Page 26 of Any Means Necessary

“Not that we can tell. He can move everything just fine. We just need you to clean him up and stitch him closed until we can get our usual doctor to look at him.”

“Usual doctor?”

“Yeah, ya know. Family guy. Usually, he’d be here to deal with this, but he’s stuck uptown.” The way they keep saying family sounds a lot more like a crime syndicate than mom-and-pop. I simply nod in response. “He’s over there.”

Ricky sits on a metal chair against one of the walls of the industrial processing room. Whole pigs and slabs of cow lay in various levels of dismemberment across metal tables scattered with knives and cleavers. Just like the other men, he looks to be Italian too, with dark hair slicked back with too much gel. His olive skin is pale as he holds a wad of blood-soaked rags against his left arm. As we walk closer, his eyes move over me like I’m an animal in the wrong zoo exhibit—not what he was hoping to see, but better than nothing.

“Ricky, this is Lexie. Cal brought her to fix you up,” Gio introduces, pulling a second chair over beside him so I have a place to sit.

When Ricky speaks it’s in Italian, the words coming out sounding slimy and unsettling. I’d bet money that whatever he’s saying is a combination of derogatory and explicit. His gaze moves over me again, making my skin crawl. Even his eyes are handsy.

In three long strides, Callum’s in front of him. His large hand clamps around Ricky’s throat, forcing the injured man to look him in the eye. Callum’s expression is dark—murderous—as he leans in to speak.

Responding in the same language, Callum’s words are spoken with a tone of violence. I wish I had a translator right about now, I’d love to know what he’s saying. Giving the injured man’s throat an extra squeeze, Callum switches to english before continuing. “Now shut your fucking mouth and sit still so the Doc can stitch you up.”

I’m tempted to clarify that I’m a nurse instead of a doctor, but a sharp look from Callum has the correction dying on the tip of my tongue.

Ricky’s jaw tightens, but he nods against the hand on his throat. Callum releases the mobster roughly with a shove, forcing him to stagger back against the chair. Still staring him down, Callum reaches his hand out for me. When I walk closer, he barely steps back—instead standing over the patient.

Over me.

Sitting on the empty chair, I place the medical kit on the floor. Ricky watches as I roll up his sleeve, peeling the blood-slick fabric from his skin. Unfortunately, the material only goes so high and my view is still obstructed.

“I need you to take off your shirt,” I inform him.

“You want a better look at the goods?” Ricky asks with a smirk, despite the giant man looming over him with promises of violence.

“Do you want me to close the holes in your arm or not? If you prefer to bleed out, it makes no difference to me.” I meet his stare evenly, waiting patiently like he’s a child who can’t follow simple instructions. I don’t miss how Ricky’s lips twitch in contempt before he gives me a cocky grin as he moves to comply. He doesn’t like women talking back. Or maybe it’s just the fat ones.

Reaching forward to assist him, my arm bumps Callum who seems to have inched closer.

“Can you give us some space?” Easing the wounded arm from the sleeve, I pause to meet the gaze I can feel burning a hole through my skull. Callum’s eyes connect with mine heavily, his laser focus intent on me. “I’m fine, Callum. I need more room to stitch him up.” When he doesn’t budge I flash a sugary sweet smile. “Pretty please.”

“Nobody’s gonna hurt your nurse, Cal,” Gio says behind us. Callum stares me down for another minute, his serious expression set in stone as his eyes search mine. Finally, he backs away until I feel like I can breathe again.

Turning my focus back to the task at hand, I inspect the gunshot wound. The bullet entered the front of his left bicep and exited through the back. By the placement, it looks like his arm was extended outward when the bullet passed through, only affecting the flashiest part of his underarm.

“Do you know what kind of bullet it was?” I ask, glancing up at Ricky as I set up my supplies.

“What does someone like you know about bullets?” Ricky’s tone is mocking.

“Twenty-two? Forty-five, Nine millimeter?” I ask, listing a few calibers like I’m making a list to help him out. “Semi-jacketed, hollow point?”

The laughs that sound behind me match the surprise on Ricky’s face. “What are you, some sort of undercover cop?” Marcus asks behind me.

“I’ve spent the last four years working in emergency rooms all over the country. Including Manhattan.” Ricky hisses against the alcohol swab, but my eyes remain focused on cleaning the wound. “Plus, I dated a guy who worked in private security when I was in nursing school. I know a lot more about gunshot wounds than you’d think.”

I learned a lot of life lessons from Jared. Like the different types of bullets, how to escape a car trunk, and not to trust a guy when he tells you not to worry about the bitchy client he’s spending all his time with.

“It was a forty-five,” Ricky says. “Lead round nose.” He grits his teeth against my probing. That’s a relief, the wound is pretty clear, and the bullet went clean through. A hollow point would’ve been another story—a bigger exit wound with fragments embedded in the tissue. Not pretty to clean up, and far more damaging.

“Do you want local anesthetic?” I ask, collecting the supplies for his sutures.

“Save it.” Ricky’s response is dripping with bravado. “I don’t need it.”

“Let’s go to the office, we have things to discuss,” Gio announces. “We’ll leave your nurse to her work,”

“Are you good with that, Doc?” Callum asks.

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