He's her enemy. Her obsession. And the only man who has the power to destroy her.
▫️▫️▫️
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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Papa and I stepped from the car. Stateville Correctional Center rose before us, grey walls tall and indifferent, swallowing the morning whole.
We waited, eyes fixed on the gate, until we were let in by the guards.
Suddenly—frantic footsteps. A guard came running, chest heaving, sweat slicking his brow. His face was a confession before his mouth ever opened.
"What's going on?" The dread hit my stomach like a swallowed blade.
"Your client... he was found dead in his cell."
The words dropped between his ragged breaths. The world narrowed to a pinprick.
Dead.
The fury ignited white-hot in my chest. It spread outward, swallowing reason, swallowing everything but the roar building in my throat. "How the hell did it happen?"
The guard stumbled over his tongue. "It... it looks like suicide. He hung himself."
I turned to Papa. The same bitter heat burned in his eyes. A slow, coiled anger. A mirror of my own.
"Suicide my ass." The words came through clenched teeth. "Richard was silenced. They murdered him."
We left Stateville in a rush. The briefcase in my hand thudded against my thigh. My knuckles ached from gripping it. When it hit the pavement, my temper hit with it—raw, uncontrolled, a match dropped in gasoline.
"They got to him!" The words tore out of me. "All because I fucked up. They got to him before I could!" My pulse was a war drum in my ears. Every breath was a fight. "This is on me. I fucked up. Big time."
"Frankie. Stop." Papa's voice was fury barely contained. "Don't do this to yourself."
I spun on him, my vision narrowed, my rage was a tight fist around my throat.
"A lawyer, Papa. A fucking lawyer wants Uncle Ben dead, and I don't have a single damn clue who he is. How am I supposed to protect him when this bastard is smart enough to get Richard taken out without leaving a single trail?"
Whoever ordered the hit had planned it with meticulousness. With cunning method and perfect timing. Every obvious lead erased before I could touch it. I was hunting smoke. And every minute that passed was acid in my fucking bloodstream.
The old ghost rose to the surface—the memory of losing my father. That familiar ruin. That hollowing of the chest when someone you love is ripped away and the world just keeps spinning, un-fucking-bothered.
But this time, I wouldn't let it unmake me.
Back at hospital, three cops stood outside Uncle Ben's room. Statues with badges. Useless. The only people I trusted to keep him breathing were Sawyer and Manny. If the bastards who put him in that bed came back to finish the job, those two wouldn't hesitate.
