When I step out into the main living space, the food has already arrived. Misha plates everything for us and pours me a much-needed drink.
“Everything good?” she asks.
“Some Campisi stuff to deal with,” I say. “Nothing to worry about.”
She nods. “Can I help?”
I shake my head. My sister has always aspired to a larger role in the family business. She’s twenty-three and far better educated than I am, as I barely finished upper primary school. Hockey had me traveling constantly on national youth teams, and as a result, my grades suffered. By the time I was done, my education was essentially equivalent to that of an eleventh-grader in the United States.
She accompanied me to the States when I turned pro at eighteen. As her legal guardian, I enrolled her in a private school and provided her with a structured and stable environment. She thrived and earned her place at the University of Chicago, where she pursued a degree in international relations.
I never pushed her toward more. Lars is protective. So am I.
Even now, with her grown and capable, I feel responsible. That’s why she has her quarter in the building. Because if danger ever comes knocking, I need to be close enough to reach her first.
“Does he know how much pressure he puts on you?” she asks, her voice softer than her words.
A rare thing she is questioning Lars about.
“It’s okay,” I say simply. “This is my life.”
“But I could help.”
I lift my hand. We’ve had this conversation before. Lars doesn’t budge. Neither do I.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” I say. “That’s more comfort than you know.”
She presses her lips together and stabs at her food. The answer won’t satisfy her forever. But tonight, she lets it go.
Honor. Loyalty. That’s who we are.
5
LEANNA
My dad,Ezra, Vince, and I are scattered across the oversized sectional in Dad’s palatial living room, plates loaded with homemade pasta. The rich scent of garlic and tomatoes battles the blaring sound of the Reapers’ game on the TV.
“They get paid millions forthat?” Dad barks, jabbing a saucy fork at the screen. “Missed passes. Sloppy shots. Bunch of overpaid clowns.”
Vince, the human echo chamber, nods like a bobblehead. “Exactly! I mean, seriously, Dad, whodoesn’tsee that coming? That shot was all wrong.”
I glance at him, brow raised. “Do you even know what you’re talking about, Vince? Or are you just repeating whatever sounds angry?”
Vince frowns but keeps nodding like he’s being deep. “I know enough to know they’re idiots. Right, Dad?”
Dad scoffs. “These guys are toddlers with skates.”
Vince chimes in again, “And the defense? Ugh. Completely useless. They just stand there, Dad. Juststand there.”
I lean back, smirking. “The only thing worse than these Reapers on ice is you giving a play-by-play while eating spaghetti. Seriously, the sauce is flying everywhere.”
Dad looks down at his plate, squints, and mutters, “The spaghetti has nothing on these overpaid lumps of flesh.”
Vince nods sagely. “Exactly. Nothing. Couldn’t agree more.”
I roll my eyes. “Aren’t you the one signing off on their contracts, Dad?”
“What’s that?” he asks absently, tearing his attention from the screen.
