Chapter 2 Leanna
LEANNA
“The music’s way too loud!” I yell over the thumping bass, swaying a little. “Seriously, who decided electronic pop was a good idea?”
Rylee throws her head back, laughing. “Leanna, you’re here to have fun, not critique the DJ! A few more shots, you’d like it better.”
“Fun, sure,” I shout, “but fun with my wits intact. I like to know which way the exit is!”
Still, a few drinks in, and I’m loose enough to bounce alongside my three roommates like this is the best damn night of our lives.
I take another sip of my drink, letting the warmth loosen my edge. Just enough. Never to lose control.
I made a few mistakes in my early college years, back when rebellion was my favorite hobby and humiliating my father was practically a sport. I learned my lesson, at least when it comes to alcohol.
Other risks? Let’s just say I’ve got an appetite.
The club version of a pop classic hits, and Rylee yells, “Everybody, hands up!”
We throw our hands up and jump like idiots, laughing at ourselves. No boys, no drama, just neon lights and loud music shaking the walls.
Rylee’s finally smiling again after getting dumped by her “boyfriend.”
We gave her a strict two-week pity window. Tonight?
Mandatory heels, glitter, and dancing like fools.
It’s good to see her moving, hair wild, eyes catching on someone tall and handsome across the floor—no boys rule be damned.
I tell her, yelling over the thumping bass, “You are a freaking pixie goddess, and you deserve so much better than that prepubescent sack of hairless ballsacks!”
Rylee cracks up, nearly spilling her drink. “Hairless ballsacks? I love that! Can we make that his official title?”
“Official and trademarked,” I shout back. “Right next to ‘childish little Snapchat quitter!’”
Makayla snorts, braids bouncing as she points at Rylee. “He broke up with you over Snapchat? That’s… actually kind of impressive in a horrifying way.”
“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 told Charlotte 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: Ангел. 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?
His answer never changes. “You’d never have to.”
Meaningless words that somehow manage to piss me off every time. I tell him that the first thing I’d do when I take charge is shut it all down. He just shrugs and says he’ll leave that part of the business to the boys.
I can’t win.
Rylee grins maniacally at the red lights of Ahren, eyes practically glowing. “I dare one of you to go in there, climb on stage, and start pole dancing.”
Charlotte lets out a sharp, exasperated noise. “No. Absolutely not, Rylee. You’re insane.”
“Uh uh. Not me,” Makayla says, folding her arms like a general about to enforce martial law. “I’m not losing it to neon lights and sweaty strangers.”
“You won’t be able to get in there,” I say. “Those places are invite-only.”
“Can you get in if you say you work there?” Rylee presses, eyes sparkling with mischief.
I make a face. Dancing badly on a pole in front of a bunch of wealthy Russians? Honestly… that thought alone makes me want to cackle. And, okay, there’s the tiny thrill of doing something I know would piss Dad off.
Oppositional streak? Check.
Rylee’s grin stretches impossibly wider, like she’s been saving this moment all night. She locks onto me with those dramatic, wide-eyed pleading orbs and launches into full-blown pep talk mode.
“Come on! Two weeks of moping, Leanna! I’ve been trapped in misery and gloom, and this is what will save me! You, on a pole. Please! Please! Please! I’ll bake cookies. Laundry. I’ll even let you control the playlist for a whole hour!”
I blink at her, trying not to laugh at the ridiculous mental image of myself, in heels or not, wobbling on a pole while some rich men cheer me on. “You do realize that if I actually did this, there’s a ninety percent chance I’d break something?”
Rylee gasps, clutching her chest. “You mean my heart? You can’t break my heart! My morale literally depends on this!”
Makayla snorts. “You’re terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. And your morale is apparently worth more than all of mine combined.”
Charlotte rolls her eyes so hard it’s audible. “I can feel my soul shrinking just listening to this conversation.”
Rylee grabs my arm dramatically. “Think about it! The danger! The excitement! The sheer spectacle of you failing spectacularly!”
I pretend to contemplate, tapping my chin. “Hmm… danger? Excitement? Spectacle of failure… that does sound fun.”
“You have to do it,” Rylee continues, getting louder with each word. “I mean, I’ll do your chores for a month! A whole month, every single one! Even laundry, dishes, vacuuming—yes, even the dusting, which we all know I hate!”
Makayla laughs, shaking her head. “You’ll probably regret this in thirty seconds, but yes, yes, this is officially the best idea you’ve ever had.”
Charlotte groans. “You’re all insane. This is why I don’t come out with you.”
“C’mon, Charlotte,” I say, shaking my head at her dramatic defeatist attitude. “Live a little. Pretend you’re eighteen again and do something ridiculous.”
She glares at me. “I’m twenty-three. I’m not pretending to be eighteen. I’m actually pretending not to vomit in public.”
Rylee wails, grabbing both of us by the hands. “Fine, fine! If you won’t do it, I’ll do it! I’ll pole dance for my own therapy.”
I snort, cutting her off. “You? On a pole? You’d break it before you even made it halfway up.”
She smacks my shoulder. “Hey! I’m young and flexible. Not like some… some stiff I know.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Stiff? Me? That’s it. You’ve gone too far. I’m doing it. But only to prove my superiority at absolute chaos.”
“Pics or it didn’t happen, bitch!” Rylee yells, even though I’m still literally standing right next to her.
I put my hand out, palm down, as the universal signal for “chill, drama queen.” “Relax. Let’s just… do this.”
Rylee claps her hands like a maniac. “Oh my God, yes! This is going to be legendary! Legendary!”
Makayla groans but smirks. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. Someone record it before she inevitably falls on her ass.”
Charlotte buries her face in her hands. “I’m leaving. Someone send me a postcard from the land of poor life decisions.”
I grin at them, already psyching myself up. “All right. Let’s go be ridiculous.”