I see the look of rage on his face as he makes his entrance.
Everything shifts.
35
LEANNA
One of myeyes is swollen shut, and the vision in my good eye is blurry. My stomach is riotous, and the vomiting tells me I’ve got a whopper of a concussion, if not worse.
Still, I’m awake. I’m alive.
I’ve held up against my brother’s brutal efforts to make me admit I’ve turned on our family.
My father and his men storm into the building without warning. Even without being able to see clearly, I can sense the change in my brother’s posture, which has stiffened up. I smell urine and realized he’s pissed himself.
I do my best to focus, to understand what’s happening.
“She was fucking that Barkov heir,” I hear my brother whine. “She was going into his club every week. Iknowshe was sharing information. She was betraying us!”
His voice pitches higher and higher as he scrambles to explain himself, as if there’s any excuse for sitting here torturing his own sister.
My father doesn’t say anything—at least nothing I can hear at first.
I struggle to see what’s happening. I heard the subtle click that means a weapon is ready to fire —whose weapon was it?
My brother is crying when he falls to his knees in front of our father. I think he has his gun in his hand.
“She’s a lying, traitorous whore,” he says. “Can’t you see that?”
Finally, I hear my father’s voice, deadly calm. “My son.Whatare you doing?”
“I’m getting the truth,” Vince says.
“And what truth is that?”
“She had a backpack,” my brother answers. “Fake IDs, clothing, money. She had so much cash. Cash she got from tellinghimour secrets.”
I want to sleep. My head hurts. I feel heavy and everything hurts. But I do not want to miss this. So I force myself to say, “Was running…from…responsibility. Didn’t…share…secrets.”
I throw up again, though there’s very little left in my stomach.
“Don’t talk,” my father says quietly.
“Barkov, cut her loose.” He continues.
Barkov.
My brother, at this order from my father, howls like a banshee. He stands and points his weapon at our father. I think his hands are shaking. And then there are footsteps approaching, and he turns and howls again.
“Don’t you fucking dare take another step. This is Campisi’s house cleaning.”
And he turns to my father, “What thefuckis this? He’s herewithyou?” Vince’s voice is a mixture of cry and scream, and his anger tells me that Nik is here.
He’s here.
“Vincenzo, put the gun down,” my father orders. “Put it down and we’ll go home and have a chat.”
There’s too much menace in his tone, too much to go unnoticed, even by my unhinged brother.
