Chapter Ten Callum
“You think she can handle it?” Marcus asks, looking at Lexie through the window.
“She’s got the skills. She’ll probably stitch him up faster than Dr. Morelli. And it’ll be cleaner too.” Morelli’s gotten sloppy; his handiwork has started slipping with his age. The Family will need a new physician on payroll before too long.
“Lots of people can stitch up a little bullet hole.” Lucciano says dismissively with a wave of his hand. “It takes a lot more to deal with a business like this. She seems sweet. Soft.”
“You’d be surprised.” Hell, I have been.
I had Roscoe stay with her for both Lexie’s protection and mine.
Leaving her alone with Ricky is dangerous, not just because he tends to have wandering hands and doesn’t like hearing the word no.
I wouldn’t put it past Lexie to get a few too many answers from the flashy idiot—things I don’t want her to know.
“Tony’s a cocky asshole, but he’s good. And his family ties make him reliable,” my father points out, crossing his arms. He’s speaking like he has any say in my business, like any of them do.
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 breasts, 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 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 fireworks 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 trash can 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 says, looking past me.
“Who’s in there with Ricky? I heard he got shot.
” My mother 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 beautiful.
She’s still as lovely with the white strands of age highlighting the red hues in her dark hair.
Her deep green eyes are just 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’s 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 on to 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 rationality 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 the tic in his jaw muscles 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 in 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.
My brother went the other way, becoming a hothead who acts on impulse in a way that Papà considers loyalty to the Family. Something my father likes to berate me for every time I refuse to engage in any crisis regarding “family business.”
My willingness to act with blind loyalty disappeared with my mother’s ability to walk.
“Where are you going?” my father asks, watching my mother maneuver her wheels to swivel her wheelchair back towards the door.
“I want to meet her,” she announces, rolling herself swiftly out of the office. No doubt on her way to pass judgment on whether or not Lexie gets her stamp of approval. Tony didn’t make that cut, not after the first words out of his mouth at their introduction were insulting the Irish.
Asshole.
There are no second chances after the first impression with my mother.
I move to follow her, relieved to have this excuse to get away from the conversation in the office. It’s getting a little too personal in here for my liking, I’d rather get back to my own business. And back to the pretty pink nurse I left with the trigger-happy mobster.
“Got shot again, aye Ricky? Why am I not surprised, always making a mess,” Mom scolds as she wheels her way across the industrial space to where the injured man is being tended to.
“A small price to pay to set those Russian bastards straight.” Ricky’s not the least bit repentant.
Lexie pulls her eyes from Ricky’s arm to look over her shoulder at my mother, long blonde ponytail swinging like a shampoo commercial in the process.
The stunning smile that graces her face at my mom’s approach is magnetic.
“Hello,” Mom says, rolling to a stop beside Ricky’s chair.
“Tell me who you are and what makes you qualified to work for my son.” In typical Tara fashion, my mom doesn’t mince words.
It’s her way of seeing who someone truly is, by catching them off guard.
Her Irish accent is heaviest when she’s demanding something, or angry, and it makes her sound sterner.
Lexie blinks at her a few times but remains otherwise unfazed.
“This is my mom,” I say. “Tara.”
“I’m Lexie, I’ve worked as a traveling ER nurse for over four years.
I just finished an eighteen-week contract at New York Presbyterian.
Between that, and the fact that my best friend is a trauma surgeon, I’ve basically seen it all.
” Lexie lists her qualifications easily, like it’s just friendly conversation instead of an interrogation.
“I’m really good at what I do. But honestly, I think Callum only hired me because he needed someone after Tony left and I was convenient. ”
I can already see on my mom’s face that Lexie’s response was exactly the right answer. She hates bullshit and can’t stand cowards. The way Lexie carries herself, self-assured and unbothered by the opinion of others, is exactly the right kind of personality to get along with my mother.