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...
"Why do we kill people who are killing people to show that killing people is wrong?"
- Holly Near
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She made me watch.
Made me hold my cousin's body as the warmth drained out of him, as his fucking life slipped through my fingers like sand. She stood there like a goddamn executioner, like she hadn't just shattered what was left of my family.
And for what? Revenge? Justice? Some sick sense of fucking righteousness?
I never fucking realized how much it could hurt to be this pissed at someone I once loved. Love? Hell, I didn't even know if I fucking loved her anymore. All I knew was that I hated her. Hated that I let her into my family. Hated that I trusted her. Hated that I let myself believe—just for a second—that she was different.
Frank fucking Monroe wasn't the woman I loved anymore. She was the goddamn enemy.
I buried my cousin yesterday. Daniel was a piece of shit, just like his father, corrupt and reckless to the core. But he was still blood. He was like a little brother to me. I taught him how to ride a bike, threw the first punch for him in a street fight when we were kids. We drifted as we got older, but that didn't mean I wanted him dead. And she fucking killed him.
She didn't even hesitate.
I begged her not to pull the trigger. Swore I could fix it. But she didn't listen. She never fucking listened. The way she looked at me before she did it—cold, detached, like I was nothing to her—made me realize something sick and painful: she never gave a fuck about me.
She could've let me handle it. She could've given me just one goddamn second to disarm him. But no, she made the call.
She fixed it for me. With a fucking bullet.
Now Daniel's rotting in the ground, my uncle stares at nothing like a goddamn ghost, and me? I don't even know what the fuck I am anymore.
The ache in my chest was constant, a dull, relentless pressure, like someone had carved something out of me and left the wound open. My hands curled into fists as my mind replayed it again and again—her pulling the trigger, the deafening gunshot in Jamie's basement, Daniel's body crumpling to the floor. It was burned into my fucking skull, and no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't turn it off.
The office door banged open, and Zane strolled in, dropping into the chair across from me. He didn't have to say shit. The look in his eyes already screamed the question.
"How do you want to handle this?"
His tone was grim, but not surprised. Zane never liked Daniel. None of my men did. But they respected him because of me.
And now... Now I had no fucking clue what to do.
My rage, my grief, my hate—they were all clawing at each other, fighting to take control.
