Page 30 of Any Means Necessary

“Lexie does good work.” I already see where this conversation is going, but I humor her anyway. “She’s way fuckin’ better than that asshat Tony.”

“I agree.” She bats my hands away when I reach to help, forever the independent woman, and stacks the containers into a large paper bag.

“Be careful with her though. She’s still got that light in her, I’m not sure she’s cut out for the life you’re leading her into.”

“I know the risks,” I state simply. I weighed the risks and benefits before writing up the contract, I know what I’m getting myself into. Even if Lexie hasn’t seen the full picture yet. Mom places the bag on her lap and forces me to look her in the eye.

“I don’t get to see you much anymore unless someone gets a hole blown through ‘em, so I’m gonna take my opportunity now that I have it.” I brace myself for the lecture coming my way. Mom’s not going to pass on this moment to speak her mind. “You might not be involved with the Family business anymore, but I know enough about what you get up to. You’ve got it in your head that emotions get in the way of every decision, and you’re almost right. But sometimes acting on your feelings is the difference between staying alive and actually living.”

Holding back my frustration, I pull in a deep breath as I formulate a response. Telling her to keep her opinions to herself like I would my father or brother isn’t an option. But I have no interest in having a one-on-one therapy session with my mother about following my heart. So instead I give her a response that ends the conversation without being harsh. “I hear you.”

Mom lets out a humorless laugh. “I don’t think you do, but I’ll let you leave anyway,” she scoffs, holding out the bag of food for me to take. I accept it with thanks, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek before heading to the exit.

Settling back against the seat in the moving car, my mind refuses to focus on the email displayed on my phone when my eyes keep straying to the woman sitting next to me. Feeling my eyes, she turns from the window to meet my stare head on—something she does a lot.

She doesn’t get flustered or cower under my gaze. Instead, she stares right back.

“What?” Her brows knit together slightly in confusion.

“What are you thinking?” The need to know what’s running through her mind is too strong to resist. Reading the emotions as they cross her face isn’t enough.

“That I usually make a guy at least take me to dinner before I meet his parents,” she teases good-naturedly, making me suppress a smile.

“You’re handling this really well.”

“You know, you have a habit of sounding surprised when you compliment me, Callum. Someone with a smaller ego might find that offensive.” She’s not offended.

“I would never want to offend you, Dewdrop,” I assure her. “One of these days I might need you to stitch me up.”

“You’re right, it’s never a good idea to insult the person with the scalpel,” she agrees. “Smart man, always one step ahead.”

“You have no idea.”

She doesn’t, but she will soon.

Chapter Nine: Callum

“I want the docks locked down. I don’t want anything coming in or going out without my knowing about it.” I stalk across my office from one wall to the other before turning around and striding back.

“You know I don’t have control of that, Russo.” The cavalier air in Sal’s voice makes me want to strangle the cockiness right out of the fucker. “I told you, I’ll talk to the higher-ups and do what I can.”

“If you let what I’m looking for out of the country, no one you love is safe from me.” Venom drips from every syllable that leaves my mouth, each word deadly serious. If Lottie Harris is shipped out of the country because Sal’s twiddling his damn thumbs, I will personally skin him alive. And I’ll enjoy it.

When a girl is taken to be trafficked, the window of ever being able to find them again is usually very short. Maybe ninety-six hours, if you’re lucky. But with children, that window extends for transit conditions. Smaller bodies don’t last as long without food and water, or being in extreme temperatures whether it’s hot or cold. That means timing and weather conditions are huge factors in when a container of little girls can be shipped overseas. Which adds days instead of hours.

The Russians aren’t taking just any little girls, they’re shopping from a list. They won’t move any of them until the full shipment is fulfilled. That extends my window to weeks.

If they have a buyer already set upon delivery, that changes the security factor considerably. Having someone waiting turns the girls from livestock up for auction to curated goods, driving up the price. Where there’s more money, there’s more security. And security means firepower and strategy.

“That won’t happen.” His assurances mean shit. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you.” My phone beeps softly in my ear to announce that that call has ended.

The son-of-a-bitch hung up on me.

My fingers curl tightly into fists, muscles bunching against the urge to smash everything in sight. The pressure from how tightly my jaw is clenched threatens to crack my teeth. My legs carry me from one end of the room to the other, each breath coming out harsh and ragged. It’s taking every ounce of my restraint to contain the fury raging through me. My arms twitch and swing with the desire to cause destruction and violence.

It’s several minutes before I’ve reigned in the fury enough to walk past my safe without pulling out a few magazines and going to pay Sal a visit. He’s not safe from me, especially if he can’t do what he’s told, but that will have to wait until later.

Striding out of my office, I’m looking for Roscoe. I find him in the kitchen with a blonde Suzy-fucking-homemaker.

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