Chapter 32 Nik
NIK
“Where would she go?” Dom asks, his voice clipped as we cut in front of a guy and steal his cab.
“Her apartment on campus, I suspect,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m losing my shit. “Get the intel on where that is.”
“One minute, boss,” he says, scrolling through his phone so fast that I think he might crack the screen. Finally, his eyes flick up. “Got it.”
He rattles it off to the driver and flashes a hundred-dollar bill. “Make it quick.”
The city blurs past the windows. Every red light feels like a punch in the gut—the lakefront glimmers in the distance, and yet every second stretches into a cruel eternity.
My knee bounces nervously, and I fight the urge to slam my fist into the seat or shatter the window, or to do anything destructive to burn off the pressure building in my chest.
My blood feels like fire in my veins. I want to punch something, someone—anything.
“Can I ask you something?” Dom says as the cab weaves through traffic.
I grunt, staring out the window, hoping he’ll drop it.
Of course, he doesn’t.
He leans in, lowering his voice so only I hear. “You knew her before all this, didn’t you?”
I hesitate. “Not the way you think,” I say. It’s vague but true. I can’t let him know how deep this cuts, how tangled my feelings really are.
“But enough that you care,” he presses.
I grit my teeth. I don’t want to have this conversation with him right now, but he deserves the truth.
At least part of it.
“This isn’t about leverage anymore, is it?” he guesses.
I shake my head, eyes locked on the blur of lights outside. “No. It’s not.”
Dom studies me for a beat, then leans back. “That’s all I needed to know.”
I stare out the window as Northwestern comes into view, its gothic spires etched against the lakefront glow. The cab slows down, then stops.
“Looks like this is the end of the line,” the driver says.
Purple banners snap in the wind. Police lights flashing and reflecting off the brick buildings. A cluster of students and officers huddle near the quad, their gazes shifting as they notice us.
My heart hammers in my chest.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Dom mutters. “Stay here.”
At six-four, he’s impossible to miss, but somehow it’s a miracle he can pass unnoticed. He shoves his hands in his pockets and lurches down the sidewalk like a guy too drunk to stand straight.
He stumbles right into the cops, slurs a few words, and even drops onto the steps as if he’s ready to pass out. When one officer tries to shoo him off, Dom throws an arm around his shoulders like they’re old friends.
Finally, the cop jerks free and points firmly down the street, a clear message to get the fuck out of here.
Dom staggers away, selling the act until he’s out of sight. Then he straightens just enough to catch my eyes and flicks his hand toward the cab.
“Go around the block,” he mouths.
The driver mutters something under his breath but pulls out, circling until we spot Dom again, wandering a quieter street. He slides back into the backseat, calm as if Chicago PD hadn’t just thrown him out.
“I’ve got someone triangulating where Vincenzo Campisi likes to do his business,” he says.
By business, we both know he means torturing people.
“Where to, fellas?” the driver asks, impatient.
Dom tosses a few bills over the seat. “Give us a minute. Turn up the radio. Loud.”
“Your dime,” he mutters, idling at the side of the road while we figure our shit out. The music comes on in the front, and he turns it up as requested.
Dom and I lean in, speaking in whispers to assure the driver doesn’t hear us.
“The girls came home from dinner out and saw someone matching Vincenzo’s description tossing a person into the trunk of his Mercedes. They did not have a chance to snap the license plate number, which may play to our advantage.”
“And we’re sure it was Leanna in the trunk?” I ask, but I already know the answer, and my stomach feels sick.
“They ran inside and found signs of a struggle. A fuck-ton of money scattered all over the bed. A backpack with a fake ID and some basics in it. Stuff broken. They’re pretty sure he took her, though they weren’t sure who he was.”
“Fuck. Any luck on figuring out his hidey-hole?”
Dominic scrolls on his phone, then gets a ping. “Da.”
He gives the address and tosses a few more bills into the front.
The driver glances at the cash and says, “I ain’t staying once we get there. You get out, and we part ways.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dom mutters, rolling his eyes.
I think about every single time Leanna flinched when I touched her, every time she claimed she’d been clumsy, fallen against a shelf, or whatever excuse she gave. I remember seeing her rubbing her neck as Vince left the gym.
“He’s been hurting her a long time,” I blurt, the venom in my voice sharp enough to burn through steel.
Dom exhales through his nose. “Yeah. He’s got a reputation. A fetish for hurting people. For enjoying it.”
I turn and look at my friend.
I’ve got a reputation too. Mine’s no secret. I like to inflict pain, but only on those who deserve it. The ones who prey on children, traffic women, or profit from other people’s misery.
This world is gray, twisted, and the lines blur more than I’d like. But I’ve always known where to strike, and I’ve always made sure punishment fits the crime.
Vincenzo, though… He doesn’t just hurt people; he feeds on it. He thrives on their fear. I can see it in my mind: his sick smile, the wild gleam in his eyes as he takes it out on the one person who dared stand in his way.
His younger sister.
Smarter. Sharper. More logical.
Everything he isn’t.
That kind of rage is a living fire. It eats through men like him until there’s nothing left but violence.
And I know exactly what he’s capable of.
Which is why the thought of him laying a hand on Leanna makes my blood boil hot enough to kill.
“This doesn’t end in negotiations,” I snarl, “It ends with me getting her out and breaking him piece by piece until he finally learns what real pain feels like.”
Dom shoots me a look, approving and warning at the same time.
I don’t care which. I’m past reason.
Because Vince hurt her, and for that, there’s only one outcome. I won’t stop until he pays for every mark, every bruise, every ounce of fear he’s ever put in her.
I turn to Dom. “Call the Barkov men. Quietly. I want them ready and nearby before we make our move. If shit goes south, I want muscle on the ground in under two minutes.”
Dom hesitates for half a heartbeat, then nods and pulls out his phone. “On it.”
“Fucking game on,” I growl.
I watch Dom’s fingers fly across his screen. The only thing keeping me from snapping right now is the thought of Vince’s face when he realizes the mistake he made.
“Boss,” Dom says, pulling me from my thoughts. “I know you try to protect this woman, but Vincenzo is still the Don’s son. Her brother. You can’t just go in, guns blazing, and take him out.”
“Blyat, I know,” I growl.
The truth is, I was ready to do just that.
Dom leans closer, his tone low, steady. “Think it through. If you kill him, Campisi has to respond, even if he hates his own son. Family honor demands it. You’ll start a war, Nik. And that puts her in even more danger.”
His words hit, sharp and cold. I hate that he’s right.
“Then what?” I snap.
“We get leverage,” Dom says. “Proof. Make the Don face the truth. If you want Leanna safe and Vince gone, you need her father to pull the trigger. Not you.”
I rake a hand through my hair, fury still boiling under my skin, but the logic sinks in. If I go in hot, she pays the price. If I play this smart, Vince pays instead.
I pull out my phone and hit Lars’s number. He picks up on the second ring.
“Moy syn,” he says. Then, “The weather is sour and so am I.”
“Understood,” I say. “Are you still with Don Campisi?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Good. Put the phone on speaker for a minute.”
As soon as he does, I tell them both the whole story, a truncated version, of course.
I tell them Leanna started dancing for me on a dare from her college friends. That neither of us knew who the other really was. That we fell into something we couldn’t stop. No secrets were traded. No betrayals. We only learned the truth at the Commission.
Before either man can explode, I push forward. I tell them about how Vincenzo’s been hurting Leanna for years, how he took her tonight, how we’re closing in on where he’s keeping her.
“He’s your son, Don Campisi,” I say, my voice like broken glass. “But if he’s laid a hand on her again, I will kill him. This isn’t about Barkov or Campisi. This is only about Leanna.”
Silence stretches, heavy enough to choke on.
Then I hear the shuffle of movement, the sharp snap of orders being given. When the Don returns to the line, his voice is clipped and controlled. “We will meet you. Thank you for the call.”
The line goes dead.
The cabin of the vehicle is filled only with the sounds of classic rock from the front seat and the brutal thud of my heart.
Only one thought cuts through the noise as Chicago blurs past outside the window:
Vincenzo Campisi is already a dead man.