Chapter Nine Lexie #2
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 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 at his agitation as he fights to remain cordial.
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 kind, 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 slump 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 and 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 fleshiest 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. “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. 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, our gazes colliding.
“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 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 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 rein 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.
” 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. I’m sure he gets into quite a bit of trouble.