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...
"You can go a long way with a smile. You can go a lot farther with a smile and a gun. You can get further with a kind word and a gun, than you can with just a kind word."
- Al Capone
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The heavy door of Conor's mansion slammed shut behind me, the sound swallowed by the vast, indifferent night.
Inside the car, my hands gripped the steering wheel with a white-knuckle intensity, the fine leather creaking in protest. I peeled away from the curb, the engine's roar a pitiful substitute for the scream trapped in my chest. The city lights bled into streaks, a watercolor painting of a world that had just been fundamentally, irrevocably broken.
My father's voice, a recording I had cherished my entire life, now played on a loop in my mind, taunting me. "Family is everything, son. You always forgive. You always stand by your blood. When the world turns its back, you'll always have your family."
Family. The concept felt like a sick joke. My own uncle, my flesh and blood, had been the architect of my father's ruin. He had been running a coke empire from the shadows while preaching about loyalty. He had built his throne on my father's grave. And I was supposed to stand by that? Forgive that? The script I had been given was a lie, and I was done reading my lines.
I was so consumed by the tectonic shift inside me that I nearly missed the roadblock. A black G-Wagon, parked at a cruel angle. My foot slammed the brake, the screech of tires a violent protest in the silent night.
And then I saw them.
Two figures crumpled in the road, one cradling the other in a pose of absolute devastation.
I was out of the car before the thought fully formed, my feet carrying me toward the scene with a dreadful, magnetic pull. Each step brought the horror into sharper focus.
Noah. On his knees, his body wrapped around Frankie's, holding her as if his own life force could bind her to this world. The scattered bodies of men lay where they fell, and empty shell casings glittered like malevolent confetti under the cold streetlights.
"Frankie..." Her name was a whisper, stripped of all air, a plea sent out into a silent universe.
Then I saw her face.
It was a landscape of pain. Bruised, swollen, and unnervingly still. The vibrant, defiant woman I knew was gone, replaced by a pale, broken doll.
The world dropped out from under me. My lungs forgot their job. This couldn't be real. This was a bad dream, a fucking side effect of Conor's top-shelf whiskey.
Noah looked up. His eyes... they were empty. Like someone had reached in and scooped out everything that made him Noah. He tried to form a word, but all that escaped was a shattered, wet sound, the noise a soul makes when it breaks.
I dropped to my knees, my hands trembling so violently I could barely bring myself to touch her. I had to know. I had to feel a pulse, a breath, anything.
