Dirty Pool

by Bethany-Kris

  Holy fuck.

  Were they serious?

  “I’m a pre-med student,” Michel muttered under his breath.

  “What?”

  He kept staring at the man on the blanket with the pillow under his head. Even the pillow was bloodstained, and the blanket? Ruined. He didn’t need to be a doctor to tell them that just based on their friend’s shallow breaths, and gray pallor … there was no way he was going to make it through the night if they didn’t get him to a hospital.

  And soon.

  “I’m not a doctor,” Michel said clearer.

  Not much louder, though.

  “What the feck did you just—”

  “I’m not a doctor!”

  Did they hear him yet?

  Was it clear enough yet?

  They took him based on something they heard. They grabbed him because of a fucking rumor and a nickname. He was the one they brought here to save this guy, really? Because the most he knew how to do was fix a bad cut with some crazy glue if he really needed to.

  And they wanted him to dig a goddamn bullet out of some Irishman’s chest?

  Michel started laughing, then.

  But it was desperate.

  And oh, so strained.

  “I’m not a doctor,” Michel mumbled, shaking his head but not able to look away from the man dying in the corner. “I can’t help you. You took the wrong guy.”

  SIX

  “And you’re set, then?” Charles asked his daughter. “You’re absolutely certain you’re continuing this path for college?”

  Gabbie smiled at her father. “I’m going to be a lawyer.”

  Once, her father had offhandedly mentioned that it had been her mother’s dream to be a lawyer. Then, she fell pregnant shortly before a rushed wedding, and that dream was pilfered away as family and becoming a mother was more important to Betha.

  Gabbie never felt like she simply took over that dream for her dead mother, but rather, continued it. She genuinely liked law, and she was a good student. For the most part, she found college easy, and while it would be quite a few years before she would ever stand in a courtroom to defend someone, that was okay, too.

  “Mmm. A defense lawyer, lass.”

  “Was that what Mam wanted to be, too?”

  Charles chuckled lowly and picked up his glass of the black stuff. Taking a hearty swig, he set it back to the table a little harder than necessary. “No, she had simpler dreams. She wanted to help children and be their voice. But as you know very well, she had a child of her own that needed to come first, and what do I always say, hmm?”

  “Charity starts at home.”

  He smiled. “Exactly that.”

  Gabbie didn’t agree with her father on that sentiment, especially not considering how well off they were when it came to stability and money. The thing was, the mindset her father sported was one he’d grown up with, and it was hard to remove that kind of outlook from someone who had never known anything different.

  She wouldn’t be the one to try, either.

  Wanting to change the subject, because she didn’t feel like yet again justifying to her father why she wanted to become a lawyer, Gabbie waved a fork over her plate. “How’s the food?”

  His green eyes met hers. “It’s always lovely, lass.”

  “Have to ask.”

  He wouldn’t say it—because if he did, then he would have to admit he didn’t practice what he preached to her constantly—but he didn’t like whole wheat anything. Which meant the casserole she’d come over to make him for supper was not his favorite thing. Oh, sure, she added enough spices and flavor to the dish that one really couldn’t tell whether or not it was whole wheat pasta, but he knew.

  He knew because she was eating it, too.

  It had to be whole wheat.

  Then, Charles rested back in his chair after discarding the napkin he’d been using to tuck into his shirt as he ate. That was her first sign he was just about done eating, and soon, he would dismiss her. It was a regular thing for the two of them to spend a wee bit of time together throughout the week.

  Usually, she came over to cook dinner.

  Sometimes, they went out.

  She loved her father for that, in a way, even if sometimes it did feel like he was smothering her too much. He did make every effort to remind her that she was one, if not the most, important thing in his life. He cleared his schedule, shut off the phone, and took a few minutes just to chat with her.

  Sure, he chatted in his way.

  That usually meant questioning her.

  Driving her nuts.

  But he loved her, too.

  “I know you think I’m a shite, Gabbie,” her father said.

  She glanced up from her plate, and met his gaze across the table. “I do not.”

  “You do. You think I control too much, and I ask too many questions. You believe I don’t listen to you when you speak, or when you tell me what you want.”

  “Because sometimes you don’t, Da.”

  He shook his head, laughing under his breath as he muttered, “And maybe that’s true, but …”

  A smile graced her lips. “I’m the only one you have left, right?”

  Wasn’t that what he always told her?

  Wasn’t that always his excuse?

  Charles’ own smiled faltered a bit. “You are, but I don’t give you enough credit, I think.”

  Gabbie blinked, surprised at that admission. “How so?”

  “You indulge me all the time. Whatever I ask, you do it with a smile. You never make plans with your friends when you think they might take time away from me—do you even have friends?”

  “A handful.”

  Not many, though.

  Mostly, family.

  Her father nodded. “I see. Because of me?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then, why?”

  “Is this really the conversation you want to have when we’re supposed to be having a nice dinner together?”

  Charles gave her a look that said he didn’t appreciate her comment. Gabbie only shrugged in response because honestly, what else did he want her to do?

  “I’m just curious …” He trailed off, glancing at the clock on the wall like he found it interesting even if it wasn’t. “I wonder if being this man—and your father—has ever affected you in those ways. Do I prevent you from being whatever you want to be?”

  “No.”

  That was the truth.

  It was that simple.

  Gabbie would be or do whatever she wanted, regardless of what her father thought. And she knew that because he loved her as much as he did, that he would eventually concede to her desires, and let her do what made her happy.

  Was he overbearing and fickle?

  Yes.

  That changed nothing.

  He was still her da.

  He still loved her.

  “All right,” her father said gruffly, picking up his napkin again. “Thank you for indulging me yet again, I suppose.”

  Gabbie laughed lightly. “Someone has to keep you on your toes, or make sure you stay in line.”

  He pointed a finger in her direction. “That … well, that is also true. Eat your food, lass. And it is good, even if you do think I hate whole wheat.”

  She blinked again.

  Charles smirked. “I know everything, Gabbie. Even when you think I don’t.”

  Huh.

  She didn’t quite know what to make of that, so she happily went back to eating her food while her father watched her from the other side of the table. Eventually, he went back to his own dish, too.

  Charles didn’t even glance up from his plate when the front door of the large home opened, and slammed shut. Mutterings echoed down the hallway as footsteps followed the familiar voice. Gabbie recognized the young man who came to stand in the doorway of the dining room—although, for as long as she had known Timothy, she didn’t think she had ever seen him looking this disheveled and panicked.

 
; There were very few men in her father’s organization that he allowed a presence in his life. Timothy was one of them, although she didn’t know that he held an actual position in the Irish mob. He was still working his way up. He certainly showed up around her father often enough which told her that Charles liked the guy.

  Maybe like a son he never had.

  Who knew?

  Charles had once tried to set her up with Timothy, too, but that didn’t work out well. The guy was a couple of years older than her, but didn’t hold her interest at all when he was too busy trying to lick her father’s boots to get his in to the mob.

  She was secondary.

  Gabbie wouldn’t come second to anyone.

  Still, her father was unbothered in his chair. He didn’t look up once as Timothy shifted from foot to foot and fidgeted with his hands like he was waiting for his boss to acknowledge that he was standing ten feet away.

  Charles was funny like that.

  And he hated being interrupted.

  “Did you not knock?” Charles eventually asked.

  “I—”

  “The answer is no, lad, you did not.”

  “Sorry, boss, but—”

  “Go back to the door and knock, Tim.”

  “But—”

  “If it is important enough for you to interrupt my meal with my daughter, then you will do what you need to in order to have me speak to you or even look at you, boyo.”

  “Fine. Feck.”

  Timothy disappeared from the entryway, and his footsteps echoed all the way back to the front door. It was only after the front door slammed shut did Charles finally look up from his plate, and simply to pass Gabbie a smile as he waited for his man to do what he’d been told.

  A knock resounded.

  Charles sighed before bellowing, “Come on in!”

  Timothy grumbled his whole way down the hall, and once he was standing in the entryway again, he raised his arms wide as if to ask better?

  “What can I do for you tonight?” Charles asked, going back to his plate of food. “Because I am sure you lot were told to keep out of trouble.”

  “Uh …”

  Charles glanced up again, and slowly, turned to face his man when Timothy struggled with his words. “What is it?”

  “Something happened, boss.”

  “Something like what?”

  “We fecked up.”

  “How?”

  “Italians.”

  Gabbie stiffened in her chair.

  So did her father.

  “How so?” Charles asked, his tone dropping with a sharp edge. “And choose your words very carefully—it will determine how the rest of this evening goes, ye eejit.”

  “Someone took a slug to the chest. Word went around about the doc, you know? Kevin had the bright idea we could fix it, and not have to bother you with it. We took him out of a club downtown, and—”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Outside, boss.”

  “Feckin’ hell. Useless, all of you are a bunch of useless cunts. More trouble than you’re worth, I say.” Charles was up from the table in an instant, and dropped the napkin down without a word to Gabbie, but she understood well enough. Dinner was over, and while he wouldn’t explicitly tell her so, he still expected her to leave the house. “Bring him around back, and take him downstairs, then. Be quick about it. Go.”

  Her father left the dining room.

  She didn’t move an inch.

  Only one person had ever been called doc around her.

  Michel.

  • • •

  Out of all the things Gabbie had learned being the daughter of an Irish mob boss, the most important had been to never step in on her father’s business.

  Ever.

  If something was happening in the house, which didn’t occur often, then she was to leave, if she could, or hide herself away. She could count on one hand the amount of time her father’s line of work had stepped into her daily life and became vividly clear to her just what being the boss of an illegal crime family truly entailed.

  Be safe, he’d tell her. Turn your cheek, he’d say. We don’t talk about the business, lass. What did you see, huh? Nothing, Gabbie. You saw nothing.

  Still, as she crept down the stairs leading into the basement of her father’s house, she couldn’t convince herself to go back upstairs. Even knowing it could get her into a world of trouble, and she would likely never hear the end of it from her father, she continued taking the creaky steps one at a time.

  Because what if?

  If it was Michel down there with Charles and his men … what did that mean? Would they kill him? Why had they even taken him?

  She just had to check.

  If it wasn’t him … then it didn’t matter.

  If it was—what could she even do?

  Gabbie didn’t know, but she had to at least try.

  Besides, she might like to see him again.

  That was kind of hard to do if he was dead.

  The basement of her father’s large, three-level home was the only place that wasn’t finished. The bare cement floor was cold under her sock-covered feet, and the walls were still damp from moisture. Above her head, pipes and wiring lined the ceiling and she felt cramped at how low the beams for the first floor were to her when she stood straight.

  She never understood why her father didn’t finish his basement like every other area of his home, but she figured it out quickly enough when through the maze of two-by-four boards sticking up from the floor to connect to the ceiling, she found her father and his men.

  Three of Charles’ lads stood a bit back from her father. Charles, on the other hand, was kneeling a bit, and from her position, she could see that he’d crossed his arms over his broad chest as he spoke to the man on his knees below him.

  Michel.

  Gabbie dragged in a quick, quiet breath at the sight of him. His clothes were dirty, and his shirt had been ripped. The side of his face looked bruised, and dried blood smeared along the corner of his busted mouth.

  Oh, God.

  “Do you want to tell me, lad, why you keep showing up in my life?” her father asked Michel.

  Michel glanced up, and a slight smirk worked its way over his bruised lips. “Circumstance, I guess.”

  “Oh, is that what it is?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “That circumstance is going to get you killed. I hope you understand.”

  Michel didn’t even flinch. “I was in my own territory tonight. I made sure of that.”

  “And yet, here you are in my basement.”

  “Because your men—”

  Charles struck out at Michel then, the back of his hand coming down hard to slap across the side of his face. The sound of skin connecting with skin echoed in the quiet basement, and Michel’s head snapped to the side from the force of the slap.

  Blood trickled from his mouth before he spat it to the dirty floor. Then, still as calm as ever, or making a good show of it, he looked back to Gabbie’s father with an arched brow. Waiting, but not saying anything more.

  “I can’t have the Italians causing me issues,” her father explained, “and you seem to be one that keeps coming up lately. Do you know how I prefer to correct problems in my life, you wee shite?”

  Michel said nothing.

  Smart, really.

  “I remove them—permanently,” Charles uttered.

  Her heart clenched.

  Charles stood straight, and his head just grazed one of the beams on the ceiling as he did so. She didn’t know what did it—what made her open her mouth and speak. Maybe it was the man on the left who stepped toward Michel like he was going to grab him, or perhaps it was the one on the right who took the gun from his mate’s hand.

  Either way, she spoke up.

  “Daddy, please don’t hurt him.”

  Charles’ back stiffened before he swung around so fast that he was a blur to her eyes in the dimly lit basement. All but a single bare bulb in the
corner gave them a bit of light, but when her father’s gaze landed on her, there was no hiding the fact that she was standing there, a witness to the death he was about to deliver.

  “What are you doing down here?” he snapped at her.

  Gabbie’s gaze darted past her father to the man on the ground. Michel stared back, a sort of wonderment in his eyes, but a wariness, too. She understood that, and didn’t blame him given his current predicament.

  “I know they call him the doc, right?” She looked back to her father, ready to beg if that’s what it would take. “I had to check and see if it was him. He helped me the other weekend at the club—I didn’t want you to worry. I fell, and cut my arm. He bandaged it up, and …”

  She held off from saying the rest. It probably wouldn’t help to say they’d had sex.

  Charles’ jaw tightened, flexing with his irritation. “You think I don’t already know that, lass?”

  “You know everything, that’s what you like to say.”

  “Why not tell me the next day when I asked you about your evening, then?”

  “I told you—”

  “You didn’t want me to worry. Utter shite, that is. Try again.”

  Gabbie looked Michel’s way again, but not for long. Just enough that she could see he still wasn’t relaxed, and the men around him had not backed off at all. “I didn’t think you would approve, and I didn’t want a lecture.”

  “I see.”

  “Please, don’t hurt him.”

  Charles cleared his throat, but didn’t look away from Gabbie. She knew, then, that she was going to get what she wanted from her father if only because she asked him for it. He wasn’t able to deny her a thing, not when she truly wanted something.

  “This could cause a problem, boss,” Timothy said next to Michel—he was the one holding the fucking gun. “The Italians won’t take kindly to us picking up one of their people, and smacking him around a bit.”

  “I’ll make sure they don’t retaliate for it,” Michel spoke up, his voice hoarse.

  “You think they’ll listen to you?” Charles glanced over his shoulder with a scoff. “I know all about you, Michel Marcello. Here, you are not worth very much, are you? But it may be just enough to cause me a lot of problems.”