Page 24 of Any Means Necessary

Callum eyes my chest curiously. “What else do you have in there?”

I suppress a smile, turning my attention back to my phone to read my text. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Mia’s telling me about a patient who tried to steal an entire IV stand, fluid bags and all. “Where are we headed?”

“I have a meeting with a Russian.” His answer is short, as if that bit of information is everything I need to know. I’m still confused.

“What do you need me for?”

“The Russians aren’t known for being friendly,” Callum responds vaguely. “Some of them have a problem with my history with the Italians. You’re here in case things get heated.”

“Your history with the Italians,” I repeat, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. “I thought you were Italian. Isn’t Russo an Italian last name?”

“It’s Sicilian.”

“So, the problem is with your family?”

“It’s complicated.” The steel edge in his voice ends the line of questioning.

The car pulls to a stop in front of a bar. It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, and the place looks appropriately deserted for such an early hour. I’m not even sure they’re open yet.

Roscoe and Callum both exit the vehicle, and my door is opened for me. Callum holds out his hand to help me down from the tall car. I leave the medical kit in the back seat as instructed. Apparently walking into a tense situation looking like you’re ready to start cleaning up blood isn’t the best move.

Ignoring the closed sign on the door, Callum enters the building like he owns the place. The vintage feel of the dark interior seems like something out of a burlesque movie, with dark woods, red velvet-topped stools, and backlit counters. Pausing just inside the door, Callum scans the space until his eyes land on the booth in the far back corner. A man, who appears to be in his mid-thirties, sits at the table with a phone pressed to his ear. The large man that’s standing guard next to the booth steps away to approach Callum at our entrance.

“Wait for me here,” Callum says, looking first at me, then having a silent conversation with Roscoe. The bald man gives a short nod, but widens his stance and folds his hands in front of him like he’s ready for war. For all I know, I should be gearing up for battle too. Instead, I lower to sit on a bench against the wall near the door—I’m not in the mood for war right now.

The bodyguard watches as Callum lifts his arms out at his sides and spins, patting him down visually to make sure he’s not armed. I didn’t notice the paper bag in Callum’s hand until he’s opening it to show the bodyguard the contents before following him back to the booth and greeting who I’m assuming is the Russian that Callum mentioned in the car.

I can’t quite hear what they’re saying from across the room, but I watch the two men greet each other with a handshake that’s all business. Since there’s nothing else to do, I follow Roscoe’s example and just watch and absorb.

The Russian man is clean-shaven with a very square jaw and a cleft chin. His wavy hair could be either light brown or a very dark blonde, but there’s so much product slicking it back that it’s impossible to tell. When Callum pulls two bottles of liquor from the paper bag and presents them to the other man, I can catch a glimpse of the tattoos on the back of the Russian’s hands that creep down to his fingernails. The ink makes them look like he has skeletal fingers.

Kinda creepy.

It’s impossible to decide which man is more terrifying, I wouldn’t want to meet either of them in a dark alleyway at night. But there’s something about the way Callum’s danger is so expertly camouflaged under a suit coat that makes him seem far more threatening. With the Russian, you know exactly who you’re looking at when you meet him. Callum’s true nature isn’t revealed until his sleeves are rolled up and his metaphorical fangs are out. Between the two men at that table, my guess is that Callum Russo is the bigger threat.

“What’s his name?” I ask, glancing at Roscoe. He pulls his eyes from his boss long enough to look down at me. “The Russian.”

“Levi,” he answers after a moment of consideration, having weighed the pros and cons of telling me and deciding there’s no harm in me having this information. Maybe I should take what I’m given and be grateful I got any answer. But I’ve never been good at stopping when I’m ahead.

“Am I allowed to know his last name?” I ask, following his gaze back to the men.

“Mikhailov,” Roscoe answers this time without looking at me.

Levi Mikhailov. Definitely Russian alright.

It’s like he could hear me thinking his name because dark brown eyes meet mine, and I can see him say something and nod towards me. Callum turns his head to look at me, our eyes locking as he says something in response. I’m tempted to sit up straighter under the weight of their focus, but their eyes are leaving me as quickly as they settled.

The meeting doesn’t last too long, and it’s only a few more minutes before they’re standing from the booth and walking over to us. Levi’s bodyguard falls into step behind him and Roscoe steps forward to meet them. Callum’s eyes find me briefly when I stand from my seat, but I don’t bother to speak or walk any closer. My plan is to just stand here quietly until it’s time to leave.

“You won’t be needing your nurse when you meet with Viktor either,” Levi’s saying when they stop in front of us, his eyes catching on me momentarily. He doesn’t look very impressed with me, I’m betting a man like him surrounds himself with equally scary people. That’s definitely not me. “Just make sure you bring more of that vodka and Irish whiskey.”

“That can be arranged.” Callum nods, signaling to Roscoe it’s time to go. “I’ll see you then.” Roscoe and Levi’s man are staring each other down like two cowboys having a showdown in a western film. But the tension breaks when Levi turns to walk back to his place at the table.

Callum motions for me to walk ahead of him as we exit and walk back to the car. He opens the door for me and his hand on my lower back helps me climb in fairly gracefully. Roscoe doesn’t seem to relax until he’s pulling into traffic and we’re driving away—well, as relaxed as Roscoe gets.

“You get the meeting?” he asks, looking at the man beside me in the rearview mirror. Callum nods, rolling his shoulders back before settling into the seat.

“Tomorrow night, eight o’clock at The Dining Room.” A muffled buzzing sound next to me has Callum reaching into his pocket to pull out his vibrating phone.

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