Chapter 29 Nik
NIK
There’s a multi-family negotiation on the table, and I absolutely have to pay attention. No more staring at Leanna like I did yesterday.
Easier said than done.
Especially when she’s wearing a cream-colored suit cut to show every perfect curve today, as if that weren’t enough, underneath is a lacy, see-through corset that leaves very little to the imagination.
And the gold shoes. Those fucking gold spike heels.
I want to fuck her in nothing but those shoes.
No. Stop.
I can’t fuck her.
Not again.
I need to keep my hands to myself, my dick in my pants, my eyes on the deal.
So I drag my gaze away from her and focus on her brothers.
The saner one at least pretends to care about the negotiations.
The other, the crazy one? He wears a look I’ve only seen on men about to do something catastrophically stupid. His eyes stay locked on his sister, the same one he tried to choke out this morning, as if she were prey.
A flash of fury spikes in me.
I shut my eyes for a beat, shake it out.
Focus, motherfucker.
And it’s a damn good thing I do, because that’s when the conversation veers into Chicago receiving operations right as Lars drops a bomb.
“Don Campisi,” he says, his tone perfectly jovial, almost casual. “What is this I hear from my son about a Campisi Tax being applied at our port locations?”
The Don doesn’t flinch, but I catch the quick furrow in his brow before his expression smooths out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says calmly and clipped.
Lars tilts his head, studying him. “Hmm.” He slips on his reading glasses and scans the reports in front of him.
“December fifth,” he reads. “Vincenzo Campisi and two of his men show up, announce a Campisi Tax. Seven semi-automatic weapons and a case of Russian vodka disappear.
“December twenty-third: Vincenzo Campisi and six operatives arrive, start a fight on the docks, and leave one of my men with a non-life-threatening gunshot wound. Three cases of liquor and a box of weapons vanish. And again, the phrase Campisi Tax was used.”
Don Campisi leans back in his chair, slow and controlled. It’s the kind of movement that makes me glad I’ve got a gun strapped under my jacket.
“Shall I go on?” Lars asks, voice calm as a man reading the weather.
“Is this before or after you sent us the body of Christina Petrella… in a box of uncut rubies?” the Don counters, his tone smooth but loaded.
“Before,” Lars replies evenly. “Many times before. And two or three times after. I’ve kept an accounting of the value of these items. Shall I send you a bill?”
Campisi lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Well… I suppose an investigation is in order. Serious accusation, Boss. Bold to make it here, in front of family.”
“It’s a big theft.”
“And who’s reporting it?” Campisi presses. “Port rats? Thugs?”
“My son and his best men,” Lars replies.
Heads turn to me. I meet their eyes and nod, then lay out what Christopher and Darius told me—firsthand accounts, names, dates, the small, ugly details. I keep my gaze fixed on Vincenzo as I speak. He wears that same arrogant sneer, like he’s immune because Daddy will sweep it up.
“Out of respect for you, Don Campisi,” I say, voice steady, “our men haven’t fought back against this lawless intrusion into our operations. We’re here to talk. But if talking isn’t enough, we will do more.” My eyes slide to the Don, calm and measured, clearly not flinching.
I do not add that I am pretty sure his son has been hurting his chosen successor, his only daughter. I do not add that if I get proof, I’ll fucking kill his oldest son outright for the sheer mistake of touching what’s mine.
“Are you aware of this ‘Campisi Tax,’ Don Campisi?” Lars asks, innocently casual, and the tension in the room spikes immediately.
I risk a glance at Leanna and find her glaring at her brother with a hatred I did not know she was capable of.
Interesting.
Conversely, the Don never once looks at his son, a silence that speaks volumes.
Vincenzo is a liability on all fronts.
It would be easy to remove him. I might even enjoy it. But it must be handled internally. If anyone outside the Campisi organization touches him, it will mean war. The Don would be forced to act, even if secretly relieved that he didn’t have to do it himself.
“The reality is this,” Antonio Campisi begins, his voice smooth and measured.
He is as slick as ever, with dark hair neatly combed and a freshly shaved face.
His suit is immaculate. Handsome, late fifties, with the kind of presence that makes the room feel smaller.
“The families that operate in this city do so with my approval. Terms are negotiated before a single shipment reaches port. I am a fair businessman. I do not sanction petty bullshit; showing up with a few thugs to take weapons or a box of liquor is child’s play. I would never allow it.”
“And yet,” Lars says, running a hand through his blonde hair, “It happens.”
“Show me proof. Video. Photo. Audio,” the Don says. “Show me proof, and I will deal with the issue myself.”
Lars looks at me.
“I can pull security records,” I say. “Our tech team can have them ready within twenty-four hours.”
Antonio nods. “That would be appreciated. Now, as turnabout is fair play, can we discuss Campisi’s expansion onto Russian soil?”
The conversation shifts to territory that is not mine. Campisi claims he sent an envoy to explore untapped markets with the Russian Bratva. The murder of Christina Petrella was savage, unnecessary, and entirely avoidable.
Lars doesn’t let it slide. He points out that the Campisi operative began doing business in his Russian territory without even making a courtesy call.
“The Bratva does not have the authority to make decisions about Barkov’s business,” Lars says. “Your operative took women and girls without our blessing. So we took one of yours.”
For the second time today, Don Antonio Campisi is left with his dick out.
His guys are out of control, working outside of our agreements.
Even in front of the entire room, he seems to concede it.
“Boss,” he says cautiously, “perhaps you and I should have a drink in private. We can talk like friends and figure things out.”
A beat of silence stretches between them. Then Lars, knowing he’s won this round, breaks into a wide grin. He slaps the table. “Yes. Let’s get piss drunk and have a real negotiation.”
The Don smiles, rises, and they both signal for a break. Everyone stands, stretching and shifting.
I might worry about leaving the two of them alone in a room if I didn’t know how fast Lars is on the draw. This is supposed to be a weapons-free event, but I can assure you: every single person here, including my adoptive father, is carrying heat.
Misha finds me as people start leaving the room. “Well done, brother.”
She leans in for a quick hug. “I actually hate that part.”
“I know. You looked constipated the whole time.”
I make a face. “What? Constipated? More like tough and intimidating.”
She chuckles, laying a hand on my shoulder, “Relax. I’m just fucking with you. You did great. Campisi was totally backed into a corner. This will work out well for us.”
“Perhaps,” I say, eyeing the exit of the Campisi siblings as they march out of the room.
Misha follows my gaze. “There’s something wrong with that Vincenzo,” she says, clear disgust dripping from each word.
“Yes,” I agree. “Hey, I need to check in on a few things. “Meet me at four for a drink?”
Misha nods and says she’s going to see what Volya is up to.
“Hey,” I say, reaching out to stop her. “Your security has been okay? Discreet?”
“They’re fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I think it’s overkill, for what it’s worth.”
“Of course you do,” I say.
She winks. “If I get my way, they’ll be listening to the operatic sounds of me getting laid tonight.”
I feel my face twist into an expression of distaste. “Yuck. Go away.”
She does, and I’m left to my own devices, so I wander aimlessly around the hotel, scanning the crowd of shady characters from every mafia household. Eventually, I decide to head back up to the room.
The elevator dings, and the doors part, only for me to spot Vincenzo Campisi. His hand grips someone’s bicep, his voice a rapid-fire torrent of Italian.
Then I see her long hair, cream-colored pantsuit, and something snaps. I let out a low growl and surge forward. In moments, I’ve grabbed Vincenzo and slammed him against the wall.
“Of course you’re here,” he sneers. “How convenient.”
I step closer, forcing my expression into careful neutrality. “Are you okay, Miss Campisi?”
“Miss Campisi,” Vincenzo scoffs. “You two can drop the act.”
“Fuck you, Vince,” Leanna snaps, rubbing her arm, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’re unhinged. Go get help.”
He laughs. “Oh, your little boyfriend helped enough,” he says, spittle flying from his lips.
Little? The audacity. I’m six-five, and I tower over him. I step fully into his space, pressing him against the wall.
“You like to bully people?” I hiss with bared teeth. “Throw your weight around, rough people up, take whatever you want? You think you have that kind of power?”
His eyes are as wild as his hair. His tie is askew, his jacket rumpled. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He looks at me, and there is raw fear there, but when he looks at Leanna…well, it puts ice in my veins. I can see his intent.
He will kill her.
I can’t make a move, not here. We’re in the hallway of a major hotel. Sensitive negotiations are happening just steps away. Something tells me he knows more about Leanna and me than I realized. I’ve underestimated him, even just a little, but he has zero poker face.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I say with gritted teeth. “Before I strangle you with your tie until your eyeballs pop out of your head.”
He inches his way down the wall until he’s out of my looming shadow. His eyes never leave his sister, though, and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. But then he turns and goes, all the way to the end of the hall, out the stairwell door.
I wait, count to thirty, then turn back to Leanna.
“Did he hurt you?” I ask.
“What do you care?” There’s no real bite to it.
I watch as she pulls out her room key and slides inside our shared space. I follow her in, watching as she pulls off the suit jacket, the shoes, the pants. She’s shaking, I realize. Her hands are shaking, and soon her whole body will tremble. She’s going into shock, I think.
I don’t hesitate. I scoop her up, feeling the shiver roll through her, and race to the bathroom.
I turn the hot shower on full blast to chase the cold from her skin. While it warms up, I help her out of her lacy corset bodysuit. I wrap her in a hotel bathrobe while I pull away my own clothing, my suit parts scattered across the bathroom floor by the time I help her under the spray.
Leanna’s teeth are chattering, and her stare is vacant as the warm water hits her skin. I pull her to me, using my own body to help warm her up.
After a long time, I back away, pumping shampoo into my hand. I lather her hair, massaging her scalp and temples, as well as her neck. I work the water through the long locks, ensuring all the soap is rinsed out, then follow the same routine with the conditioner.
She chatters through her teeth. “Itttt’sss n-n-not hhhair-w-w-washing d-day.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Itt’ss o-o-kkay.”
I pull her close again, glad she’s at least coherent enough to scold me. But when I pull away and really look at her, I can see the marks. The ring of light bruises around her throat. The blooming bruise on her upper arm.
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” I say.
She makes a choked noise that breaks me. “He deserves it.”
I put my hands on her cheeks and made her look at me. “Ana, how long?”
“Forever?” she says, and it sounds small. “He’s always hated me.”
I shake my head. “Does your father know?”
“No,” she says. “I never…I refused to let him make me feel weak. I refused ever to let him know it hurt me.”
“Oh, malyskha,” I say, leaning in to kiss her lightly. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
She cries, then cries truly.
I realize this is not a woman who lets herself break down easily. I had no idea how brave she was being. Even today, when I told her we were through, she did not cry.
I turn off the water and help her step out of the shower.
I dry her with the fluffy towel and wrap her in the robe once more.
After drying myself off, I pull on a pair of boxer briefs and pick her up, carrying her to the bed, where I lie down with her, pulling her back to my front.
I just let her cry for a long time as I hold her.
She cries until she’s spent, and I spend every moment imagining the torture I will inflict on that fucking pissant of a brother of hers.
After a long time, Leanna pulls from my grasp. She throws her legs over the side of the bed and sits for a few minutes, then she pushes up and trudges back into the bathroom and starts brushing her hair.
I follow her, looming behind her reflection in the mirror, a deep frown on my face.
“Ana?” I ask.
“What happened to cooling it? You got your endgame? It meant nothing?” Her voice is steel now.
“You were…you needed help.”
“Mmm.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, thanks for the help. He’ll be more horrible now that you showed up like you’re fucking Superman or something.”
My mouth opens, then closes. “I can kill him for you. I’d enjoy it.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” she says. “But I think you’ve managed a nail in his coffin already. My father will have to do something with him now that you outed his bullshit today.”
“I can’t tell if you think that’s good or bad.”
Her lips go flat. “It’s never good to publicly humiliate my dad. He and Lars will talk. They’ll drink. They’ll negotiate and they’ll put all the terms down in writing. And Lars will think he’s in a good place, but my father will find some way to fuck him straight up the ass.”
I don’t have a response to that.
“Listen,” she says. “I know how naive this sounds, but I need you to know that I care about you. I might even—”
“No. You don’t.”
She turns, looking at me directly now, eyes burning with fury. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel, Nikolai.”
Hearing her use my full name somehow feels like a slap in the face. My jaw clenches.
“I am stupid for it,” she says, “but I love you. And I’ll be okay. I know it can’t work. I know there’s no reality where we can just…be. But I need you to know you’re not exactly subtle about your feelings, either. You’re here, aren’t you?”
I am.
But I shouldn’t be.
So I find a new suit to wear, I comb my hair, and I brush my teeth.
And I leave.