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...
"I will hurt you for this. I don't know how yet, but give me time. A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid."
- George R.r. Martin
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I pulled out my phone and shot a quick text to Hector. "Busy?"
His reply came almost instantly. "For you? Never. I'm at Goat's."
I couldn't fight the grin that tugged at the corners of my mouth.
Grabbing my red puffer jacket, I shrugged it on and headed for the door. I'd barely made it to the driveway when Sawyer's voice followed me.
"Where you going?" he called out.
I took the car keys from Irving, giving him a quick once-over. "Everything's set?"
"All done, boss," Irving replied with a nod. "Got everything you asked for."
"Good. Thanks, Irving." I turned to Sawyer, who was still standing there like he was waiting for an invitation. "I've got some things to take care of. You're not coming."
Sawyer squinted, his arms crossing over his chest like he was about to start lecturing me. "You're going to see Hector Pierce, aren't you?"
I shot him a sideways glare. "Sawyer, don't start." I pushed past him, making a beeline for my G-Wagon. "Stay with Noah and Layla today. I won't be long."
Without waiting for another word, I fired up the engine, the tires kicking up gravel as I peeled out of the driveway. The cold December air nipped at the edges of my thoughts, but my mind was elsewhere.
What was Hector doing at Goat's on Christmas Day? Shouldn't he be with his family, making up for all the time he'd missed?
Arriving at Goat's, I spotted Logan—Hector's man—standing outside the apartment. He didn't waste words, just gave me a curt nod and motioned me inside.
The apartment was oddly quiet, and I couldn't help but wonder where the hell everyone was. Logan must've caught the flicker of confusion on my face because he glanced over his shoulder and said, "They're in the basement, taking care of some business, ma'am."
I just nodded, swallowing whatever questions hovered on the tip of my tongue, and kept walking.
When we reached the basement door, Logan stopped, didn't bother with a goodbye or explanation—just turned around and disappeared back upstairs. I was left standing there, staring at the door cracked open just enough to let chaos slip through. Muffled noises drifted out—grunts, the wet sound of fists meeting flesh.
