He likes it when people fight their way to the top.
I thought he might be more protective of me, since I’m his supposed “chosen one,” but it’s clear that he wants me to scrap my way out of the melee on my own. He’ll hand it to me, but only after I claw my way to the top of the pile of bodies.
It shouldn’t be disappointing, but it is.
“It’s time, Leanna. As soon as you finish your finals this spring, you’ll come back home. You’ll start your training with me. You’ve had your fun, and now it’s time to add value to the organization. You’re smart, educated, and capable. I need you.”
I feel like I might throw up. “I don’t want this. I know you want thisforme, but I don’t have the stomach for it. I don’t.”
“Leanna, you don’t ever have to do the dirty work if you don’t want to,” he says. “Get a second in command, a person who likes the violence. They can act on your behalf.”
I scoff. “But I’m still ordering the hit or whatever,” I say. “How is that different? And you can’t tell me that people will value my leadership if they know I can’t pull the trigger. That Iwon’tpull the trigger.”
“You knowhowto pull the trigger, though,” he argues. “I taught you myself since you were young. You’re a wicked good shot, and if it came down to your life or the life of someone holding a gun in your face, I think you’d pull the fuckin’ trigger, don’t you?”
“You’re missing the point. I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to be in a position where someone has a gun to my head.”
“Oh, Leanna,” he says with a heavy sigh. “You are so much like your mother. A fuckin’ saint that woman was.”
He makes the sign of the cross. Gets up and takes his rocks glass to the wet bar that’s set into one of the massive wooden bookcases. Pours himself a glass of scotch, tosses it back, then pours another.
“This is a legacy,” my father says, voice smooth as the scotch that used to sit on his desk. “Our family, Campisi, is kingmakers. Playmakers. Feared and respected in equal measure. And yes, some of that came the old-fashioned way: grit, grind, street smarts.”
He leans forward, steeples his fingers.
“But some of it came from playing dirty and greasing the right palms. Flexing when it counted. There are dark parts to this job—ugly, unsavory things I’ll probably spend the rest of my life trying to atone for.”
He shrugs, as if the weight of his sins is a coat he can take off someday.
“You won’t have to touch that part. That’s what your brothers are for. You? You just need to show up. Do what you do best to use that big, beautiful brain.”
The way he talks leaves a pit in my stomach.
Maybe he did order Vince and Ezra to take me to that cold storage locker, to lock me in there with that dead woman.
Perhaps the slight reaction I saw was his surprise at being called out on it.
I grip the arms of the chair to keep myself from shaking. I’m so angry.
“I’m not a child,” I snap. “I’m not your puppet. I’m not Vince’s punching bag. And I sure as hell won’t be anyone’s prisoner.”
His brow ticks upward, just slightly.
“I can make my own choices. And I’ve made one.”
I stand, the words burning in my chest.
“After graduation, I’m gone. I’m taking the moneyIearned and getting on a plane. I’m going to find some crappy apartment, get some shitty entry-level job, and work in a cubicle. I want to be anonymous. I want to benormal.”
He laughs—a low, condescending chuckle.
“Normal?” he says, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, you’re a Campisi. You can chase normal all you want, but it’ll never stick. You’ll never outrun your name. No matter how far you go, it’s inked into your skin.”
“Bullshit,” I say. “I should have a choice.”
He sinks back into his leather chair, exhaling slowly and steadily like he’s explaining simple math to a child.
“You willneverbe safer than you are right here, Leanna.”
