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...
"The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."
- William Shakespeare
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A sharp gasp tore from my throat.
Pain flared through my ribs like I'd been hit by a goddamn train. Breathing had never been so excruciating.
I blinked rapidly, trying to get my bearings, my vision swimming in and out of focus. Everything felt disjointed—the world, the noise, the panic—and yet, one face sharpened into view.
Viktor.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice warm and genuine. The concern was written all over his face.
I nodded, taking his hand to stand up.
The pressure on my chest felt suffocating. The bulletproof vest Uncle Ben had made me wear before stepping out of the house was why I was still breathing. I thought it had been overkill. Turns out, his paranoia was the only reason I wasn't lying in a pool of my own blood right now.
Around me, police swarmed the area, the man who had shot me was being cuffed. The police had shot him, just enough to disarm, but not enough to put him down permanently. The sight of him being led away infuriated me, knowing that this fucker was out of my reach now, at least for the moment.
I wasn't dumb enough to think this was a random attack. No, this had Luigi's fucking fingerprints all over it. That fucker had thrown a grenade into my war, and now my clients were caught in the blast radius.
The apology felt like a knot in my throat, but it was necessary.
"I apologize, Viktor." I met his gaze, forcing enough sincerity into my voice for him to understand the weight behind the words. "You shouldn't have to deal with my problems. This was on me."
He studied me for a moment, his expression still clouded with concern. "You're okay, that's the only thing that matters, Frank."
But I knew he wasn't just worried about me—he was worried about his brother. Marko. And he had every fucking right to be concerned.
My ribs still hurt, every breath I took feeling like a blade going deeper into my lungs, but I had to push the pain aside. I was trying to regain some semblance of control when two police officers approached me.
"Ma'am," one of them said, his voice a little too gentle for my liking, "are you sure you're okay? You took three shots."
I ground my molars together, fighting the pulsing ache spreading with every breath. "I'm fine. The vest did its job."
The other officer looked skeptical, his gaze dropping to my chest where I could feel the bruising already blooming beneath my clothes. "You should probably get checked out. Just to be safe."
"I don't need a hospital," I said, more forcefully this time. I was in no mood for coddling.
"Then we're going to need you to come down to the precinct with us. We need to get your statement for the investigation and have you file formal charges."
