Page 35 of Any Means Necessary

“We are.”

“Ok, just let me pack up and say goodbye to Vera and Alina.” Of course she wants to say goodbye to her new friends, like this is some social event.

I watch in silence as Lexie makes her goodbyes, hugging both of the women. Seeing her embrace the Russian mob wives looks oddly similar to watching someone tame attack dogs. Both Vera and Alina are well-versed in the Bratva culture of blood and money. And yet, adding Lexie to the trio turns them back into playful puppies on a playdate.

The silence in the car on the ride home holds a noticeable tension. Lexie’s acting like I’m not even here, refusing to say a single word or even glance in my direction. I let my temper get the better of me at dinner, and I hurt her. She won’t admit it, she even tried to brush it off. But I saw the moment the verbal blow landed. Now her confidence is bruised, because I’m a jealous idiot.

Turns out, getting the silent treatment from her bothers me more than I ever thought possible. I have to fix this, make things right. Make it up to her.

“What I said at dinner was wrong.” Some of the tension eases when she finally turns from the window to look at me. “I’m sorry.” As a man in my position, I don’t often find myself having to apologize. But with Lexie, it doesn’t just feel necessary, it feels right.

“Thank you,” she replies, her eyes steady on mine. “Don’t ever talk to me like that again.” Even as she says it, in the deepest most visceral part of me, I know I never will. I can’t.

Chapter Ten: Callum

“Where’s Lexie?” Roscoe asks when I climb into the car alone.

“She’s staying here. I don’t need her to be there for this,” I state, grabbing the briefcase off the floor of the vehicle near my feet.

Clicking open the latches, I lift the top to check the contents. Four bricks of cocaine lay stacked in the case, ready to serve as payment. It’s more than enough coke to bribe a truck driver to give up his employer, even if it means betraying the Bratva.

“You like her,” Roscoe states, navigating the car onto the crowded city streets.

“I’m doing my best to see her naked.” My agreement isn’t enough for him.

“More than just trying to bed her,” he insists. “The pretty pink nurse has gotten under your skin.”

“She’s made her way into my blood. I just need to get her out of my system.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself.

“Sometimes the only difference between poison and medicine is a matter of dosage.” Roscoe knows me too well, despite my best efforts. I understand exactly what he’s saying—and he’s right.

I’ll never admit it.

“What, are you waxing poetic now?” I growl, irritated at the knowing look in his eyes then they cut over to me. “Just drive and focus on what we need to do.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” His comment carries a smugness that pisses me off. Forcing my focus back to the plan, I mentally walk through each step with their potential outcomes.

Getting someone to turn on Alek Kozlov was easy. He surrounds himself with greedy, disloyal men—like birds of a feather.

And how fitting for Joey Finch to be that bird. As the driver of Alek’s delivery truck, he knows the different routes and schedules. Just the mention of Colombian cocaine had him blabbing on about the time and location of his next drop. Information I’ll be giving to the police to set up Kozlov’s arrest.

Technically I have the information I want, so there’s really no reason to pay Finch at all. Not too smart on his part, but I don’t expect much from lowlifes like him. But I’m a man of my word, so Roscoe and I are on our way to deliver the payment. Half now, half after his information proves useful. Joey Finch might be dumb enough to give everything away without guarantees, but I’m not.

***

If there was a better alternative than attending a charity gala, I would do it. Hell, I’d pull my own molars out if it meant I didn’t have to stuff myself into the confines of a tuxedo and play nice all night. Unfortunately, this event has everyone I’m looking for under one roof, and my name is on the guest list. I’ll just have to grin and bear it.

A charming smile settles over my face as I step into the ballroom. Tugging on my cufflinks, my eyes scan the event’s attendees—crowds of people dressed to the nines in order to flaunt their importance. A room full of city officials, each one sure their political reach extends farther than it does. They flock together, schmoozing and greasing palms as they scramble to lift themselves up higher than the person next to them.

People like this, in the political arena, are all driven by the deep seeded desire for one or more of three things; money, power, and influence. Greed. Getting what you want from each of these bureaucrats is simple once you’ve identified their driving force. When you give them what they want—what they really want in the deepest parts of them, what they’ll do anything for—they become useful tools. They might deny it to themselves, but I see it.

My eyes connect with the man I’m here to see on the opposite side of the ballroom. Entering the crowds, a robust frame steps into my path.

“You clean up good, Russo.” Russell Moore greets loudly, his veneers flashing as a grin spreads across his ruddy face. His tuxedo looks cheap and wrinkled, probably rented. No doubt a result of being kicked out by his third wife six weeks ago after she found him in bed with the co-ed dog walker.

Keeping an easy smile on my face, I don’t miss how Moore pushes back his shoulders and stretches his spine to compete with the seven-inch height difference between us. His need to feel large in stature and importance has always been Moore’s biggest weakness, one I use in my favor.

Influence.

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