: Chapter 8

“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, and 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 dismisses 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 left Roscoe in there with her for both Lexie’s protection and mine. Leaving her alone with Ricky is dangerous, and 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 tits, 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’ retort 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 firework 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 trashcan 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 greets, looking past me.

“Who’s in there with Ricky? I heard he got shot.” My mother’s voice 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 lovely. Now, she’s still as lovely, the white strands of age highlighting the red hues in her dark hair. Her deep green eyes are still 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 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 onto 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 ration 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 how the muscle’s ticking in his jaw 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 to 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.

I don’t give a fuck.

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 Italian 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 impossible not to be drawn to.

“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 Walsh fashion, my mom comes out guns blazing. 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, making her sound sterner.

Lexie blinks at her a few times before responding 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.

Mom looks Lexie over, sizing her up, before turning to look at me. I give away nothing, even when Lexie’s questioning eyes look to me with brows raised. When Tara’s lips twitch in a smile, she might as well have pressed her stamp of approval on the pretty pink nurse’s forehead.

She likes her.

“Alright,” Mom nods, keeping a straight face when she turns back to Lexie and the man she’s been tasked with fixing up. “Let’s see this work of yours.”

Lexie backs away from Ricky, allowing everyone in the room to examine her needlework. My father, Marcus, and Lucciano, who followed my mother and me from the office and have been commenting between themselves in Italian, step forward to get a good look too.

Just like with Kellen’s hand, Lexie’s work is clean and tight. I’ve seen a lot of gunshot wounds, and there’s no doubt Ricky’s arm will heal quickly and with barely a scar. The caliber of work on this wound makes the other scars marking his body look crude and sloppy.

Lucciano remains silent, but the look in his eyes when his gaze cuts to me acknowledges he was wrong to doubt my judgment. My father starts sputtering in Italian, his voice dripping praise. Marcus, however, admires her work openly, boldly.

Too fucking boldly.

“Damn, that’s impressive,” Marcus says. “What’s your number? I might need you to stitch me up one of these days.” I’m about to tell my brother to shut his fucking mouth and stay away from her—that he doesn’t get her phone number because she’s not his to talk to or think about. But Lexie’s response beats me to it.

“I work for Callum, you know how to reach him.” Her answer soothes some of the hostility raging inside me, and my shoulders relax slightly when she glances up at me. That one look calms me considerably. “Can I finish bandaging him up now?”

“Go ahead, Doc,” I say, nodding towards the Made Man.

Ricky’s been surprisingly silent since I walked into the room. He can keep glaring at me as long as he keeps his mouth shut. I’ll be talking to Roscoe to see how well the trigger-happy idiot behaved himself when I left.

Lexie looks at me for another second as she takes a deep breath, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. The way her eyes pull away from me to glance around at the other people filling the space is the only sign she’s given that she might feel overwhelmed. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and she’s back to work wrapping Ricky’s arm in sterile gauze.

As soon as Lexie’s finished cleaning up and giving Ricky care instructions—that go in one ear and out the other without penetrating his thick skull—I have Roscoe take her back out front to the car. My mother takes the opportunity to get me alone.

“Come with me,” she demands, rolling ahead of me to the front of the shop. “I cooked yesterday.”

It’s all she has to say to get me to follow her. She leads me to one of the coolers where she starts pulling out a stack of food containers, four in total.

“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.