"Every murder turns on a bright hot light, and a lot of people . . .have to walk out of the shadows."
- Albert Maltz
"Your father and Wayne Pierce, head of the Pierce crime family, were unlikely friends. Bound by a shared purpose – to rid Chicago's streets of the drugs that ravaged its youth. Wayne, a man of integrity, had seen firsthand the devastating effects of addiction when he lost his own godson. He refused to profit from the drug trade, despite the opportunities it presented for his family's empire to grow." Papa's voice grew heavy as he recounted a story etched deep in his memory. "When your father and Wayne approached me with their plan, I didn't hesitate for a second to join in. But Wayne's younger brother, Theodore, had other ideas. He couldn't see the nobility in their cause, or maybe he simply refused to. He craved wealth and power. Drug money fueled not only the illegal arms trade but his insatiable greed. Blinded by ambition, he defied Wayne's ideals, secretly running a drug operation." Papa's grip on his scotch glass tightened and I could see the rage in his eyes. "When exposed, he didn't hesitate to pull the trigger on his own flesh and blood and your father John, to protect his criminal empire." Papa took a long swig from his drink, as if it were the only thing keeping him from losing control. "I was hellbent on making Theodore pay for his heinous crimes. But then a call came from the Don himself, and I was forced to drop the whole thing. Don Sergio didn't want a turf war on his territory, and to some degree I could understand, but the searing need for revenge still burned in my veins. Now I wasn't one to cower, darling, but neither was I one to disobey orders."
These were papa's exact words.
I was raised with the understanding that vengeance was mine to take, which left me feeling grateful for the Don's decision to spare Theodore. The Don's choice was somewhat understandable, considering that both Wayne Pierce and a mere detective from the Chicago PD held no significance to his empire.
I had no business throwing the ugly truth at Hector about his father's murder, but I couldn't keep lying to him. He needed to understand the extent of my need for revenge, and now with the knowledge of his uncle's betrayal, perhaps he would finally see things my way.
I wished he would.
But as I wished for his understanding, I couldn't ignore the longings that were coursing through my body. The need for his touch, the feeling of his breath against my neck before he peppered it with kisses, the mere scent of his skin, and the rasp of his voice - all of it made me forget my initial intentions. I had never planned on falling for Hector, but now, if he was going to stand in the way of my revenge, I was willing to destroy him in the process.
Theodore was a dead man, and I was determined to make sure of it. He had caused so much pain and suffering, and now it was time for him to pay for his actions. And with the help of Noah, who insisted on helping me, we had finally pinned down Aleksander Ivanov's cellphone number. It was the smartest and fastest way to track him and get a clear clue on his whereabouts.
I couldn't help but feel satisfaction as I remembered the dumb mistake Aleksander had made. He had been too arrogant and cocky, thinking he was clever. But to me, he was just all muscles and no brains. It was his downfall that he lacked the one thing that would have earned him my respect, and everyone else's - intelligence.
But luck was on my side, as Aleksander's stupidity had made it easy to figure out who he could be associated with. The dumb fuck was at the Pagano's estate two nights ago, confirming my suspicions.
It all went back to the night of the Council's meeting at the Langham hotel, where the Colombian had attempted to assassinate the members. I had never been able to prove Aleksander's involvement, but with his recent actions, it was clear that he had a secret hand in the failed attack.
The acrid tang of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, doing little to help with the relentless churning in my gut. I shoved away distracting thoughts of Hector, his touch a memory both comforting and a dangerous temptation. Today, a different fire burned within me – the cold, steely resolve of vengeance.
Pushing aside piles of case files, I scribbled furiously on a notepad. My to-do list for the coming week wasn't filled with the usual legal strategizing. It held a single, stark entry: Taylor Williams.
I was entirely sure of his guilt, despite my doubts during the trial. And it was painfully clear that he had played us all for fools, leading my team of investigators straight to the evidence that secured his acquittal. But not this time. I wasn't going to let him get away with the rape and murder of Alyssa Martinez.
Shame washed over me – I, the seasoned lawyer, had fallen prey to his carefully constructed facade of innocence.
Grabbing my phone, I dialed Scotty's number with trembling fingers. Three cigarettes, each a testament to my growing agitation, had already been reduced to smoldering embers in the ashtray. As I waited, I tapped a frantic rhythm against the windowsill, the city sprawled out below was a stark contrast to the turmoil within.
"Boss?" Scott's voice, laced with a hint of sleep, cut through the tension. "You're early."
I forced a smile, the sound strained even to my own ears. "Sharp as ever, Scotty. I need you to do something for me."
"Of course," came the immediate reply, followed by a stifled yawn. "Anything. What's the issue?"
"Cancel all my meetings for the next two to three weeks. I'm taking some personal time, and I need you and Dalilah to do the same."
"Seriously?" Scott's voice took on a happier tone, but I could sense him trying to contain it, knowing I was likely not in a good mood. I couldn't help but smile briefly at his attempts. "I mean, why? Everything okay, boss?"
"No time to explain," I replied, my voice clipped. "Office needs to be shut down by noon. Make sure everyone's out."
Ending the call, a wave of guilt washed over me. Luigi wouldn't hesitate to exploit any vulnerability I showed. The truth, the unspoken truth I hadn't even fully admitted to myself, was that I cared about Scott and Dalilah.
Sawyer's gruff voice shattered the silence of the room, jolting me out of my contemplative fog. "Frankie," he announced, his tone clipped. "It's ready."
A flicker of satisfaction sparked in my eyes, a tiny flame against the backdrop of swirling apprehension. Idleness gnawed at me, a dull ache far worse than the sharp sting of fear. I, Francesca Hansley, heir to the notorious Il Padre, wouldn't wait around for that snake Luigi Pagano to make his move.
A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips, a sardonic twist against the weight of the coming storm. Conor Jones, the great Irish mob boss raised a ruthless killer, a hunter in an elegant Armani pantsuit. And I...I was ready to take down my prey.
"I want Manny and Irving with the sniper team," I ordered, my voice steely. I punctuated the command by raising my hand, the cigarette smoldering between my fingers like a dying ember. "And Sawyer," I added, my gaze locking with his, "no mistakes."
Sawyer absorbed the order with a grim nod before vanishing through the doorway. I wasn't oblivious to the worry etched on his face. He'd practically pleaded with me to reconsider, to abandon this reckless course of action. But his pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
There was a time, perhaps, when I wouldn't have risked everything on impulse. But watching the concern flicker in his eyes – a man who saw my family as his own – twisted a sharp knife in my gut. It was a reminder of the tangled loyalties and the perilous line I was about to cross.
I stood frozen, Frankie's words echoing in my mind like a thunderous clap. My uncle, Theodore Pierce, the man I had looked up to and respected all my life, was the one responsible for my father's murder. It felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath me, leaving me stranded in a swirling vortex of rage, heartbreak, and betrayal.
The revelation hit me like a physical blow, a wave of emotions crashing over me with such intensity that it threatened to consume me whole. How could my own flesh and blood commit such a heinous act? How could he betray my father, betray me? The thought twisted like a knife in my gut, tearing at the very fabric of my being.
With a roar of anguish, my fist collided with the wall, again and again, the impact sending jolts of pain shooting up my arm. But the physical pain paled in comparison to the searing agony tearing through my soul. I sank to my knees, tears mingling with the blood from my bruised knuckles as I struggled to make sense of the betrayal that had shattered my world.
Yet, even in the midst of my anguish, I knew I couldn't afford to lose control. With a gruelling effort, I forced myself to breathe, long and slow, wresting control over the primal urge to lash out. I needed answers, not a broken hand. There would be time for reckoning later.
Clambering to my feet, I wiped the tears from my eyes and straightened my shoulders. I had to know the truth, had to confront Conor and see if he could back up the damning accusation against Theo.
The marble floor of Conor's mansion gleamed under the harsh overhead lights, each echoing footstep of mine a hammer blow against the tense silence of the night. My hand trembled as I reached for the door leading to his office. Taking a steadying breath, I rapped sharply before entering.
The door swung open, revealing Conor bathed in the warm glow of his desk lamp. His initial surprise morphed into concern as he took in my grim expression. "Hector," he rasped, his voice rough with the weariness of late nights and heavy burdens. "What brings you here at this hour?"
My voice emerged a low, guttural growl. "I need to talk. It's about my father." A million unspoken questions swirled around in my head.
Conor's brow furrowed, his face etched deep with worry. He ushered me inside, the door closing with a soft thud behind me. "Frankie told you, didn't she?" he ventured, his own voice laced with a weariness that went beyond the hour.
I met his gaze, my jaw clenched tight, every muscle in my body tensed with barely contained fury. A curt nod was all I could manage. "Yes, she did. And I need to know everything, papa. I need to know the truth."
The weight of my words seemed to crack the facade Conor had so carefully constructed. His eyes widened in a mixture of shock and a profound sorrow that sent chills down my spine. "Oh, son..." he started, his voice thick with remorse, "...I'm so sorry."
The apology hung in the air, a hollow echo that did little to quell the firestorm raging inside me. My fists curled into white-knuckled balls at my sides, the fury threatening to spill over. "Tell me the truth," I demanded, my voice trembling with a potent mix of hurt and anger. "Did my father and Uncle Theodore have a falling out? Did he really…" the words stuck in my throat, the question too painful to voice, yet impossible to ignore.
Conor sighed heavily, the sound a physical manifestation of the burden he'd carried for so long. He sank into his armchair with a weary grace, running a hand through his grizzled hair as if to dislodge the weight of his memories. "Yes, Hector," he confessed, each word a hammer blow to my already fractured heart. "It's true."
He paused, his eyes filled with a thousand unspoken apologies. "Your father, Wayne, and John Hansley, the Chicago PD detective... they were like brothers. They shared a dream, a vision for a cleaner Chicago, a city free from the scourge of drugs."
He closed his eyes for a fleeting moment, pain etched on his face. "But Theodore…" his voice trailed off before he steeled himself, continuing, "He was different. Power and money held a far greater appeal to him than any idealistic notions."
My chest tightened as Conor spoke. "When Wayne refused to be a part of the drug trade, Theodore saw an opportunity. An opportunity to build his own empire on the backs of those Wayne sought to protect."
Conor finally met my gaze, his eyes filled with sorrow and regret that mirrored my own turmoil. "Wayne and John dedicated their lives to cleaning up the streets. But Theodore… well, he had a different operation going. A secret one, supplying the very drugs Wayne was fighting against."
He spoke of the confrontation, his voice heavy with the weight of a past he could not change. The betrayal, the rage, the struggle – all painted in vivid strokes, tearing open wounds that time had barely begun to heal.
My vision blurred as Conor finished, a tidal wave of rage crashing through me. "He killed them," I whispered, the words raw with a grief I hadn't allowed myself to feel before.
Conor nodded, the movement almost imperceptible. "He did, Hector. I couldn't stop him. Don Sergio wouldn't allow any interference, fearing a turf war."
A wave of exhaustion washed over me, extinguishing the fiery intensity that had burned within me mere moments ago. "Thank you, papa," I murmured hoarsely. "Thank you for giving me the answers I needed."
I turned to leave, the need for fresh air, for solitude, an overwhelming urge. But before I could reach the door, Conor's voice stopped me.
"Son, please stay," he pleaded, a flicker of desperation in his eyes. I looked back at him, and I just couldn't bring myself to say no.
Reclaiming my seat on the armchair across from him, I slumped back. Conor's impressive display of Irish whiskeys mocked me. My throat yearned for the familiar burn, a desperate plea for oblivion. He seemed to understand, rising with a heavy sigh and moving towards the liquor cabinet. The clinking of glasses and the measured pour of amber liquid were the only sounds that dared intrude on the suffocating silence.
As he handed me a brimming glass of The Emerald Isle, a flicker of something akin to longing crossed his features. I downed the whiskey in one swift gulp, the harsh burn a fleeting echo of the inferno raging within me.
"I know you and Frankie don't talk anymore," Conor said finally, his voice laced with caution. His scrutinizing look held a silent plea, but my expression remained impassive, much to his dismay. But the mention of her name sent a pang of unspoken longing through my chest.
"Frankie and I are done," I managed, the words tasting like ashes in my mouth. The bitterness I tried to mask seeped into my tone. "Not just by choice, but by circumstance. I doubt she'll ever forgive the fact that my own fucking blood took her father away."
Conor held his glass up, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully. "She's been through hell, Hector. She craved revenge, ached for it like a phantom limb, but she could never give you up."
My jaw tightened, the tendons in my neck threatening to rip. My fists clenched around the empty glass, the urge to shatter it a physical manifestation of the rage building within me. "Why the secrecy? Why keep this festering wound from me? This was about my family too, dammit! I deserved to know!"
The accusation hung heavy in the air, a challenge Conor met with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. He rose from his seat and claimed the one across from me, his stance mirroring my own coiled tension.
"Not only did Don Sergio lay down a strict order to keep this information under wraps, especially from you," he explained, his voice low and heavy, "but I had also promised Frankie she'd have her revenge. Years of yearning, Hector. She didn't just lose a father that night. She lost a future, a sense of security, a childhood. The scars go deeper than anyone will ever know."
His words struck a chord, a spark of understanding flickering within me. But a nagging doubt remained.
"Did you know whose child she was when you took her in?" I asked, the question cutting through the heavy air.
Conor's eyes clouded over, and he took a deep breath as if steeling himself for the weight of his next words. "That night..." he began, his voice dropping to a raspy whisper, "It was a Chicago winter so bitter it could steal the heat from your soul. Ronan and I were patrolling the streets when we stumbled upon them – Frankie and Noah. Just kids, barely clinging to life in the unforgiving cold."
My eyes widened in shock. "They were that young?"
"Barely fifteen," he confirmed, his voice thick with sadness. "Bruised, skeletal, and pale, they wore their clothes like a thin shield against the elements. Selling pills for some lowlife gang, they were. Used, broken, and discarded like yesterday's garbage."
A surge of anger, hot and primal, coursed through me. "Who was that bastard that exploited them like that?" I demanded, my voice a low growl.
"It took time to find the man," Conor admitted, a grim set to his jaw. "But when we did, we made sure his reign of terror ended."
Silence engulfed us once more, heavier now with the weight of the past. Conor's words resonated within me, dredging up a maelstrom of emotions.
"It took time for them to let down their guard," he continued, his eyes distant. "Frankie, especially. Fear clung to her like a shroud. But I knew her pain, Hector. I knew loss. I gave her the space she needed to find her way back to herself."
There were no words to express the chaos of emotions churning within me. Shame, regret, and a flicker of something akin to gratitude warred for dominance.
"I wish she called me Dad," Conor confessed, a flicker of vulnerability flashing across his face. "But I understand. Her father's absence is a wound that won't heal."
He turned to me, his gaze filled with an intensity that mirrored my own. "And now, Hector, she seeks closure. Justice for the pain and suffering Theodore inflicted on her."
Justice. The word resonated within me.
A silent battle was raging within me. Love, loyalty, and a lifetime of memories warred with the stark reality of Theodore's actions. He was my uncle, the man who'd taught me to fish, to throw a punch, and navigate the treacherous streets of Chicago. Yet, he was also a murderer, the man who stole not only Frankie's father but mine too.
The depths of my love and gratitude for Theo transcended mere words, an unspoken bond forged by years of shared memories and unwavering loyalty. Yet, even as my heart ached with the weight of our history together, I knew he must pay. Theodore Pierce, blood or not, would face the consequences of his betrayal.
The cold Chicagoan night clung to me like a second skin as I exited the house, two hulking figures flanking me; a part of the new security team hired by Sawyer.
Gone were the days of the prim suit and tailored elegance I wore in the courtroom. Tonight, I was pure steel, dressed in black leggings and a silk camisole that disappeared beneath a black leather jacket. In my waistband, nestled against the small of my back, were my trusty Berettas – an extension of myself, as familiar as my own heartbeat.
Beside me, Noah bounced on the balls of his feet, his usual frown replaced by a goofy grin. Noah rarely ventured out, the cacophony of the city overwhelming his senses. But tonight, something about the prospect of visiting papa had coaxed him out.
I had argued. Insistence, bordering on a plea, had dripped from my voice as I tried to explain to Sawyer over the phone the necessity of going. Sawyer, a mountain of a man with sleek black hair and a loyalty that rivaled the knights of old, had grumbled his disapproval like usual. But this wasn't a negotiation. This was a visit to papa. This was about family, and family was sacrosanct.
The car ride was a tense affair. The two security detail men, both built like brick walls with faces devoid of any expression, kept their eyes glued to the rearview mirror, their hands hovering near their concealed weapons. Noah, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension, chattered excitedly about his new favorite movie, his voice a melody against the rhythmic hum of the engine. I, like always, found solace in his innocent ramblings. It was a nice distraction from the storm brewing within me.
I wasn't sure what awaited us on the way to papa's estate. With so much on the line, I couldn't shake the nagging fear that I was putting my brother's safety in jeopardy by bringing him along. Yet, in the face of his earnest request, there was no way I could deny him this opportunity. No matter the risks, I was determined to protect him at all costs.
Suddenly, the menacing snarl of tires tore through the quiet night, jolting me from my thoughts. Four black SUVs appeared from the shadows, flanking my Mercedes G-Class.
My pulse hammered against my ribs.
"Stay down, Noah," I rasped, my voice tight with tension. My fingers flew to the familiar weight of my Beretta in its holster. The security detail was already a blur of quick movement, retrieving their weapons with practiced efficiency.
The world seemed to slow down as the SUVs disgorged their passengers – armed men in black, their faces obscured by shadows. A cruel smile stretched across the face of the last man to emerge. Luigi Pagano, the very reason for my unease, sauntered forward, his gait radiating a chilling confidence.
"Baby, keep your head down," I hissed, my voice tight with a fear I couldn't entirely suppress. "No matter what happens, you stay in this car."
Noah seemed to sense the urgency in my tone. His large, ice-blue eyes welled up, but a flicker of determination steeled his gaze. "But Frankie-"
"No buts!" I snapped, the harshness of my tone surprising even me. "This isn't a game. You promise me, you won't leave this car."
Noah, his lower lip trembling, nodded silently. I squeezed his hand, the simple gesture a desperate attempt to offer comfort in the face of the unknown. Stepping out of the car, I felt the cool night air prickle against my skin, contrasting the inferno raging within me.
"Francesca," Luigi purred, his voice dripping with false friendliness. "Such a pleasure to see you again. Though, I must confess, I expected a warmer welcome."
My gaze darted between Luigi and his armed goons, my mind racing to formulate a plan. This was an ambush, a blatant challenge. My heart hammered a frantic tattoo against my ribs. But the image of Noah huddled in the backseat, steeled my resolve. I would not snap. Not now.
"The feeling isn't mutual, Luigi," I replied, my voice laced with a coldness that mirrored the night. "I take it you received my… present?"
A flicker of surprise, quickly masked by a sardonic smile, crossed Luigi's face. "Ah yes, the casket," he chuckled, the sound devoid of humor. "A rather… creative touch, I must say."
I met his gaze unflinchingly, a dark chuckle escaping my lips. "Well, I certainly hoped it was."
The metallic tang filled the air, acrid and heavy. My breath hitched in my throat. The silence that followed the hail of gunfire was a suffocating weight. I dared a glance at my men who lay sprawled on the asphalt, their weapons scattered like discarded toys. A surge of despair threatened to engulf me, but I shoved it down, burying it deep within the recesses of my soul. My focus, my only focus, was on protecting Noah.
"That was rather unfortunate, wouldn't you agree, cara?" Luigi remarked, his voice devoid of emotion as he gestured towards my fallen men. "They were only here to ensure your safety, were they not?"
Every muscle in my body tensed. I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing Noah was a mere arm's length away. "My safety is of no concern to you, Luigi."
A flicker of amusement danced in his cold eyes. "On the contrary, Francesca," he purred, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "It's precisely why you're here. And why," he added, his gaze shifting towards the car, a cruel smile twisting his lips, "I'm willing to overlook a certain… uninvited guest."
A primal surge of fear coiled in my gut as I whipped around, my heart hammering against my ribs. In the backseat window, reflected in the pale moonlight, I saw Noah. His hand was outstretched, reaching into the glove compartment. A glint of metal caught the light. Dread tightened its icy grip around my throat. Noah had found my gun.
"Noah, no!" I screamed, my voice cracking with a mixture of terror and urgency.
Noah, his face a canvas of stark terror and misplaced bravado, shook his head. "No way, Frankie. We fight them together."
My mind raced. Noah had never held a gun, let alone been in a situation like this. I couldn't risk his life on a desperate gamble. Panic warred with fierceness that burned white-hot in my gut. In a lightning-fast move, I lunged for the gun, disarming Noah with a practiced ease before shoving him behind me.
A cruel smile stretched across Luigi's face as he watched us. "Always the pragmatist, Frankie. But so predictable."
The amusement in his voice ignited a fresh wave of anger. "This is between you and me, Luigi." I spat his name, enunciating each syllable with icy disdain. "My brother has nothing to do with this."
I cursed myself for unknowingly dragging Noah into this.
Luigi's voice dripped with a venomous satisfaction. "I heard you're a good fighter, Francesca. I'd love to watch you fight. How about this? You take on my boys, one on one. Win, and you both walk away clean."
My gaze darted between Luigi's mocking smirk and Noah's wide, terrified eyes. The offer was a lie, a cynical joke I knew all too well. Luigi wouldn't let me win. But he wouldn't hesitate to use Noah as leverage if I refused. It was a rigged game, a twisted test of my loyalty and desperation.
With a curt nod, the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders like a lead cloak, I stepped forward. Every muscle in my body tensed, bracing for the fight of my life.
I stood defiantly, my back a shield against Noah's trembling form. The ten men surrounding us were a tide of violence, each step closer was a rising threat. Years of training and countless brawls flickered in my memory, but the reality of the situation was a cold stone in my gut. This wasn't a fair fight, and I wasn't a superhero.
The first punch caught me square in the jaw, the world tilting on its axis for a moment. My own blow landed with a satisfying crack, the thug stumbling back momentarily. A surge of hope, fragile as spun glass, flared in my chest. Maybe, just maybe...
But that flicker was quickly extinguished. They came at me in a relentless wave, fists and boots raining down like hailstones. I danced and weaved, drawing on every ounce of my training, but their sheer numbers wore me down. Each blow chipped away at my defenses, a symphony of pain building in every muscle.
Through the haze of sweat and blood, I saw Noah. His face was a mask of terror, a reflection of my own past battles. He watched, paralyzed by fear, as I took blows upon blows, blows that echoed the countless others I'd endured for him through the years. Memories of the orphanage washed over me – cold nights huddled together, the promise I'd made to always protect him, a promise that now felt like a cruel joke.
The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth, mingling with the taste of despair. My ribs screamed with every breath, a vice tightening around my lungs. My vision swam, the once distinct faces of Luigi's men blurring into a menacing mass.
I stole a glance at Noah. Tears streamed down his face, his voice hoarse from screaming. One of the men had him in a tight grip, preventing him from reaching me. A sliver of relief cut through the fog clouding my mind. At least he was safe.
The inevitable happened. My knees buckled, and the asphalt welcomed me with a bone-jarring impact. I lay there, sprawled on the cold ground, the fight drained from me. Above, a man loomed, his face a grotesque mask of amusement, a gun gleaming in his hand.
I knew this was it. A wave of exhaustion washed over me, a dark tide threatening to pull me under. Sawyer would kill me for this, but a single, weak smile tugged at the corner of my bloodied lips. I had fought, every cell in my body screaming in protest, but I had held the line.
Suddenly, a voice, cold and calculating, cut through the haze. It was Luigi. "Let her live to fight another day," he sneered, his gaze fixed on me. "She's got guts. I like that in an enemy."
The men backed off, their departure more confusing than relieving. The weight of the gun lifted, replaced by the frantic sounds of Noah scrambling towards me. He threw himself onto my battered form, his cries a desperate plea that clawed its way through the fog.
"Frankie! No, please get up!"
I wanted to comfort him, to assure him I was okay, but my body wouldn't cooperate. The fight had taken its toll, leaving me a broken marionette with severed strings.
"Just like old times, baby.." I rasped, the words laced with pain and a strange sense of peace.
The darkness that had been threatening crept in, claiming me bit by bit. As consciousness slipped away, the only thing anchoring me was Noah's tear-streaked face, a face etched with a helplessness that was a far more painful wound than any Luigi's men could inflict. This wasn't a fight I could win. But Noah was safe. And that, for now, would have to be enough.