Back then, I was just a college girl grasping at a slice of freedom, and he was a stranger who made me feel alive in ways I’d never dared.
Yes, I kept going back because it felt good. Because it felt like mine. Because with him, I wasn’t a mafia princess or a pawn in my father’s game; I was just Ana.
“Yes,” my brother hisses. “You did. You walked into a Barkov club every week for months, Leanna. Walked in, disappeared for hours. Why did you do that?” His eyes glitter, wild. “You’ve got Campisi money, you don’t need cash. And you’re not reckless enough to do it just for the thrill. So the only explanation? You were sharing information.”
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve. His voice turns mocking, “I’ve been thinking about our father. About expectations. About the heir apparent—supposed to be you.” His hand cuts through the air, then jabs toward me. “But you? You chose them. You crawled into the arms of the enemy. A filthy whore spreading her legs for the Barkovs. Did you think we wouldn’t notice? That you could just get away with it?”
His fist knots in my hair, jerking my head back until my neck strains. Pain shoots down my scalp.
“Fuck you,” I spit.
He laughs. “This is going to be fun.”
He lets go and saunters away, only to return with a rolling cart rattling with tools—metal, sharp, cruel, torturous devices. He makes a show of polishing each one with a cloth, a performative effort to intimidate, letting the silence stretch until it’s unbearable. But he doesn’t pick one.
Instead, he steps, empty-handed, back into my direct, standing with his fists curled and his head cocked and a smirk on his face.
“Barkov came in prepared. He embarrassed us in that room. Forced Dad into a corner. How does a second-tier Russian boss walk into Chicago and make the most powerful family bend? Tell me, Leanna, what did you give him?”
I sneer at him. “You’re so fucking stupid. You strutted around like you were hot shit, skimming and stealing without Dad’s approval. You fucked up, Vince. You handed him the leverage on a silver platter, you moron. Not me.”
Boom.
His fist slams into my cheekbone. The crack reverberates through my skull, and the pain is instant, blinding. My vision bursts with stars, and a cry rips from my throat before I can stop it. I choke it back, gritting my teeth, but tears sting my eyes, spilling hot and unwanted down my face.
“Boy, that felt good,” he pants, shaking out his fist. “I’ve wanted to ruin that pretty face of yours for years.”
Blood fills my mouth, coppery and bitter. I spit it at him. It splatters across his shirt, dark against the fabric. He looks down in disgust, lip curling, then stalks to the cart and snatches up a scalpel.
He’s always carried that slightly crazy look—a malicious spark that made people uneasy the second he walked into a room.
He’s unhinged on the best days.
But now, as he turns back, that manic glint is gone.
“I’m recording this,” he says flatly, tilting his head toward the corner.
I follow his gaze and spot a camera on a tripod that I didn’t notice before.
“Dad’s going to see how you lied,” Vince goes on, his tone almost smug. “How I had no choice but to hurt you. For the good of the family.”
A laugh bursts out of me, and I cling to it even though it hurts like hell. My face feels like it might split open with the swelling. “Delusional,” I rasp.
He slams his palm down on the metal tray. The clang of steel instruments rattles through the warehouse, echoing off the walls.
“I am not delusional!” His voice rises, fevered. “Don’t fucking lie to me. You went to a Russian-owned club. He acted like he owned you at the Commission. There is something going on between you, and you’ll tell me what it is, what you told him about our operations, or I’ll carve the answers out of you.”
I clamp my jaw shut, refusing.
The blade lands on my skin before I even register the motion. Fire rips across my face from temple to cheekbone, and I scream despite every effort not to give him the satisfaction. His voice cuts through my cries, low and venomous.
“Worthless whore. Traitor. Not nearly as smart as you think you are.”
The words land harder than the blade, but I hold onto the only truth I have: I cannot confess to something I didn’t do.
Even if my screams fill the whole damn warehouse.
34
