He's her enemy. Her obsession. And the only man who has the power to destroy her.
▫️▫️▫️
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...
"The villany you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction."
- William Shakespeare
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The air outside Stateville bit with a mean, metallic cold.
Each breath I took hung in front of me like a ghost, a temporary monument to the twenty-two years this place had stolen. My heart wasn't just pounding; it was a frantic drumbeat in my chest, a primal rhythm for a day I had stopped believing would ever come.
"What's the holdup?" I muttered, the words sharp in the frozen silence. "They give him a map? A compass? What?"
Sawyer, leaning against the car like this was a casual pickup, just chuckled. "Easy, tiger. The man's been in the box since dial-up internet. They probably have to remind him how a doorknob works." He brushed a hand against my arm, a gesture meant to calm, but my nerves were were screaming. A high-pitched, silent frequency of pure, undiluted anticipation.
Then, the door. That immense, steel bastion of hell groaned open. And there he was.
Uncle Ben.
For a second, my brain refused to process it. It was an image from a forgotten dream, a ghost story I had told myself for comfort. But he was real. He stood between two lawyers in suits too sharp for this place, breathing in free air for the first time in over two decades. A storm detonated inside me: a lightning strike of joy, the thunder of relief, and the chilling rain of a rage so deep and cold it had its own gravity. Twenty-two years. That was a debt. And debts of that magnitude get collected. In blood, or in time. There was no other currency.
But the ledger could wait. This moment was a fragile, sacred thing.
I didn't run, I launched. I crossed the space between us and crashed into him, and his arms; thinner than I remembered but just as solid, wrapped around me. The world shrank to the rough wool of his coat and the scent of cheap prison soap. I was seven years old again, and Uncle Ben was my whole world.
"Don't you cry, sweet girl," his voice was a rasp, a record played after years of silence, scratchy but familiar. "I'm here now. I'm right here."
I could have stayed there for another twenty-two years. But a throat was cleared. I pulled back, swiping at my face with the heel of my hand, getting my game face back on.
I turned to the suits. "Thank you," I said, my voice thicker than I wanted it to be. Two words. I tried to load them with a universe of gratitude.
The older one just gave a curt, professional nod. "Just doing our job." He motioned to a driver, who stepped forward with a heavy, black briefcase.
"A gift from Mr. Lombardi," the lawyer said, his tone flat, giving nothing away.
The curiosity was a physical itch, but I ignored it. Today was for my uncle.
