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...
"Why should I give up revenge? On behalf of what? Moral principles? And what of the higher order of things, in which evil deeds are punished?"
- Andrzej Sapkowski
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A/N : Okay, I need to take a second to thank @maritza115 for the epic song recommendation! I added "Problem With You" by Sabrina Claudio (we have the same name ahhh 😍) to the media box for this chapter, and you were SO RIGHT. The lyrics are spot on and the mood is just chef's kiss. How did you know?? Thank you for blessing my playlist and this story! 🎧❤️
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Three days since some bastard shoved a shiv into Uncle Ben.
Three days of fluorescent lights and beeping monitors and the slow, suffocating drip of hours that refused to move faster.
He still hadn't woken up. The doctors kept feeding us the same bullshit—prepare yourselves, hope for the best, manage your expectations—like grief was a fucking checklist you could tick through and file away.
How the hell was anyone supposed to prepare for that? How did you brace yourself to lose a man who'd been stitched into the fabric of your entire existence?
I sat beside his bed, my hands wrapped around his. They were cold, weak, and nothing like the hands I remembered from childhood—the ones that used to ruffle my hair with such easy affection.
This was the man who never hesitated to stand up, to speak hard truths, to put people in their place when they damn well deserved it. Now he just lay there, fragile and diminished, fighting to hold onto a life that seemed determined to slip through his fingers.
Tears burned before I could stop them, carving hot trails down my face. I tightened my grip on his hand.
Please. The word pulsed through me like a second heartbeat. Please come back. Don't you fucking leave me here alone.
And then I felt the faint pressure against my palm.
So slight I nearly wrote it off as desperation playing tricks on me. But it came again.
Then the sound of his voice, rough and fractured. "Frankie..."
I gasped. My head snapped up. His eyelids fluttered, struggling against the harsh hospital lights.
The relief hit like a tidal wave and shattered me on impact. A broken sound tore out of me—something caught between a sob and a laugh I didn't believe yet.
He was alive. He was fucking alive.
"Hey there, kiddo." His voice scraped out, rough from disuse. But the smile—weak as it was—was unmistakable. "I'm not checking out just yet."
I let out a wet, choked laugh and gripped his hand like it was the only thing tethering me to the earth. Then I twisted toward the door. "Jay! He's awake!"
