“Peace, Leanna,” Ezra says. “I flirted with your cute roommate Rylee at your house.”
“You went to myplace?” I ask. “Don’t do that again. Seriously.”
Vince picks something from between his teeth. “Don’t tell us what to do.”
“Why are you here?” I ask with a heavy sigh.
“We have a job you need to help us with,” Vince says.
“No thanks,” I say. “I have class in an hour, and I don’t do Campisi business. You know that.”
Vince steps forward, bends himself a little to get in my face. “Sure are happy to live off of Campisi money, for someone who doesn’t do Campisi business.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I say.
“Sure, happy to flounce around at the Reapers game like you own the place. Happy to get this fancy college degree on Dad’s dime. You want all the perks without doing the work? And that ends. As of now.”
“I never said I wouldn’t do work,” I say. “Clean work. Legit work. I don’t want the other stuff.”
“You don’t get a choice,” Vince says. “You’re coming.”
“No, I’m not.”
He grabs my arm, rough fingers digging into my flesh. “You are. Dad sent us to get you.”
I struggle to get out of his grip, but he holds fast, and Ezra steps forward, telling Vince to take it down a notch. “People are starting to stare.”
“Tell the fuckin’ princess to get her shit together, then,” Vince says.
“Leanna,” Ezra says. “Just come with us. Dad really did want you to come.”
I grit my teeth, but go, if only to keep from becoming a spectacle.
Vince never lets go of my arm, half-dragging me to a waiting car a couple of blocks away. He shoves me inside, and I find myself stuck with my two hulking brothers as the black town car races away.
We drive and drive, and I mention, again, that I have class soon.
“You already said that, Princess,” Vince says.
We’re in the car for at least half an hour, and my hopes of making it to class drain away, leaving behind a pit of anxiety in my stomach.
We reach a rundown part of the city, an old warehouse district that seems mostly abandoned, until we turn a corner and I see a fleet of semi-trucks, some of them open, being loaded by forklifts carrying large wooden crates.
“What is this, a distribution center?” I ask.
“Yes,” Ezra answers. “Electronics is the official business, if the cops show up. Beyond that, we debulk larger shipments of less legal things and then repackage them for movement across the country. Most of that stuff comes in from overseas.”
“Drugs?” I guess.
“Sometimes. Sometimes weapons. Sometimes jewels or art. Just depends.”
“How long has this been here?”
“A while,” Ezra says. “It’s grown a lot, what we move. This is just one of our centers. Anything bigger would attract too much attention.”
“Are there more here in the city?” I ask.
“A few, yeah,” Ezra says. “But also in Mexico, Russia, Venezuela.”
