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...
"Power is given only to those who dare to lower themselves and pick it up. Only one thing matters, one thing; to be able to dare!"
- Fyodor Dostoevsky
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I had no fucking idea what I was doing here.
Hector's penthouse.
I should've gone home. I should've let his little outburst slide, let him stew in his own damn jealousy. But no, instead, I was standing in his goddamn living room, waiting for him like some lovesick idiot.
I wasn't. I fucking wasn't.
But there was this need clawing at my chest, this obsessive, reckless impulse to make him understand. To make him see that Michael Radley didn't mean shit to me. That Hector was the only man living in my goddamn head rent-free, the only one I saw, the only one who could wreck me.
Logan, one of his men, had let me in without question, and now I was sitting on a brown leather couch, surrounded by a space that was so him—refined, dark, classic. The kind of wealth that didn't need to flaunt itself.
I waited. And waited.
And the longer I sat there, the more I realized Hector was making me wait on purpose.
Fucker was pissed.
Fine. Two could play that game.
I got up, moving through the penthouse, searching for him. His bedroom was empty, and so was his study.
Then I heard the rhythmic, unrelenting thud of fists meeting leather.
Boxing.
I followed the sound down the hall, stopping at the doorway. And fuck me, I wasn't prepared for what I saw.
Hector, shirtless, drenched in sweat, punishing the punching bag like it had personally offended him. His usual unreadable expression was gone, replaced with raw, unchecked fury. Each hit was controlled, precise, but violent. Like he was trying to exorcise something from his fucking soul.
Jesus Christ.
I swallowed, forcing myself to step inside. "Hector."
Mid-punch, he froze. Slowly, he looked up, his gray eyes locking onto mine—cold, sharp, unreadable.
I moved toward him, but he turned back to the bag, landing another brutal hit.
