This sets me off. I sit up straighter in my chair. “What does that mean? A woman can’t run a multinational organization? A woman can’t handle a big job?”
He puts his hands up in surrender, looking horrified. “No, I mean, you just said you weren’t interested…”
“I said I wasn’t interested, not that I couldn’t do it. I have faith in my own intelligence. And how presumptuous, by the way, to assume you’ll be anywhere near me if and when I do take on the role.”
Luca tries leveling me with that smile of his. This time, it comes off as insincere, and my face-melting glare causes that smile to fall away in seconds.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that it’s a big job and it would be hard on its own, but then add in raising a family?—”
“Oh my God,” I interrupt. “Shut up. Right now. Seriously, just shut up.”
He talks right over me. “—And your brother was saying how upset you were just seeing a dead body, so this might be too much for you. Women can be emotional. They’re better suited for duties in the home, and?—”
I shoot out of my seat like I’ve been fired from a cannon. I shove my books, papers, and computer into my backpack. I’m so mad I’m literally shaking.
“Hey, don’t go,” Luca says.
“I have to get back to campus,” I say. “And I don’t want to punch you in the face in front of all these people. Bye, Luke.”
“It’s Luca,” he says.
My middle finger is the last interaction I plan to ever have with him.
I wander over to where my dad sits and lean in from behind the couch, whispering in his ear. “Luca is a hell no. Over my dead body would I marry that misogynistic asshole.”
He chuckles. “Okay then. Want me to have him killed?”
I smack him on the arm. “I’m leaving. I have an exam tomorrow.”
“You don’t want to see how the game turns out?”
“There’s a thing called Google, Dad. I can look up the score.”
“You don’t care if they win or lose?” he asks.
“Why should I? I heard you say they won’t be playoff-eligible either way, and I’m not betting, so what does it matter to me? But you tell me; are they going to win or lose?”
He tilts his head, watching the action unfold on the television. “Hard to tell. It’s not a rigged game, but the coach doesn’t seem to have a good grasp of these players. They’re all rough and tumble. And the Barkov heir is a stubborn bastard who won’t lie down when he’s told. He just does whatever the hell he wants out there.”
My head snaps to the screen, suddenly paying attention. “The Barkov heir? On your team?”
“Two Barkovs, actually. They’re the best players on the team. Oh, the irony.”
“How does that happen? Do they know you own the team?”
“They’re not supposed to. I’m a silent owner, but things have a way of getting out, so I’d be shocked if they didn’t know. So far, they have kept hockey separate from their family business. I like having them close so I can keep an eye on them, but they do need to learn their place. It’d be a shame to lose them.”
I can’t figure out whether he means learning their place on the team or in the hierarchy of Chicago’s crime families.
Probably both.
My attention flicks to the screen again, where the two wingers play off of each other, the left wing snapping a bullet pass at the right wing. It’s so fast, so controlled, that the defenders can’t keep up with it. The right winger speeds behind the opposing team’s net, slipping the puck right behind the goalie’s back, straight into the net.
“Wow,” I say.
“Haven’t you been paying attention at all?” my brother Ezra says from wherever he is in this room full of goons. “Those two practically share a brain. They’re the reason anyone gives a shit about the Reapers right now.”
He seems to realize the implication of his words, because his eyes dart nervously to my father. My father is the reason these amazing athletes are stuck on a team that’s clearly not performing to its true potential.
