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...
"A need for revenge can burn long and hot. Especially if every glance in a mirror reinforces it."
- Suzanne Collins
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Relentless.
That was the word for it. It had ceased to be a feeling and had become a physical fact, as constant and heavy as the city air. Sleeplessness was my new rhythm. Paranoia, my most trusted advisor.
I had transformed the house into a fortress, a beautiful prison where even the staff moved with an escort. I could see the quiet frustration in their eyes when Irving or Steve followed them on the most mundane errands. I didn't care. Their discomfort was a price I was willing to pay. Alive and uncomfortable was a status quo I could work with.
Most nights, sleep was a theoretical concept, like a unicorn or an honest politician. Instead, I kept watch on the balcony, the cold steel of the sniper rifle a more familiar comfort than my own bedsheets. I would scan the darkness until my eyes burned, every shifting shadow a potential trigger, every rustle of a leaf a whispered threat. My nerves were stripped, frayed, and dipped in gasoline, waiting for a single spark.
This morning, my coffee sat untouched, its steam a ghostly ribbon in the quiet room. I stared through it. My body was a coiled spring, vibrating with a desperate energy, but inside, I felt utterly hollow.
Then the phone rang.
A jolt of pure adrenaline hit my system. My palms dampened, my breath caught. Action mode. I snatched the receiver.
"Yes, Scotty?" My voice was flat, a deliberate calm monotone to cage the goddamn zoo going wild inside me. The plastic casing creaked under my grip. A little more pressure and I would have a handful of shattered components.
"You skipping the office again, Frankie?" Scott's voice was measured, layered with a concern. He could hear the strain, even over the line.
I exhaled, a slow, sharp stream of air that tasted of exhaustion. I missed the days when 'work' meant legal strategy and courtroom theatrics, not this delicate dance on a knife's edge.
"Just tell me where I need to be," I muttered, the roughness in my voice a testament to the silent, watchful nights.
"You have a meeting with Taylor Williams at 2:00, then a status conference at 3:00."
"Understood. I'll be there in an hour."
The door opened and Sawyer entered. He looked as though he had not slept in days, which meant he was my mirror. His expression said everything: the trail had gone cold. Our ghost was still a ghost.
"Sorry," he muttered, his shoulders doing this little slump that spoke volumes. "I don't have the news you're hoping for."
I pushed away from the desk. "Stop that." I crossed the room to stand before him. "You're the best man I've got. If you can't find him, it's because the bastard doesn't want to be found. Simple as that."
