I rasped, breaking the heavy silence. "What happened?" I wrenched my hand away, my eyes moving across the room until the realization landed—hospital.
"You don't remember?" His voice came low and gentle, every syllable chosen so the sound wouldn't startle me, and his brows drew together as he studied my face.
The memories arrived in a chaotic rush, and I answered before thought could temper the impulse. "But I'm fine now. No need for all this fuss," I muttered, reaching for the IV in my arm with fingers that twitched to yank it out.
"Jesus Christ, Frankie! Stop!" His hands closed over mine instantly, firm and unyielding and halting the reckless pull. "You need to rest. As soon as the doctors say you're good, we'll leave."
I exhaled and slumped back, every muscle complaining and my head thumping so hard that fighting him felt pointless. "You got my phone?" I asked.
"It's at your office," he said with a shrug. "Use mine."
I grabbed the phone and dialed Sawyer's number fast, chest tightening because he should already have been here. "Who is this?" His voice came ragged and angry the moment the line connected, a sound that barely contained itself.
"It's me."
"Frankie, where are you?! I've been losing my goddamn mind! Dalilah called me, said some guy took you to the hospital! I've been to every damn hospital in Chicago looking for you! Where the fuck did he take you!" His words arrived in one long storm of panic and fury.
I blinked and tried to fit the pieces together, then turned to Michael. "Where are we?"
"My private hospital," he said casually, as if the place were nothing more than another room in his building. Of course it was.
I sighed into the phone and told Sawyer, "I'll text you the location. Come and take me home." When I hung up I handed the phone back to Michael and muttered, "Thanks."
"Always," he replied softly.
After a string of tests that stretched out until my patience thinned, the doctor returned with an assured manner and told me that I was fine, completely fine, the fainting spell reduced to a blood sugar dip that wouldn't leave a mark once the IV finished. Once the drip completed I could go.
