He's her enemy. Her obsession. And the only man who has the power to destroy her.
▫️▫️▫️
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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The Pierce family's Miami vacation began, as so many spectacular disasters often do, with the best of intentions.
"Benedict, hold still," I begged, chasing my ten-year-old around our luxury suite with a bottle of SPF 50.
My youngest, Caspian, giggled from his perch on his father's shoulders, clapping his chubby hands as if this were the best show he'd ever seen.
"But Mom," Benedict whined, dodging behind the couch, "I don't need it! I'm not a baby!"
"You're my baby," I said sweetly, lunging toward him with determination. Benedict shrieked and vaulted clean over an armchair, limbs flailing like a cartoon character in midair.
From the doorway, Hector Pierce—crime boss, CEO, and currently the most amused man in Miami—watched the chaos with a grin.
"You're fighting a losing battle, my love." He chuckled, adjusting Caspian's tiny sunglasses. "Kid's got your reflexes."
I didn't bother to hide the look I shot him. "You're not helping."
With the exaggerated sigh of a man burdened by unimaginable responsibility, Hector gently set Caspian down on the floor, then moved to scoop up Benedict mid-sprint, hoisting him into the air like a wriggling fish fresh from the sea.
"Traitor!" Benedict gasped in betrayal as I finally succeeded in slathering his sun-kissed limbs in a thick layer of sunscreen.
Meanwhile, Caspian, now liberated and curious, had managed to discover the contents of the mini-fridge. "Miyum!" he announced proudly, holding up a tiny jar of caviar.
I stared at the jar of caviar in his pudgy hands and groaned, rubbing a hand over my face. "We've been here ten minutes."
Hector merely smirked, as though this had all gone precisely according to plan. "Welcome to paradise, love."
Somewhere in this part of Miami, a seagull stole a tourist's empanada. Another tourist slipped and fell by the pool. The hotel manager suddenly felt the urge to triple check their insurance policy.
The Pierce family was on vacation.
I had decided this summer vacation would be as close to normal as our lives could ever get. No business talks, no bodyguards, and absolutely no phone calls at dinner.
We were staying at one of Miami's most opulent family resorts, a beachfront marvel where the sand was soft as powdered sugar and the ocean stretched out like a turquoise dream. I was determined that this would be the kind of holiday my kids remembered with warm nostalgia and not the one where Daddy had to disappear for "five minutes" and returned three hours later with a bloodstained collar.
Alright, fine, I had allowed two bodyguards to tag along. Logan and Steve. But they had strict instructions: no suits, no comms chatter within earshot, and absolutely no discussing business in front of the boys. This week was sunscreen, sandcastles, and poolside mocktails. That was the mission.
