I’ve never liked this office. It’s too dark. Too heavy. Too Campisi.
When we were kids, we hated being called into our dad’s office because that meant we were about to be in trouble. The boys spent more time in there than I did, of course.
But today, I’m not here on command.
I step inside on my own.
As soon as I walk in, my dad gives me a broad smile and gestures to one of the chairs. I sit.
He finishes a phone call, then asks casually, “What’s up, pumpkin?”
I don’t ease into it. “Did you send Ezra and Vince to get me at school last week?”
My father tilts his head. Studies me for a moment. “No.”
“Really? Because they showed up at my school, outside my class, and told me you wanted me to see something. Then they drove me to the middle of some worn-down warehouse district, showed me Christina Petrella’s body in a cold storage unit, and locked me in there for two hours after Vince screamed in my face.”
My father has long mastered his reactions. He’s incredibly hard to read, but I know him well enough to see the slight flinch, the slight, brief widening of his eyes.
He didn’t know.
“Your brothers have been concerned with your perceived disinterest in understanding the depth and breadth of the business, Leanna. I’m inclined to say I agree with them.”
“So you condone what they did? Making me miss class right before midterms? Screaming at me? Making me freeze in a cooler with a dead body for hours?”
“You know, when you’re the boss, they won’t be able to do that to you.”
“They shouldn’t be able to do it now,” I say. “Vince is unhinged, Dad. He’s violent and sadistic. And worse, he’s blinded by jealousy.”
“And why do you think he’s jealous?” he asks, sitting back in his chair.
This is one of my father’s techniques. He calmly asks you to answer questions, like he’s a therapist or something. And usually people screw up. They answer their own question, admit their mistake, or provide valuable information that he then uses against them.
He’s seriously very good at it.
“Hesaid it, Dad. He’d give anything to have you think of him as a leader. He says I shit on the family, while he takes pride in it. He wanted to force me to want to be part of this. And I don’t want that. I’ve been clear about that. So tell him to back off.”
I want to tell him that Vince shoved me. That he’s been hurting me. That I fear he’ll take it too far one of these days. But I stop myself.
I stop myself because it’s childish to tattle on my thirty-year-old asshole brother.
I stop myself because I know that if I tell Dad, then he’ll do twice as bad to Vince to teach him a lesson, and Vince, because he’s batshit crazy, will do three times as bad to me in retribution.
It’s a vicious cycle of violence.
I also stop myself because I don’t want my dad to have any more reason than he already does to keep me under lock and key.
“Your brother,” my father says, “isn’t a subtle man. His tactics often say more about his own lack of self-confidence than they say about the person he’s inflicting them upon.”
I sigh. “He’s a piece of shit human, Dad. That’s what he is. He’s a lapdog, overcompensating in his efforts to get you to pat his little head or rub his little tummy.”
The left side of my father’s mouth quirks up in a half smile. “There’s my girl. I like that fire.”
I just stare at him.
He likes this.
Violence. Discord. Hatred.
