Chapter 13 Leanna
LEANNA
My father’s office is exactly what you’d expect from a man who runs one of the most powerful mafia families in the city.
Two opposing walls are lined with towering bookshelves—polished dark wood, filled with business tomes, art pieces, and a few framed family photos that look more curated than sentimental.
One shelf, if you know the trick, swings open to reveal a weapons cache.
The other hides a panic room behind a biometric lock.
The desk is huge and heavy, dark, covered in papers, with a laptop, a pair of reading glasses, and an empty glass of scotch. It, too, has hidden compartments and chambers.
A long brown leather couch stretches against the back wall, facing a glass-topped coffee table with a half-finished chess game. Two leather chairs sit opposite the desk, stationed atop a Persian rug so fine it practically screams power.
Every inch of the room is designed to impress, intimidate, and hide a dozen secrets.
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.
“He said 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.
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 this for me, 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 I won’t pull the trigger.”
“You know how to 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 money I earned 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 be normal.”
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 will never be safer than you are right here, Leanna.”
His voice is calm.
“Even if I let you go and run around Europe with a backpack and a fantasy of normalcy, you’ll still be followed by my security people. And you know why? Because you’re a fucking Campisi. You are my only daughter. You will always be a commodity that my enemies can exploit to get to me.
He looks me dead in the eyes, unblinking.
“And what kind of father would I be if I let someone take you from me without tearing the world apart to protect his little girl?”
“Dad—”
He raises a hand. “No. This isn’t a negotiation, Leanna.”
He leans forward, intensity tightening in every line of his face.
“What I’m offering you is the top of the goddamn food chain.
You want freedom? I’m giving you freedom with power.
You want to travel? Fine. Do it on your own private jet.
You want adventure? Sail the Adriatic on your own yacht.
You want sex? Pick your fucktoy, male or female, I don’t give a damn.
You want to hire someone to manage the shit you don’t like?
Do it. But you stay in the family. You don’t disappear. ”
I can’t think of a thing to say.
My ears are buzzing, stomach swimming with anxiety.
He’s not going to listen to what I want.
I cannot win this argument.
“It is not up for debate,” he says. “There’s a Commission meeting in two months, here in Chicago. You know what that means, right?”
I sigh. “All heads of family, from all over the world.”
“All heads of family,” he repeats. “It will be tense and volatile, and I want you there. You’ll meet my private shopper at Saks, and she’ll help you select the appropriate wardrobe. You’ll pay attention and learn, and you’ll be announced as my successor.”
I open my mouth, but he makes a noise of warning.
“Additionally,” he says, “You’ll meet with some of the potential matches I’ve identified for you.
You can pick the one you like. All five are suitable and acceptable to me.
And it can be a long engagement while you get to know each other, but you will marry, and you will fuck, and you will get pregnant, because it is your duty to continue the Campisi line. ”
I feel my face contort. “My own father is pimping me out.”
He lifts a shoulder, unbothered.
This is the Don.
This is the ruthless leader of a criminal organization.
This is not my father.
“And if I say no?” I ask, raising my chin in defiance.
He levels me with a stare so cold my fingers go numb. “It won’t be good for you.”
It takes everything I have in me to hold back the tears of rage.
Of disappointment.
Of fear.
I stand and head to the door.
I don’t look back, don’t say goodbye.
I just pull it open and walk out.