: Chapter 7

Sitting in the back seat with Callum while Roscoe drives us through the city is a foreign feeling. In my mind, only celebrities and ‘important people’ get driven around by a bodyguard chauffeur. Apparently, Callum is one of those important people, and I now have certain privileges simply by proximity.

The luxury black SUV was definitely custom-made for Callum’s large frame, with extra wide seats and more legroom than I thought was possible in the backseat of a car. The limo tint on the windows offers as much privacy as possible, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the vehicle is armored.

Callum’s focused on his phone, probably typing three emails at once. We went over the expectations of the job earlier this morning, which basically boils down to three things—be available, be reachable, and follow instructions. Simple enough. He didn’t exactly sync our calendars, and I get the feeling I’ll never actually know what Callum is up to until we’re already on the way. I’ll just have to be ready for plans to change.

Leaning back against the cognac suede seat, a notification sounds in the car as a vibration buzzes over my skin. Callum looks over in time to see me reach into the v-neck of my scrub top and pull out my cellphone. A text notification from Mia lights my screen.

“Did you just pull that out from…?” Callum’s deep voice sounds beside me.

“My bra? Yeah.” I shrug, unlocking my phone. Feeling his eyes on me, I turn my head to meet his gaze. Hazel eyes glance down at my breasts without discretion.

“You keep your phone in your bra?”

“All the time.” It’s really no big deal. “It’s like having two giant built-in pockets and women’s clothes never have them so, why not?” His eyes on me are processing data. Or maybe he’s just taking this opportunity to check out my tits.

“People don’t notice you reaching into your top all the time?” he asks, unconvinced.

“You couldn’t tell it was there. Mission accomplished.”

Callum eyes my chest curiously. “What else do you have in there?”

I suppress a smile, turning my attention back to my phone to read my text. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Mia’s telling me about a patient who tried to steal an entire IV stand, fluid bags and all. “Where are we headed?”

“I have a meeting with a Russian.” His answer is short, as if that bit of information is everything I need to know. I’m still confused.

“What do you need me for?”

“The Russians aren’t known for being friendly,” Callum responds vaguely. “Some of them have a problem with my history with the Italians. You’re here in case things get heated.”

“Your history with the Italians,” I repeat, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. “I thought you were Italian. Isn’t Russo an Italian last name?”

“It’s Sicilian.”

“So, the problem is with your family?”

“It’s complicated.” The steel edge in his voice ends the line of questioning.

The car pulls to a stop in front of a bar. It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, and the place looks appropriately deserted for such an early hour. I’m not even sure they’re open yet.

Roscoe and Callum both exit the vehicle, and my door is opened for me. Callum holds out his hand to help me down from the tall car. I leave the medical kit in the back seat as instructed. Apparently walking into a tense situation looking like you’re ready to start cleaning up blood isn’t the best move.

Ignoring the closed sign on the door, Callum enters the building like he owns the place. The vintage feel of the dark interior seems like something out of a burlesque movie, with dark woods, red velvet-topped stools, and backlit counters. Pausing just inside the door, Callum scans the space until his eyes land on the booth in the far back corner. A man, who appears to be in his mid-thirties, sits at the table with a phone pressed to his ear. The large man that’s standing guard next to the booth steps away to approach Callum at our entrance.

“Wait for me here,” Callum says, looking first at me, then having a silent conversation with Roscoe. The bald man gives a short nod, but widens his stance and folds his hands in front of him like he’s ready for war. For all I know, I should be gearing up for battle too. Instead, I lower to sit on a bench against the wall near the door—I’m not in the mood for war right now.

The bodyguard watches as Callum lifts his arms out at his sides and spins, patting him down visually to make sure he’s not armed. I didn’t notice the paper bag in Callum’s hand until he’s opening it to show the bodyguard the contents before following him back to the booth and greeting who I’m assuming is the Russian that Callum mentioned in the car.

I can’t quite hear what they’re saying from across the room, but I watch the two men greet each other with a handshake that’s all business. Since there’s nothing else to do, I follow Roscoe’s example and just watch and absorb.

The Russian man is clean-shaven with a very square jaw and a cleft chin. His wavy hair could be either light brown or a very dark blonde, but there’s so much product slicking it back that it’s impossible to tell. When Callum pulls two bottles of liquor from the paper bag and presents them to the other man, I can catch a glimpse of the tattoos on the back of the Russian’s hands that creep down to his fingernails. The ink makes them look like he has skeletal fingers.

Kinda creepy.

It’s impossible to decide which man is more terrifying, I wouldn’t want to meet either of them in a dark alleyway at night. But there’s something about the way Callum’s danger is so expertly camouflaged under a suit coat that makes him seem far more threatening. With the Russian, you know exactly who you’re looking at when you meet him. Callum’s true nature isn’t revealed until his sleeves are rolled up and his metaphorical fangs are out. Between the two men at that table, my guess is that Callum Russo is the bigger threat.

“What’s his name?” I ask, glancing at Roscoe. He pulls his eyes from his boss long enough to look down at me. “The Russian.”

“Levi,” he answers after a moment of consideration, having weighed the pros and cons of telling me and deciding there’s no harm in me having this information. Maybe I should take what I’m given and be grateful I got any answer. But I’ve never been good at stopping when I’m ahead.

“Am I allowed to know his last name?” I ask, following his gaze back to the men.

“Mikhailov,” Roscoe answers this time without looking at me.

Levi Mikhailov. Definitely Russian alright.

It’s like he could hear me thinking his name because dark brown eyes meet mine, and I can see him say something and nod towards me. Callum turns his head to look at me, our eyes locking as he says something in response. I’m tempted to sit up straighter under the weight of their focus, but their eyes are leaving me as quickly as they settled.

The meeting doesn’t last too long, and it’s only a few more minutes before they’re standing from the booth and walking over to us. Levi’s bodyguard falls into step behind him and Roscoe steps forward to meet them. Callum’s eyes find me briefly when I stand from my seat, but I don’t bother to speak or walk any closer. My plan is to just stand here quietly until it’s time to leave.

“You won’t be needing your nurse when you meet with Viktor either,” Levi’s saying when they stop in front of us, his eyes catching on me momentarily. He doesn’t look very impressed with me, I’m betting a man like him surrounds himself with equally scary people. That’s definitely not me. “Just make sure you bring more of that vodka and Irish whiskey.”

“That can be arranged.” Callum nods, signaling to Roscoe it’s time to go. “I’ll see you then.” Roscoe and Levi’s man are staring each other down like two cowboys having a showdown in a western film. But the tension breaks when Levi turns to walk back to his place at the table.

Callum motions for me to walk ahead of him as we exit and walk back to the car. He opens the door for me and his hand on my lower back helps me climb in fairly gracefully. Roscoe doesn’t seem to relax until he’s pulling into traffic and we’re driving away—well, as relaxed as Roscoe gets.

“You get the meeting?” he asks, looking at the man beside me in the rearview mirror. Callum nods, rolling his shoulders back before settling into the seat.

“Tomorrow night, eight o’clock at The Dining Room.” A muffled buzzing sound next to me has Callum reaching into his pocket to pull out his vibrating phone.

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?”

“Not that we can tell. He can move everything just fine. We just need you to clean him up and stitch him closed until we can get our usual doctor to look at him.”

“Usual doctor?”

“Yeah, ya know. Family guy. Usually, he’d be here to deal with this, but he’s stuck uptown.” The way they keep saying family sounds a lot more like a crime syndicate than mom-and-pop. I simply nod in response. “He’s over there.”

Ricky sits on a metal chair against one of the walls of the industrial processing room. Whole pigs and slabs of cow lay in various levels of dismemberment across metal tables scattered with knives and cleavers. Just like the other men, he looks to be Italian too, with dark hair slicked back with too much gel. His olive skin is pale as he holds a wad of blood-soaked rags against his left arm. As we walk closer, his eyes move over me like I’m an animal in the wrong zoo exhibit—not what he was hoping to see, but better than nothing.

“Ricky, this is Lexie. Cal brought her to fix you up,” Gio introduces, pulling a second chair over beside him so I have a place to sit.

When Ricky speaks it’s in Italian, the words coming out sounding slimy and unsettling. I’d bet money that whatever he’s saying is a combination of derogatory and explicit. His gaze moves over me again, making my skin crawl. Even his eyes are handsy.

In three long strides, Callum’s in front of him. His large hand clamps around Ricky’s throat, forcing the injured man to look him in the eye. Callum’s expression is dark—murderous—as he leans in to speak.

Responding in the same language, Callum’s words are spoken with a tone of violence. I wish I had a translator right about now, I’d love to know what he’s saying. Giving the injured man’s throat an extra squeeze, Callum switches to english before continuing. “Now shut your fucking mouth and sit still so the Doc can stitch you up.”

I’m tempted to clarify that I’m a nurse instead of a doctor, but a sharp look from Callum has the correction dying on the tip of my tongue.

Ricky’s jaw tightens, but he nods against the hand on his throat. Callum releases the mobster roughly with a shove, forcing him to stagger back against the chair. Still staring him down, Callum reaches his hand out for me. When I walk closer, he barely steps back—instead standing over the patient.

Over me.

Sitting on the empty chair, I place the medical kit on the floor. Ricky watches as I roll up his sleeve, peeling the blood-slick fabric from his skin. Unfortunately, the material only goes so high and my view is still obstructed.

“I need you to take off your shirt,” I inform him.

“You want a better look at the goods?” Ricky asks with a smirk, despite the giant man looming over him with promises of violence.

“Do you want me to close the holes in your arm or not? If you prefer to bleed out, it makes no difference to me.” I meet his stare evenly, waiting patiently like he’s a child who can’t follow simple instructions. I don’t miss how Ricky’s lips twitch in contempt before he gives me a cocky grin as he moves to comply. He doesn’t like women talking back. Or maybe it’s just the fat ones.

Reaching forward to assist him, my arm bumps Callum who seems to have inched closer.

“Can you give us some space?” Easing the wounded arm from the sleeve, I pause to meet the gaze I can feel burning a hole through my skull. Callum’s eyes connect with mine heavily, his laser focus intent on me. “I’m fine, Callum. I need more room to stitch him up.” When he doesn’t budge I flash a sugary sweet smile. “Pretty please.”

“Nobody’s gonna hurt your nurse, Cal,” Gio says behind us. Callum stares me down for another minute, his serious expression set in stone as his eyes search mine. Finally, he backs away until I feel like I can breathe again.

Turning my focus back to the task at hand, I inspect the gunshot wound. The bullet entered the front of his left bicep and exited through the back. By the placement, it looks like his arm was extended outward when the bullet passed through, only affecting the flashiest part of his underarm.

“Do you know what kind of bullet it was?” I ask, glancing up at Ricky as I set up my supplies.

“What does someone like you know about bullets?” Ricky’s tone is mocking.

“Twenty-two? Forty-five, Nine millimeter?” I ask, listing a few calibers like I’m making a list to help him out. “Semi-jacketed, hollow point?”

The laughs that sound behind me match the surprise on Ricky’s face. “What are you, some sort of undercover cop?” Marcus asks behind me.

“I’ve spent the last four years working in emergency rooms all over the country. Including Manhattan.” Ricky hisses against the alcohol swab, but my eyes remain focused on cleaning the wound. “Plus, I dated a guy who worked in private security when I was in nursing school. I know a lot more about gunshot wounds than you’d think.”

I learned a lot of life lessons from Jared. Like the different types of bullets, how to escape a car trunk, and not to trust a guy when he tells you not to worry about the bitchy client he’s spending all his time with.

“It was a forty-five,” Ricky says. “Lead round nose.” He grits his teeth against my probing. That’s a relief, the wound is pretty clear, and the bullet went clean through. A hollow point would’ve been another story—a bigger exit wound with fragments embedded in the tissue. Not pretty to clean up, and far more damaging.

“Do you want local anesthetic?” I ask, collecting the supplies for his sutures.

“Save it.” Ricky’s response is dripping with bravado. “I don’t need it.”

“Let’s go to the office, we have things to discuss,” Gio announces. “We’ll leave your nurse to her work,”

“Are you good with that, Doc?” Callum asks.

“Go ahead.” I wave him off over my shoulder, not bothering to glance in his direction.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be real nice to her,” Ricky says smugly, stirring the pot.

“Lexie.” The steel edge in Callum’s voice forces me to pull my eyes away from my work. I look up at him, his eyes moving over my face intently. Like usual, he’s reading my every thought.

“I’m fine. This shouldn’t take too long,” I assure him, letting him read the truth written all over my face. Seemingly satisfied with my answer, if not reluctant, Callum turns to Roscoe.

“Stay here.” Roscoe nods and remains diligently in place behind me as Gio leads Callum, Marcus, and Lucciano back into an office along the far wall. I can see them glancing at me through the window that looks into the larger room, but I don’t bother to wonder what they’re talking about. Instead, I focus on what I’m here for.

As soon as we’re alone, Ricky shifts back in the chair, his stance cocky and dominant. There’s no doubt in my mind that Callum’s absence in the vicinity has everything to do with his change in attitude. Chin tilting up, his eyes run me up and down as a string of Italian leaves his mouth.

“Watch it.” Roscoe’s warning rolls right off Ricky’s back, making his lips twitch arrogantly.

“You know I don’t speak Italian,” I say. “But whatever you just said was obviously an insult if you waited for Callum to leave before you said it.”

“Was it?” It’s not a denial.

“I would hope not. It’s never a good idea to offend the person in charge of making sure you don’t die from infection.” I add a little more pressure against his wound than necessary to make a point, making him wince. His jaw sets, but he regards me with interest and a hint of respect.

“Where did Cal find you, anyway? You two fucking?” Ricky seems to flip between being a cocky insulting asshole and curiously amused by my mere existence. He doesn’t find me pleasing, I’m clearly not what he prefers to look at. But he’s enjoying the fact that I don’t make sense. I’m an unknown variable in Callum’s equation, written in sparkly pink gel pen amongst all the gray area.

“You can ask him that when we’re finished here if you’re feeling brave enough.”

“Ah, you’re no fun,” he grumbles, making me smile.

“Not for you.”

“So you are fucking.”

“I didn’t say that. I can’t imagine Callum has a habit of mixing business with pleasure.”

“Never,” Ricky confirms with a snort. “He used to be so much more fun before everything happened with his Mama. Now he’s a fucking machine.” He looks at me thoughtfully. “Although, none of his employees have looked like you, and he’s not gonna fuck someone like Tony. But you? You’re just his type.”

“Oh really? And what’s that?” I ask, bracing myself against the potential emotional scarring from whatever crude answer he’s about to give me.

“Fat, blonde, big tits.” The way he purses his lips while his eyes move over me says he doesn’t get what Callum finds attractive about fat bodies. “Even before, he’s always had a thing for the big bitches.”

“Hmm,” I hum in a simple response, completely unoffended. Ricky not finding me attractive is almost laughable, especially considering I wouldn’t let him touch me with a ten-foot pole.

“What did he threaten to do to you when we first walked in?” Curiosity has the question leaving my tongue before common sense can reign it back in. I guess I can relate to the cat who died of curiosity because it turns out I have just as little self-control.

“To put a bullet through my head if I don’t play nice.” Even as Ricky shrugs against my hands, his tongue runs over his teeth in contempt. He doesn’t take that threat as lightly as he’s letting on. Probably a good idea on his part. It’s oddly flattering that Callum cares about my well-being enough to threaten someone’s life. And horrifying.

“You get shot a lot?”

“Once or twice.” Ricky’s shrug is causal, but the scars over his torso say it’s happened more than that. This guy is riddled with marks, both from knives and bullets. He gets into quite a bit of trouble, I’m sure.