Page 25 of Any Means Necessary

The phone only buzzes in Callum’s hand once before he’s pressing it to his ear. “Marcus…Yes, we’re close by. What happened?” The way he glances over at me confirms I’m part of the we he’s referring to. “We’re on our way.” He hangs up the phone, making eye contact with Roscoe in the rearview mirror.

“Where we headed?” Roscoe asks the question we’re both wondering.

“Brooklyn,” Callum responds, apparently giving enough information for Roscoe to understand.

“Who’s Marcus?” I ask curiously. Callum glances at me before continuing to type on his phone.

“My older brother,” he replies.

He has an older brother. A small piece to the giant puzzle that is Callum Russo.

“What’s in Brooklyn?”

He rolls his shoulders, jaw tightening ever so slightly under my gaze. He’s not exactly looking forward to wherever we’re going, and my interest is piqued. What could possibly make the unshakable Fixer uncomfortable?

“Family business,” is the only answer he gives me during the rest of the car ride the few blocks to our destination.

Pulling up to a business in Brooklyn, Roscoe stops in front of a butcher shop. It’s unassuming, looking like any other family owned business in the city, something you see around every corner next to the bodega. It sits between a flower shop and a small Italian restaurant. The dark red signage that reads Russo & Sons Butcher Shop over a traditional beige awning is dated but well-maintained.

Callum opens the car door for me, and I let him lead me by a hand on the small of my back to the front door of the shop, medical kit in hand. The bell over the door rings when it’s opened.

“Ahh, there he is!” A large older man greets us enthusiastically when we walk through the door, his heavy Brooklyn accent mixed thickly with Italian. His once dark hair is now more silver than brown, his cheeks ruddy and smile wide. He looks like the friendly neighborhood Italian butcher, but the kind you don’t want to owe money to. “The man of the hour.”

The interior is as traditional as I was expecting. Shelves of sauces and spirits stand inside the door. The entire back wall is made up of a refrigerated display counter filled with different cuts of meats and cheeses with so much variety I don’t fully recognize the majority of them. Giant hams, racks of ribs, and other bulky cuts hang from hooks lowered from the ceiling. The walls are decorated with vintage signs and generational family paraphernalia.

“Father,” Callum says, simply giving him a nod.

“Is that any way to greet your papà?” The older man’s voice turns stern, switching to another language. “Rispetta la tua famiglia.” He pulls Callum into a hug, patting his back firmly. And Surprisingly, Callum hugs him back.

A door behind the counter in the back of the store groans as it opens and two more men walk through it. One looks almost identical to Callum, just as tall and dark. Only, he sports stubble instead of a full beard. And he looks like the rough way he’s lived his life is starting to catch up to him. The second man has jet-black hair, a severe, angular face, and wears all black—like he’s using it to hide his sins. They both greet Callum like family.

“And who is this?” Callum’s dad turns, bringing all eyes to focus on me. “Giovanni Russo, you can call me Gio.” His hand reaches for mine, shaking it firmly with a strong calloused palm. Looking between him and Callum, I can see the family resemblance. He’s not as tall, but Gio is a large man—sturdy and broad. He carries the extra weight of a middle aged man, but he looks solid. His energy is loud and a little harsh—rough around the edges. And like his son, the friendliness only stays on his face with his smile.

“Lexie.” I introduce myself with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Marcus, Callum’s brother. But don’t hold it against me.” I could’ve guessed he was the other Russo brother. “This is Lucciano Grasso.” He nods to the intense Italian man next to him. Both men look tempted to reach out and shake my hand, but Callum steps between us.

“Lexie is the medic you asked for.”

Gio addresses Callum with a question, the switch is so smooth it takes me a second to realize he’s no longer speaking English. I don’t hide my surprise when Callum also responds in what I’m assuming is Italian, my gaze meeting his.

I don’t understand his words, but his tone hints that it’s a response.

Marcus chimes in, speaking the same language. I do recognize the words Barbie and Tony, his eyes regarding me almost as intently as the way his brother does. His face is far more expressive, and he’s clearly very curious about me. And more than a little skeptical. All of the men are looking at me like a fairy princess who just walked into a boy’s birthday party when they were expecting Batman instead.

Whatever Callum says in response doesn’t make any of the men stop staring. When the stoic Lucciano speaks up, his words make Callum’s eyes flash with annoyance.

Callum’s voice grows irritated, the beautiful language coming from his mouth turning harsh and unforgiving. It sounds like a threat.

That seems to shut everyone up. I think now is as good a time as any to speak up.

“Who am I here to help?” I ask, looking around at the men expectantly. None of them look injured.

Finally, Gio steps forward.

“Scuse,” he says largely. “He’s back here.” He gestures for me to follow him through the door behind the counter and into the hallway that leads to the back rooms. Callum is right at my back, walking closely behind me with Marcus and Lucciano taking up the rear. And I’m being led through the plastic slats past the cool room into a refrigerated storage room. “Ricky’s been shot in the left arm, seems like a through n’ through. No bullet.”

“Internal damage?”

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