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...
"May God have mercy upon my enemies, because I won't."
- George Patton
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The world fucking tilted.
For a second, I swore I misheard. That my brain, already fried from pain and rage, had twisted his words into something impossible.
But no.
The room was dead fucking silent. Every breath held, every eye locked on us.
Don Sergio stood there, a goddamn titan of a man, his presence swallowing the air between us. At seventy, he moved like a predator in his prime, every inch of him carved from power and ruthlessness. His eyes—cold, calculating, mine—bored into me, daring me to deny the truth he'd just dropped like a fucking bomb.
"What did you just say?" My voice was raw, stripped down to the bone.
The Don stepped closer, slowly. "You heard me, Francesca."
My breath hitched.
"That's bullshit." My words were a snarl, but they felt flimsy, like throwing a knife at a fucking tank.
The Don reached for me, his hand outstretched like he thought he could fucking comfort me. Like I was some lost little girl in need of his goddamn pity. I flinched back, every fiber of my being rejecting the grandfatherly bullshit he was trying to sell me.
"You are my granddaughter, Francesca," he said, voice softer now, heavy with this fake-ass sadness. "You're Gino's daughter, my own flesh and blood."
His words felt like a low blow. My blood turned to ice. My hands curled into fists. No.
"My father's John Hansley," I bit out, like saying it out loud would make it true. Like it could erase whatever sick fucking game this old bastard was playing. If he was right, then my father—my father—had lied. Had built our whole life on a goddamn lie.
Then Salvatore spoke, his voice quieter but no less fucking devastating.
"No, cara," he said, and something about his tone made me want to hit something. "Your father's real name is Giovanni Lombardi. My brother."
The name ripped through me like a bullet. My lungs locked up. My mind went blank, then reeled, scrambling for something solid. The photo. The one buried in my father's old things, the image of him and a younger Salvatore. A piece of a puzzle I never fucking knew existed.
And yet—I refused to let it be real.
"This is some sick fucking joke," I snarled, my voice shaking, my chest tight, my whole fucking reality caving in.
Don Sergio exhaled sharply, like he was exhausted dealing with my anger. Like he had the fucking right.
"I don't expect you to accept it now," he said. "But it's the truth."
