Dirty Pool

by Bethany-Kris

  “I don’t think they recognize being called duckies,” he murmured.

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m just saying they don’t speak human, Gabbie.”

  She didn’t mind his teasing.

  Much.

  “Says the man who had a small bag of birdseed in his car because bread is bad for the ducks.”

  His hands landed on her waist, and she loved the way his fingers dug into her sides. He squeezed, a silent warning for her to stop the teasing. She heard it loud and clear, not that it made much of a difference. If he could dish it, then the man would learn to take it.

  That was Gabbie’s way.

  “I told you, I jog here.”

  “Yes, with birdseed for the duckies, apparently.”

  “Because they quack at me when I pass, and I feel bad for them.”

  “Mmhmm. Of course, you do.”

  Michel let out a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

  Gabbie winked at him over her shoulder as she pulled out a handful of birdseed. Michel wasn’t wrong—bread was terrible for ducks. It got stuck to the roof of their mouths, and if it did get in their bellies, it would swell up to make them think they were full when they weren’t. It was harder for them to digest, too.

  She adored he had birdseed in his car to toss to the ducks when he jogged at the park. He wasn’t all bad, despite what people in her family liked to say about the Italians. How could someone be bad if they remembered to feed the ducks when they went jogging?

  It was sweet, really.

  “You must be getting hungry,” he said.

  “A little.”

  “You want to go—”

  “Not yet.”

  She was enjoying this.

  The park, peaceful at almost midnight, was dark and quiet. There wasn’t a soul around, and the small pond was rarely ever this empty when she came to see it in the daytime.

  “I like that you chose here for a date,” she said.

  Michel rested his chin on her shoulder, and wrapped an arm tightly around her middle. “Oh, why is that?”

  “Most guys would pick a club, or something. Dinner, and a show. The usual. I like this better. It’s just us, and we can talk.”

  “I would have taken you for all that other shit, too, but it’s late.”

  It was.

  Most restaurants were closed, although she was sure they could find a hole-in-the-wall diner to eat at, if they really wanted to. Not that any of the food would be the kind of stuff she was supposed to eat. Michel probably knew that, too, and took it into consideration without telling her he was doing it.

  She appreciated it.

  Gabbie grinned. “All of that for a date, too?”

  “Yeah, probably not. I wanted to be alone with you … can’t exactly do that when there’s other people around, can I?”

  Just like she thought, then.

  “I come here a lot, but never this late.”

  “No?”

  Gabbie shook her head. “Only on weekends when I don’t have classes. And I haven’t had the chance to come here since the summer break started.”

  “What are you studying, anyway?”

  “Law.”

  Michel made a noise under his breath. “Law, hmm?”

  “Don’t sound so disgusted.”

  Michel laughed. “In my experience, lawyers have never done anything but try to put my father away for years.”

  “And what about the lawyers who defended him?”

  He stiffened behind her. “It was usually my uncle—Giovanni. I just never thought to put him on the same playing field as the rest of them.”

  Gabbie shrugged. “You should. That’s my goal, by the way. A defense lawyer.”

  “If you’re as dirty in the courtroom as you are playing a game of pool, then I have no doubt you’ll be amazing.”

  She elbowed him lightly for more of his teasing, but this time, he answered her back by sinking his teeth right into the side of her neck. A shot of heat pooled in her gut, especially when his lips pressed to the same spot, hot and soft. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her in closer to his body.

  “Why a doctor?” she asked.

  Michel hummed under his breath. “Do you want me to use the same tired line everyone else uses when asked that question?”

  “What line is that?”

  “They want to help people.”

  Gabbie gave him a look over her shoulder, but he just smirked at her. “Don’t you want to help people, too?”

  “I do, but I won’t lie and say that’s the only reason.”

  “What else is there?”

  “I had a romanticized idea of what being a trauma surgeon would be like, and in a way, I still do.” Michel used his free hand to run his fingers through her loose curls. She probably could have sunk into his touch, the sensation of his fingers drifting through her hair was enough to make sparks dance in her nervous system. “And then there’s the pressure. That’s a big part of it, too, I won’t lie.”

  “The pressure?”

  “I work best under pressure. Someone pushes me to the limit, and great things happen. That’s been my whole life, basically. I wanted to do something for work that was going to take me to the breaking point every day so that I was constantly at my best. I don’t think I would be satisfied or happy, otherwise.”

  “Ah.”

  That made sense.

  Michel let out a rumbling chuckle behind her. “I can’t think of another job that’s as high in intensity as a trauma surgeon, you know?”

  “There are some.”

  “But none that interested me like that did.”

  “I get it.” Gabbie scrunched her nose up as the ducks realized she was out of birdseed and started to float away from the edge of the pond. “What about …”

  “What, babe?”

  “The family business. You never considered that? It seems like every man in my life, well, that was the first thing they gravitated to.”

  “I still dabble.”

  “From the sidelines, maybe,” she replied, referring to his dealing.

  “If you knew my mother, you wouldn’t think it was just dabbling.”

  “Oh, do tell?”

  Michel laughed, but tipped his head into her hair to muffle the sound. “Ah, I shouldn’t be telling a little Irish girl anything about my family, Gabbie.”

  “First, I am not a wee lass, you feckin’ eejit.”

  His arm squeezed her again. “Be nice.”

  “That was nice!”

  “Insulting me is—”

  “How we Irish people show our affection.”

  Michel let out a heavy sigh. “Guess I’ll take your word for that.”

  Well, it was the truth.

  “All right,” he muttered, “my ma is … well, if you were someone with a big name—”

  “Like a celebrity?”

  “Okay, that. Or … politicians, someone rich, and so on.”

  “Mmhmm, go on.”

  Michel nipped her neck again. “She’d be someone on your speed dial to make sure you were supplied with whatever you needed to keep you happy.”

  Gabbie froze. “Like a drug dealer for the stars?”

  “She’d be offended if you called her that. It’s a whole organization. She controls dozens of girls who are constantly on call. It’s what she’s done since she was a lot younger.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your mam is a Queen Pin?”

  Michel nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “And your da is a mob boss.”

  “Italians prefer the Don, but yeah.”

  “And you never considered the family business?”

  Michel laughed again, and that sound soaked into Gabbie like nothing else ever had. She peeked over her shoulder just to see the way he looked when he was free, and happy. It was quite a sight—all those hard lines of his face softening just enough to make him look slightly younger, and joyful.

  H
e held her tighter as his chuckles faded away. His lips were back on her skin again, his words whispering into her ear. His tone turned serious, and yet, his voice alone was enough to make her warm to the touch, and shivering all over.

  “I love them, and I respect my family for what they’ve done in the criminal world … never be confused about that, but it isn’t me. Not entirely. I wanted to be more,” he told her, “I needed to be more than what was just expected, Gabbie.”

  He would be.

  She had no doubt.

  “Never pretend to be average for the comfort or approval of others,” she said. “It’s the exceptional who change the world—not the status quo.”

  Michel’s hand found hers, and their fingers wove together tightly. “Exactly.”

  NINE

  “Don’t take offense,” Michel said as he came to stand in the entryway of the restaurant’s private dining room, “but this is starting to get tiring.”

  Sal didn’t even glance up from the paperwork he had spread out on the table, but he did nod to say he’d heard Michel’s statement. That was it, though, nothing else came after. Michel shifted on his feet and shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Waiting. Because clearly Sal didn’t expect him to do anything else.

  The man hadn’t invited him in, and he didn’t look like he was going to, either. The table Sal sat at to do his work—and pick at a plate of nachos to his left—had only one chair. The one he was sitting in, currently. He clearly knew Michel was standing in the entryway when he hadn’t been quiet about his arrival, and Sal had gone as far as at least nodding to him.

  Michel tried not to get irritated about the man’s obvious disregard for his presence. Like it didn’t matter that he was standing right there, at a time too early for it to be acceptable, waiting on the asshole across the room to pretend like he gave a fuck someone was there for him. He wasn’t stupid—he knew how this went and being around men just like Sal for his entire life made this all the more clear to him.

  Painfully so, even.

  Sal was like any other man in the mafia who felt comfortable in his position and knew he had earned it. Anyone else who hadn’t—people like Michel, or those actively trying to get their in—were beneath him, and he didn’t mind making sure they knew it, too. Usually, Michel would brush this shit off because he didn’t care what anyone thought of him, but today it rubbed him in all the wrong ways.

  Hell, it had been Sal who called him in that morning. He hadn’t even had the chance to crack open his goddamn eyes before Sal’s voice was the one barking at him to make a trip to the restaurant that morning. He wasn’t given any reason, or other orders, either. Just what Sal wanted, and that was that.

  Like everything else lately.

  It was what someone else wanted.

  Michel didn’t get a say.

  This was one of the entire reasons why Michel didn’t want to become a made man. He’d watched from the sidelines as his father’s and uncles’ lives had been dominated and controlled by the ways of Cosa Nostra. The mafia came first—always. La famiglia had to take precedence over anything else that someone on the outside looking in might consider more important.

  And then as an older teenager, he watched as his cousins, Andino and John, decided to take their first steps into the family business, too. Suddenly, his best friends went from having the freedom to do whatever they wanted with him to having their days and nights controlled by men who would eventually determine if they were good enough to get their button—the in to the family.

  Michel never faulted the men of his family for their dreams. He understood that the mafia was what they wanted—being made men was the only thing they had ever really considered for their future. On the other side of that coin, Michel chose not to pursue the business because he knew once he was in, there was no way out. There was no way in hell he would ever allow someone else to dictate what he could or would do with his time, life, and future.

  It was as simple as that.

  Still, despite how irritated it made Michel to sit there like a dog waiting to be called on to get his scraps for the day, he did it. Not because he had to take that shit, but because he grew up learning one thing first—respect.

  His father would have been sorely disappointed in Michel for not at least attempting to be respectful first and foremost before anything else. It was only the thought of Dante in the back of Michel’s mind that kept him standing in that entryway until Sal decided he was finally ready to speak to the other man.

  “We have a problem,” Sal said quietly.

  Even then, the man didn’t look up from his paperwork or meal. Michel’s brow knotted, and his gaze narrowed as he took in the space with new eyes again. He was just now realizing how empty the private dining room was when usually a handful of men would be scattered about the room.

  An enforcer or two, and a foot soldier who was lucky enough to follow around one of Sal’s men. Not to mention, the bookie—David—who almost always could be found at Sal’s side. Friends since they were kids, or that’s what Sal once told Michel. Nonetheless, there was never no one around whenever Michel was called in to see Sal for something.

  The emptiness was concerning.

  Michel wondered if he’d stepped into a trap.

  “Did you hear me?” Sal asked.

  He stayed still in the doorway, now refusing to take another step inside the dining room just in case. Safety first, and all that shit. It was becoming painfully obvious to Michel that there wasn’t a single thing about Detroit, or the people in it, that he could trust.

  Gabbie, his mind whispered.

  It wasn’t wrong.

  She did try to help him—repeatedly.

  “A problem, yeah,” Michel returned. “I heard you. What kind of problem are we talking about here?”

  Sighing, Sal took his sweet time packing up the papers on the table, and shuffling them into a waiting folder. It was only once the table was cleared but for his plate of nachos and glass of water that the man finally looked up at Michel. The first time he’d looked at him in the face since Michel arrived.

  One couldn’t miss the coldness in Sal’s eyes. He let out a thick sigh, one loaded with tension and it easily filled the room, too. His thin lips, set into a hard, grim line, twitched. Another sign of his frustration—with Michel, likely.

  “You, apparently,” Sal replied.

  Michel still didn’t move, and in fact, he didn’t even react to that statement. Although, if he were being an honest man, he would admit it was damn hard not to laugh at that. Only because what was he doing that could cause problems? He was purposely keeping his head down, doing his work because he gave Sal his word, and very little else.

  Nothing to make issues, anyhow.

  “Gabbie Casey, ring any bells?” Sal asked.

  Michel stiffened.

  Yeah, okay.

  That could be considered an issue.

  “Of course, it does,” Michel replied carefully.

  “Oh, good.” Sal smiled, but it wasn’t at all true, and his tone held a touch too much sarcasm. “So, I suspect you won’t mind at all to explain why you were seen leaving a bar last week with the Irishwoman?”

  Michel’s teeth ached from clenching his jaw so hard. It was the only way he could keep his mouth shut, and say nothing. He really didn’t think words were going to help his case here, all things considered.

  Sal nodded when Michel stayed quiet. “If you thought the Irish are the only people following you on a regular basis, then you are highly mistaken, Michel.”

  Good to know.

  He still didn’t reply.

  “This … thing we have with the Irish right now is a loaded gun waiting to blow. What we don’t need, however, is more distractions because of you and that fucking woman. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you, but—”

  “No, I didn’t ask for a but, Michel.”

  “I could possibly help you to … smooth out the issues with the Irish.” He wasn�
�t exactly sure how, but he thought anything was possible. As long as someone wanted it badly enough, and in this life, no one wanted blood to spill enough that they were willing to let a war rage on within city limits. “If that’s something you’re looking at, Sal.”

  The man at the table scoffed. “Not at all.”

  Well, then.

  Okay.

  “Your closeness to the Irish is concerning,” Sal added.

  Michel did laugh at that one, although it was quick to die in his throat when Sal turned his gaze on him. “My closeness to them? They beat the fucking hell out of me after they kidnapped me!”

  Sal raised a single brow high. “Yes, and you’re the first Italian I know of in this city to have made it away from the Irish alive, Michel. Add that onto your clear interest in the Irishwoman, and it spells bad things for you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He didn’t like what Sal was suggesting.

  Not at all.

  There were a handful of things that were never negotiable in the life, whether one was directly in it by being a made man, or they were simply an associate, like Michel. And one of those things was a person’s loyalty. To the life, and the family. To the person allowing them a place in the business.

  No excuses.

  Loyalty was everything.

  “Do I have to be concerned that the Irish could entice you to their side of things?” Sal asked quietly, folding his hands on the table as his gaze met Michel’s from across the room. “Or is a simple order for you to stay away from the Irish, which means her, too, going to be enough for you to listen?”

  No, it wouldn’t be.

  Michel wasn’t going to pretend, either.

  If he wanted to see Gabbie Casey, then he was going to do exactly that. Like fuck was this man, or any other man, going to make those rules for him. Besides, it also wasn’t that simple for Michel where Gabbie was concerned. Nothing about the two of them could be easily summed up with a few words—he wasn’t about to deny himself something he didn’t even know well enough to explain to someone else.

  He adored that woman, and the more time he spent with her, the greater that feeling became. It was addicting, in a way. There was a part of him that wanted to know where this was going to take him with her—somewhere amazing, maybe … who knew?