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...
"If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?"
- William Shakespeare
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Lately, my workload had become completely overwhelming, and any free time I managed to scrape together felt like a fucking unicorn sighting.
I realized it'd been way too damn long since I'd seen Ronan, the man who was basically an uncle to me, who'd helped drag Noah and me off the streets just as much as Papa had.
Leaving Papa's house, I figured I'd swing by his place, needing a hit of that familiar, grounding comfort.
Pulling up to Ronan's villa, my initial spark of anticipation got its balls kicked in the second I spotted Hector's Jeep parked out front.
If I'd known he was going to be here, I would've pointed my evening in a whole different direction. I wasn't in the mood for any awkward interaction, and I sure as hell didn't want anyone sniffing out the complicated feelings I'd been trying, and failing spectacularly, to shove down.
Lately, maintaining my composure around Hector had become a fucking impossible mission. One dimpled smirk from him and I'd feel this goddamn heat crawling up my cheeks, like some pathetic schoolgirl with her first crush.
The whole thing was utterly mortifying, and I told myself, not for the first goddamn time, that I needed to get a proper fucking grip.
Before I could sink any deeper into that particular spiral, the villa's front door swung open and there was Ronan, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, a grin splitting his face like my unexpected visit had just made his whole week.
"Frankie! Baby girl! 'Tis great to see ye!" he boomed, arms thrown wide, ready to wrap me up in one of his bone-crushing hugs.
Despite the tangled clusterfuck of thoughts occupying my mind, I felt a real smile break through as I stepped into his embrace, the familiar scent of his cologne offering a moment of peace. "I missed you, Rory," I murmured against his chest, meaning every word.
Ronan spent way too much of his time bouncing between Chicago and Dublin for business—being Papa's Consigliere in the Irish mob meant his work was constant and demanding as hell, which was exactly why I didn't get to see him nearly as often as I wanted.
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through him as he gave me one last, tight squeeze. "And I missed ye, baby." He pulled back then, his attention shifting over my shoulder. "Sawyer, how's life treating ye?"
"All good, Ronan," Sawyer replied with a nod. "How about you?"
"Stellar, my man. Stellar. Now, get your arses in here, let's not be standing out here all bloody night," Ronan said, herding us inside and toward the living room.
Stepping into the warm room, my eyes got snagged instantly on the figure lounging by the fireplace, a steaming cup of coffee held loose in his hand.
The fire cast a shifting glow over Hector, highlighting the sharp lines of his profile and making him look, completely unfairly, even more infuriatingly irresistible than he had just this morning.
