Page 29 of Any Means Necessary

My brother went the other way, becoming a hothead who acts on impulse in a way that Papà considers loyalty to the Family. Something my father likes to berate me for every time I refuse to engage in any crisis regarding Family business.

I don’t give a fuck.

My willingness to act with blind loyalty disappeared with my mother’s ability to walk.

“Where are you going?” my father asks, watching my mother maneuver her wheels to swivel her wheelchair back towards the door.

“I want to meet her,” she announces, rolling herself swiftly out of the office. No doubt on her way to pass judgment on whether or not Lexie gets her stamp of approval. Tony didn’t make that cut, not after the first words out of his mouth at their introduction were insulting the Irish.

Asshole.

There are no second chances after the first impression with my mother.

I move to follow her, relieved to have this excuse to get away from the conversation in the office. It’s getting a little too personal in here for my liking, I’d rather get back to my own business. And back to the pretty pink nurse I left with the trigger-happy mobster.

“Got shot again, aye Ricky? Why am I not surprised, always making a mess,” Mom scolds as she wheels her way across the industrial space to where the Italian is being tended to.

“A small price to pay to set those Russian bastards straight.” Ricky’s not the least bit repentant. Lexie pulls her eyes from Ricky’s arm to look over her shoulder at my mother, long blonde ponytail swinging like a shampoo commercial in the process. The stunning smile that graces her face at my mom’s approach is impossible not to be drawn to.

“Hello,” Mom says, rolling to a stop beside Ricky’s chair. “Tell me who you are and what makes you qualified to work for my son.” In typical Tara Walsh fashion, my mom comes out guns blazing. It’s her way of seeing who someone truly is, by catching them off guard. Her Irish accent is heaviest when she’s demanding something, or angry, making her sound sterner.

Lexie blinks at her a few times before responding but remains otherwise unfazed.

“This is my mom,” I say. “Tara.”

“I’m Lexie, I’ve worked as a traveling ER nurse for over four years. I just finished an eighteen–week contract at New York Presbyterian. Between that, and the fact that my best friend is a trauma surgeon, I’ve basically seen it all.” Lexie lists her qualifications easily, like it’s just friendly conversation instead of an interrogation. “I’m really good at what I do. But honestly, I think Callum only hired me because he needed someone after Tony left and I was convenient.”

I can already see on my mom’s face that Lexie’s response was exactly the right answer. She hates bullshit, and can’t stand cowards. The way Lexie carries herself, self-assured and unbothered by the opinion of others, is exactly the right kind of personality to get along with my mother.

Mom looks Lexie over, sizing her up, before turning to look at me. I give away nothing, even when Lexie’s questioning eyes look to me with brows raised. When Tara’s lips twitch in a smile, she might as well have pressed her stamp of approval on the pretty pink nurse’s forehead.

She likes her.

“Alright,” Mom nods, keeping a straight face when she turns back to Lexie and the man she’s been tasked with fixing up. “Let’s see this work of yours.”

Lexie backs away from Ricky, allowing everyone in the room to examine her needlework. My father, Marcus, and Lucciano, who followed my mother and me from the office and have been commenting between themselves in Italian, step forward to get a good look too.

Just like with Kellen’s hand, Lexie’s work is clean and tight. I’ve seen a lot of gunshot wounds, and there’s no doubt Ricky’s arm will heal quickly and with barely a scar. The caliber of work on this wound makes the other scars marking his body look crude and sloppy.

Lucciano remains silent, but the look in his eyes when his gaze cuts to me acknowledges he was wrong to doubt my judgment. My father starts sputtering in Italian, his voice dripping praise. Marcus, however, admires her work openly, boldly.

Too fucking boldly.

“Damn, that’s impressive,” Marcus says. “What’s your number? I might need you to stitch me up one of these days.” I’m about to tell my brother to shut his fucking mouth and stay away from her—that he doesn’t get her phone number because she’s not his to talk to or think about. But Lexie’s response beats me to it.

“I work for Callum, you know how to reach him.” Her answer soothes some of the hostility raging inside me, and my shoulders relax slightly when she glances up at me. That one look calms me considerably. “Can I finish bandaging him up now?”

“Go ahead, Doc,” I say, nodding towards the Made Man.

Ricky’s been surprisingly silent since I walked into the room. He can keep glaring at me as long as he keeps his mouth shut. I’ll be talking to Roscoe to see how well the trigger-happy idiot behaved himself when I left.

Lexie looks at me for another second as she takes a deep breath, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. The way her eyes pull away from me to glance around at the other people filling the space is the only sign she’s given that she might feel overwhelmed. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and she’s back to work wrapping Ricky’s arm in sterile gauze.

As soon as Lexie’s finished cleaning up and giving Ricky care instructions—that go in one ear and out the other without penetrating his thick skull—I have Roscoe take her back out front to the car. My mother takes the opportunity to get me alone.

“Come with me,” she demands, rolling ahead of me to the front of the shop. “I cooked yesterday.”

It’s all she has to say to get me to follow her. She leads me to one of the coolers where she starts pulling out a stack of food containers, four in total.

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