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...
"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 clue what I was doing at Hector's penthouse.
Logic said go home. Logic said let him choke on his own irrational jealousy until he came to his senses and crawled back with an apology.
But logic had apparently abandoned me the moment I watched his Jeep tear out of my driveway. Instead, I was standing in the middle of his living room like a woman who'd lost every shred of her goddamn mind.
I told myself I wasn't that person. I wasn't.
But there was something clawing at the inside of my chest-a relentless, obsessive, reckless need to make him understand.
Michael Radley meant nothing. Less than nothing. Hector was the only man who occupied my thoughts without invitation, the only one I saw when I closed my eyes, the only one who could dismantle me with a single look and leave me standing in the wreckage wondering why I didn't run.
Logan had let me in without a word. Now I sat on a rich brown leather couch, surrounded by a space that was intrinsically his-dark, refined, timeless. Understated wealth that didn't need to scream because it knew exactly what it was worth.
I waited. Minutes stretched. The longer I sat there, the more certain I became that he was making me wait on purpose. Still angry. Still burning.
Fine. Two could play that fucking game.
I pushed off the couch and moved through the penthouse, searching. Bedroom empty. Study empty. Then I heard a rhythmic, punishing thud. Unmistakably fists hitting leather. Over and over.
Boxing.
I followed the sound down the hallway and stopped in the doorway of his private gym. And then I forgot how to breathe.
Hector was shirtless and drenched in sweat, driving blow after blow into the heavy bag like it had personally wronged him. His usual control was gone-ripped away-and in its place was a fury so unguarded, so completely unchecked, it barely looked human.
I swallowed hard and forced myself into the room. "Hector."
He stopped mid-punch. Then he turned around, and those gray eyes locked onto mine. Cold but unreadable.
He turned back to the bag and landed another brutal hit.
"Why are you here?" His voice was flat. He wouldn't even look at me.
"I came to see you." I hated how my voice was softer than I meant it to be.
His muscles contracted with every impact, veins mapping his forearms before disappearing beneath the gloves. His chest heaved with heavy, ragged breaths. Sweat traced the sharp line of his jaw and dripped onto his collarbone.
