“Right? The audacity!” Rylee throws her head back, shaking her ass like she’s daring the world to challenge her. “This is fun! Why did I even waste two weeks moping?”
“You’re right,” I say, grabbing her hands and spinning her around. “Tonight, we celebrate the end of pathetic men and the rise of queen energy!”
Makayla rolls her eyes but can’t hide the grin tugging at her lips. “I’m kind of over this music,” she mutters, twisting her braids into a high knot. “Can we go somewhere else? My eardrums are filing a formal complaint.”
Charlotte pipes up, her voice flat as stale toast. “I have a study group in the morning, and I’d like to attend it fully conscious. So maybe let’s not extend my streak of poor decisions.”
“Oh, come on, Charlotte,” I tease, flicking her arm. “You’ve survived two hours of bass drops and glitter cannons. That’s basically a war medal.”
She glares, unimpressed, but I can see the tiny crack in her armor. “Heroic or not, someone’s gotta keep you all from setting the world on fire,” she mutters, though her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh.
Rylee bumps me with her shoulder. “So… after prepubescent sack of ballsacks, what’s the plan? Another bar? Rooftop? Midnight taco run?”
“I vote taco run,” Makayla says, smacking her lips together. “I want something greasy and delicious to soak up all this liquor-induced wisdom.”
Charlotte groans. “I said study group. I meant it. I will personally haunt you in my sleep if you drag me to a taco stand at midnight.”
We’re all seniors at Northwestern, and we’ve known each other since freshman year. Charlotte used to be kind of fun. She played soccer, partied, and mostly went to class.
But then she met Maddie, and they moved really fast. Charlotte thought they were going to get married, but then Maddie toldCharlotte she wasn’t “serious enough” and broke up with her. Charlotte’s been overboard serious ever since. Maddie still isn’t interested.
We wander out into the cool, early spring, Chicago night, on a street that has about ten bars and clubs. Makayla says she wants to go to Franco, a crazy hip-hop club full of neon paint and black light. It’s fun, so I give a shoulder shrug of agreement.
“You up for it, Ry?” I ask. “It’s still early.”
“I thought we were—” Charlotte starts.
“Charlotte,” Makayla says tersely. “Loosen up. We’re here for Rylee. It’s her night. Don’t be boring.”
Charlotte blows an exasperated breath out, and it fans out her straight bangs. She and Rylee are both blonde, both petite. Where Rylee is all curves, with curly hair. Charlotte is straight edges. Blunt bob, leanly muscled body. Makayla towers over us all, a statuesque beauty with light brown skin and expressive brown eyes.
And then there’s me. Italian in every way. Tall-ish. Brown hair. Olive skin.
Other things about me? I’m the daughter of the most dangerous and likely most powerful man in Chicago. I am the fourth child and only daughter of Don Antonio Campisi, and the mob raised me.
Now, does that mean I am a violent person? No.
Do I kill or hurt people? No.
Do I engage in criminal activity? No.
Not unless you count the time I peed in a parking lot because I couldn’t hold it after a night out partying.
I’m just an average, run-of-the-mill college kid. My friends don’t know a single thing about what my dad actually does. He’s just Mr. Campisi when they see him. They know he’s wealthy, that he owns a significant amount of real estate here in the city. Beyond that, I’m happy to keep them in the dark, for their safety, but also because I want nothing to do with the family.
I don’t do Campisi business. That’s my mantra, though the closer I get to graduation, the closer I get to a reality that busts that mantra to bits. My dad wants me to take over. He’s getting older, and my brothers are morons. He’s not subtle about what he wants, and he’s not used to taking no for an answer.
I keep saying no. I continue to live my best life as a normal citizen. I keep doing small rebellions. It’s an impasse, really.
We start walking the block or two toward Franco, named for its pretentious celebrity owner, and Rylee stops, staring hard at a red-lit gentleman’s club across the street.
There’s a bouncer out front, a leather-jacketed guy with a forehead too big for his face. He’s packing heat under that jacket. My friends probably don’t notice, why would they? But I’m mob-trained. I know the bulge of a handgun when I see one.
Ahren, the club is called. One might think that’s a name, but I know it’s Russian by the stylized lettering: ?????. It means Angel. So it’s Russian-owned, and there’s a guy packing heat outside. If I had to guess, it’s owned by a rival organization.
I hate these clubs. Always have.
Misogynistic men everywhere, exploiting young women like it’s a sport. I’ve tried talking Dad into selling the Campisi-owned places for years, always the same angle: those women aren’t just dancers, they’re someone’s daughter, someone’s sister. How would he feel if it were me? Dancing for those men?
