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 Chicago. The woman everyone...
"May God have mercy upon my enemies, because I won't."
- George Patton
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"No," I gasped, the word a desperate plea for reality to conform to my understanding. "You're not... you can't be." The words tumbled out, devoid of their usual strength.
The Don reached for me, his hand outstretched in a comforting gesture. I flinched back, his gesture felt like a betrayal of the grandfatherly image he was trying to project. "You are my granddaughter, Francesca," he insisted, his voice softer now, laced with a weary sadness. "You're Gino's daughter, my own flesh and blood."
"My father's John Hansley," I argued, the words intended more for my own ears than his, a desperate attempt to hold onto the only reality I'd ever known. To believe the Don would mean my father lied to us, that my entire life was a lie.
Salvatore spoke then, his voice a gentle counterpoint to the Don's. "No, cara," he said, his tone melancholic. "Your father's real name is Giovanni Lombardi. My brother."
The name sent a jolt through me. The photo. The old photo in my father's belongings, the one of him and a younger Salvatore, flashed in my mind. Yet, my heart refused to accept the truth.
My world tilted on its axis. Disbelief warred with a creeping dread, clawing its way up my throat. Nothing made sense anymore. The steady hum of conversation faded, replaced by a ringing silence in my ears. The ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
Panic seized me. I needed to sit down. Hands, strong and familiar, gripped me from behind, providing a firm and steady support. As I tilted my head, I caught sight of Sawyer. Time and time again, it was Sawyer who anchored me, even in moments when I was unaware of my own dizzying spiral. But he too had lied. Why? The betrayal cut deep, a fresh wound on top of the gaping hole where my reality used to be.
Sawyer guided me back to the couch, his touch felt like a silent apology. He pressed a glass of water into my hand, and I drank it in one long gulp, desperately trying to quench the dryness within me. The Don and Salvatore sat opposite me, their faces etched with the usual warmth I'd gotten used to, a warmth that felt hollow now. I craved the familiar warmth of papa's presence, the one person who could assure me this wasn't a waking nightmare.
My eyes darted towards him, searching through the haze of confusion. He sat slumped on the couch, his weathered hands buried in his hair, a mirror image of my own turmoil. "Papa," I croaked, almost pleadingly. "Is any of this... real?"
Papa met my gaze, his usually steady eyes reflecting the same shock that had taken root in me. For the first time, papa had no answer for me. And in that deafening silence, the horrifying truth began to sink in.
"How long have you known this?" My voice trembled as I directed my gaze at Salvatore, searching for the answer in his eyes.
"Since Christmas," Salvatore murmured, his voice heavy with regret. The sincerity in his tone was undeniable, but it did little to quell the storm raging within me. My gaze darted to The Don, the same unspoken question hanging thick in the space between us.
