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...
"There is a certain justice in revenge as there is in the law."
- Edgar Allan Poe.
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Morality.
What the fuck did I know about morality?
It was a joke, a meaningless word thrown around by people who had the luxury of giving a shit. I wasn't one of them. Never had been. By day, I played the part of a criminal defense lawyer, spinning half-truths and legal loopholes to keep men who bled the streets out of prison. By night, I became something far worse—a fucking executioner, a ghost in the dark, delivering final verdicts with the cold precision of someone who had long since abandoned the idea of a conscience.
Papa used to tell me I had one, though. You're a woman with a conscience, he'd say, like it was some goddamn badge of honor. But if I ever had one, I buried it so deep it might as well have rotted away. Conscience was a liability. Mercy was an open wound, a weakness begging to be exploited. And I didn't do weak. Not in this life.
Secrets. Lies. They were just different flavors of the same poison. One coated in sugar, the other dipped in venom. Both served a purpose. Both were tools I wielded without hesitation.
But Salvatore's secret? The one he kept from me? That shit wasn't just a calculated move. It was personal.
He knew my father. Knew him, and yet never fucking told me.
The betrayal wasn't sharp, not yet—it was a slow, creeping thing, twisting around my ribs like a snake, waiting for the right moment to sink its fangs.
Did I trust him?
Some part of me wanted to. A small, reckless part that kept reaching for something just out of grasp. But the rest of me? The part that had survived, that knew better? It yanked me back, whispering warnings in a voice I had learned to fucking listen to.
And yet, I needed answers.
How the hell did he know my father?
And more importantly—why the fuck did he hide it from me?
The photograph was crumpling in my grip. I hadn't even noticed how tightly I was holding it until my knuckles turned white.
My father—seventeen, maybe younger—stood in the frame, arm slung over a teenage Salvatore like they were fucking brothers. I wouldn't have even recognized him if it weren't for the ink on his hand, the same tattoo that hadn't changed after all these years.
My head had been a goddamn battlefield since last night, thoughts slamming into each other, trying to make sense of something that refused to fucking add up. I was so deep in that storm, I didn't even hear the footsteps or the door creaking open until—
"The fuck were you last night?"
Sawyer's voice hit like a gunshot, sharp and pissed off.
I barely blinked, my eyes flicking up to meet his. He wasn't just mad—he was seething. And for a second, he didn't even give a shit that I was his boss.
