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...
"Revenge isn't just sweet, it's intoxicating. A slow-burning poison that tastes like honey on my tongue, dripping down in crimson ribbons, warm and rich. And now that it's served, I'll savor every last fucking drop."
- Frankie
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I felt sick to my stomach.
The feeling had been there ever since I shoved my hand into Luigi's gut and ripped it open like he was nothing more than a fucking piñata full of blood and bile.
Disgusted? No, not even close. What I felt wasn't horror or regret, it was hunger. That moment had been nothing more than the warm-up act, the prelude. I had done worse, far worse. I had been dragged away from corpses far more mangled, my hands still buried in their split-open chests.
Vindictive had always been too small a word to describe me. I wasn't someone who merely wanted revenge; I needed it. I marinated in it. I drowned the people who dared to hurt those I loved in pools of their own gore, and I smiled while I did it.
So then, what the hell was this feeling now? Why did it feel like something inside me had begun to rot?
I’d been nauseous for days, unable to keep food down, throwing up more than I managed to eat. My stomach twisted constantly, like something inside me was fighting to crawl out. It had been forty-eight hours since we returned to Chicago, and the sickness hadn't loosened its grip once.
And I had to keep it hidden.
Sawyer couldn't know. Noah couldn't know. But above all, I couldn't let Hector find out.
If he noticed even the slightest sign that something might be wrong, he'd have me pinned to a hospital bed faster than I could breathe, and he wouldn't leave my side until he got answers. But this wasn't something a doctor could fix. Hospitals wouldn't help me.
What I needed was a fucking pregnancy test.
No. No. No, no, no. God, no.
I couldn't be pregnant. I couldn't even entertain the idea without wanting to scream. There was no way. It just wasn't possible. That wasn't who I was.
I wasn't wired for that kind of life. I wasn't soft or nurturing. I wasn't the type of woman who read bedtime stories or packed lunches shaped like hearts. I was someone who knew how to make a man bleed out in under a minute and smile while doing it. I was a killer. A torturer. A walking fucking nightmare dressed in leather and lip gloss.
I barely had a mother of my own. Just four years with her before life ripped her away like she had never been mine to keep. If it weren't for the old family album Noah still clutched like a sacred relic, I probably wouldn't even remember what she looked like. So what did I possibly know about being someone's mom?
What the hell did I know about raising a child into anything other than a weapon?
Because let's face it; if I did have a kid, I wouldn't be teaching them how to bake cookies or braid hair. I'd be showing them how to hold a knife, how to aim for arteries, how to cut deep and fast and clean. I'd teach them how to survive in a world that never gave a damn about kindness.
