Page 28 of Any Means Necessary

I was over this topic of conversation when they expressed their unwanted opinions the moment we arrived. Introducing Lexie was as irritating as I anticipated—Marcus called her ‘nurse Barbie’ for fuck’s sake. Even after knowing me for thirty-one years, they question my decision-making. Assuming that I would ever hire someone less than capable is insulting, and it pisses me the fuck off.

They’re questioning my decision as if they get a vote. That’s not how it works. Not anymore. This whole conversation is really starting to chip at my control.

“She’s better than Tony.” My tone darkens, but Marcus breezes right past my warning with his typical shit-eating grin.

“Better than Tony at what, exactly?”

“I didn’t have to bring her here. But you called and I came. Lexie’s staying, it’s not up for discussion.”

“I’m sure her giant tits have nothing to do with your decision either.” Marcus’ grin widens, the fucker. “You always did like ’em big and blonde.”

My jaw tightens, shoulders tensing slightly. I don’t like him looking at Lexie’s tits, let alone talking about them. “I don’t let my dick make my decisions. That already happens enough in our family, I’ll leave that tradition to you.”

“Enough.” Our father cuts off Marcus’ retort before he can say whatever insulting bullshit is about to come spewing out of his mouth. He turns to Lucciano. “Are the authorities clued in to Ricky’s little firework show today? I’d like to know if I need to be worried about the police raiding my shop looking for him.”

“Don Rafael already spoke to the Chief personally, they’re not going to bother us about this. No one witnessed anything, so we don’t need to worry about exposure or taking care of loose ends.” Marcus replies, pulling out a cigarette. He lifts the lighter, but my father snatches it from his mouth before he has a chance to light it.

“Keep this shit outside and away from my office,” he demands in disgust, tossing it in the trashcan next to him.

“Whatever you say, Pop.” Marcus isn’t the least bit put off, having heard that exact phrase leave our father’s mouth a hundred times over.

My brother never learns.

“There you are, il mio amore,” my father greets, looking past me.

“Who’s in there with Ricky? I heard he got shot.” My mother’s voice speaks behind me, her words lilting with her soft Irish accent. I turn to face her in the doorway. She looks up at me from her wheelchair and smiles warmly. The woman who raised me was strong, and lovely. Now, she’s still as lovely, the white strands of age highlighting the red hues in her dark hair. Her deep green eyes are still as astute and all-knowing. But fragility has crept up on her over the years, leaving her thin and tired. “Callum, come give your Mam a hug.”

“Hi, Mom.” I step closer, stooping down to hug her and press a kiss to her cheek. “That’s Lexie. She works for me.”

“Tony’s gone?” she asks, her auburn eyebrows raising. “I would say that’s a shame, but then I’d be lying.” My mom never did like Tony. ‘An arrogant asshole who’s only out for himself,’ as she called him. She wasn’t wrong, she rarely is.

“Blondie’s plugging the bullet holes until Dr. Morelli can get here,” Marcus answers.

“Is she a doctor?”

“She’s a nurse.”

“If he hadn’t barged into the Russian territory like a bull in a china shop, he wouldn’t have gotten shot in the first place,” she says, frowning in disapproval. Her energy matches my father’s—loud, unfiltered, and very opinionated.

But where my father is harsh and unforgiving, my mother is the picture of warmth. Despite her caring disposition, she’s not someone you want to cross. She might not hold onto grudges like some, but she never forgets and her temper surpasses even my father’s Italian blood. Tara Walsh Russo is tough as nails.

“Are you surprised?” I ask, earning a warning look from my father. I ignore it. “Ricky always acts first and thinks later. If at all.” Every member of the Cosa Nostra does, something I’ve seen firsthand. Hell, I used to be that way too. Leading with emotions in the moment, consequences be damned.

It’s the way the Outfit operates. Putting the Family above all else—including ration and reason.

“He was doing what needed to be done.” My father’s voice has a familiar hard edge to it. The same one it gets every time this subject is broached in my presence.

“And did he? Did he put an end to it?” I remain calm, my expression giving him nothing—something that infuriates my father to no end. Not when his face gives away everything he’s thinking like a flashing neon sign.

Like how the muscle’s ticking in his jaw right now as his eyes narrow at me.

“We’ll get them,” Lucciano speaks up. “We’ll figure out a way to repay them for what they’ve done.”

“You always do.” The cycle is exhausting and fucking stupid. Hundred-year-old feuds fuel rivalries that cost lives and money. All a never-ending domino effect of action and violent retaliation.

I’ve seen my fair share of family business. I’ve carried out enough of that retaliation to know exactly what happens. My undying loyalty to the Outfit is what used to drive me and my trigger finger to act first, and let the Family think for me later. Until that same loyalty almost got my Mother killed and put her to a wheelchair for the rest of her life.

That day, the day of what my parents only ever refer to as the incident, was the day I realized that there’s a better way to get what you want than charging around with guns blazing. Emotions cloud judgment and get in the way of rational thought, leading to stupid decisions that cause nothing but more problems.

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