Dom leans closer, his tone low, steady. “Think it through. If you kill him, Campisi has to respond, even if he hates his own son. Family honor demands it. You’ll start a war, Nik. And that puts her in even more danger.”
His words hit, sharp and cold. I hate that he’s right.
“Then what?” I snap.
“We get leverage,” Dom says. “Proof. Make the Don face the truth. If you want Leanna safe and Vince gone, you need her father to pull the trigger. Not you.”
I rake a hand through my hair, fury still boiling under my skin, but the logic sinks in. If I go in hot, she pays the price. If I play this smart, Vince pays instead.
I pull out my phone and hit Lars’s number. He picks up on the second ring.
“Moy syn,” he says. Then, “The weather is sour and so am I.”
“Understood,” I say. “Are you still with Don Campisi?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Good. Put the phone on speaker for a minute.”
As soon as he does, I tell them both the whole story, a truncated version, of course.
I tell them Leanna started dancing for me on a dare from her college friends. That neither of us knew who the other really was. That we fell into something we couldn’t stop. No secrets were traded. No betrayals. We only learned the truth at the Commission.
Before either man can explode, I push forward. I tell them about how Vincenzo’s been hurting Leanna for years, how he took her tonight, how we’re closing in on where he’s keeping her.
“He’s your son, Don Campisi,” I say, my voice like broken glass. “But if he’s laid a hand on her again, I will kill him. This isn’t about Barkov or Campisi. This is only about Leanna.”
Silence stretches, heavy enough to choke on.
Then I hear the shuffle of movement, the sharp snap of orders being given. When the Don returns to the line, his voice is clipped and controlled. “We will meet you. Thank you for the call.”
The line goes dead.
The cabin of the vehicle is filled only with the sounds of classic rock from the front seat and the brutal thud of my heart.
Only one thought cuts through the noise as Chicago blurs past outside the window:
Vincenzo Campisi is already a dead man.
33
LEANNA
I wake up disoriented,unsure why I’d been asleep at all.
My body shifts automatically, but the movement stops short—my arms don’t move. My wrists are bound, zip-ties digging so deep they burn.
It takes a moment for my brain to catch up. My head is pounding, heavy, like it’s full of static.
I blink hard, the world coming into focus in jagged, uneven fragments. Shapes, shadows, then the ache of reality settling in.
My eyes flutter open, and everything is bleary at first as I look around.
Dust floats in the air, catching the faint light from high, grimy windows. The sharp tang of motor oil mixes with the cold bite of concrete, clogging my nose and settling in my throat.
The warehouse is huge and cavernous, but somehow claustrophobic all at once, shadows stretching across stacks of crates and steel beams.
And I’m tied to a chair in the middle of it.
