Dirty Pool

by Bethany-Kris

  He turned his back to her so that he could survey the floor of the pub and the men inside. Scattered about at different positions, the men remained seated in the booths, waiting for the meeting to finally get started. Out the window, Gabbie could see the different cars that were beginning to pull up. It was just about time for them to start this thing, it seemed.

  So, why did she feel so heavy?

  Why was her chest tight?

  Oh, aye.

  Because history told them that nothing good came from Irish and Italians attempting to work together. It simply didn’t work that way—they were too different, both culturally and within their respective organizations.

  She was a realist.

  Even if her father wanted to be an optimist.

  A bell chimed overhead, and Gabbie’s gaze shifted to the entrance of the pub. The first two people to step inside had her tensing on the stool even as her father offered the men what she considered to be a friendly smile.

  Michel stood beside the man dressed in all black. She didn’t recognize the other Italian’s face, but from what she knew about Cosa Nostra through hearing people talk, he had to be important. Or at the very least, he held some title that allowed him to come into a meeting first with a rival family, or even, be there at all.

  “Casey,” the man greeted.

  Gabbie didn’t miss the way her father’s lips threatened to pull into a scowl at the Italian man standing beside Michel greeting him by his last name. A wee bit rude, all things considered. Especially if they were all here to make nice, and calm any of the issues that had been left to fester too long between their two organizations.

  Friends didn’t spit out last names like it was dirt.

  This man did exactly that.

  Already, they were starting out in a bad way. Gabbie didn’t need for her father to confirm that for her to know it was true. Still, Charles stepped forward with a hand outstretched to take the Italian’s that was offered back. The two shook hands before her father gestured at the only table that had been left in the middle of the floor.

  A single chair sat on one side.

  Two were on the other.

  “Sit,” Charles said, “and we can begin this meeting.”

  Michel’s gaze drifted to Gabbie, and for the first time, she really stopped to take note of him. She hadn’t before only because he was the one thing in this pub that she currently felt comforted by, in a way. She didn’t think Michel was going to do anything to purposely make this go sour. After spending an entire summer sneaking around with this man, she felt like she probably knew him better than anyone else in her life.

  She trusted him.

  Others, not so much.

  He looked good in his black blazer with a silk shirt underneath that had the top two buttons undone at his throat. It gave her just a peek at the golden skin beneath, and reminded her what it felt like to have that skin pressing against hers in all kinds of wonderful ways.

  Except this wasn’t the time.

  But that’s what Michel did to her.

  Michel passed her a quick smile, and she returned it just as fast. Then, the three men took their respective chairs at the table as the other Italians that had been brought along slowly began to trickle into the pub.

  Only a handful.

  Six, in total.

  The same number of men her father had inside the pub, she noticed. Gabbie had to wonder if that was purposeful, or not. It wasn’t the right time to ask, but she assumed yes. She also thought it was very likely that each side here today had a number of men posted outside somewhere to keep an eye on things just in case.

  Everybody needed a backup.

  “Are you willing to calm the violence on the streets between your family and ours?” the Italian man asked at the table.

  Charles brow dipped, but other than that, he didn’t give much away. “Are we pretending, then, that your lads didn’t attack my family after an agreement had already been reached with your … friend here? Michel, is it?”

  Michel cleared his throat. “I explained the agreement—”

  “He doesn’t speak for us,” the Italian man snapped.

  “But I did tell you, Sal,” Michel argued. “I made it clear what the Irish wanted.”

  Sal didn’t even glance in Michel’s direction. In fact, he didn’t take his eyes off Gabbie’s father. “You seem to be mistaken, Casey. You can’t … attack one of ours, and then expect us to let it go simply because you allowed him to live. That’s not how it works.”

  Charles’ back tensed as he leaned forward a bit. “And yet, in almost the same breath, you dared to tell me he doesn’t speak for you, lad. Which tells me you’re willing to play word games, but for what goal? What load of shite are you trying to feed me here because you Italian feckers always have something on the side, don’t you?”

  Sal stood fast from the table, the chair skidding out from behind him before it crashed to the floor. That sent several men sitting around the pub in booths flying to their feet, too. Someone racked a gun—Gabbie heard the sound echo, but no one was looking away from the three people at the table to really figure out who it was.

  Charles stood from his seat, too. Although, he did so with a great deal more grace and care than the Italian man had done. His chair didn’t topple over, and he took the time to fix his suit jacket as he eyed Sal with unbidden contempt.

  “You dare to insult me with childish names?” Sal demanded, pointing a finger at Gabbie’s father.

  “Are you not accustomed to being told when you’re acting like a feckin’ eejit, lad?”

  Sal’s face reddened. “Irish trash. That’s what all of you are.”

  “Sal—”

  Michel’s warning, though he hadn’t stood from the table quite yet, was interrupted by the other man shooting him a glare. To his benefit, Michel didn’t shrink away from the look, but he did shake his head.

  Like he was over it.

  Gabbie understood the feeling.

  She almost wanted to hide.

  She probably should.

  This was getting bad, and fast. Her father would have been the first to tell her to slip out the back, and wait until the dust had cleared. On any other day, she might have listened. But at the same time, on any other day, she would not have been there.

  She was only there because of Michel.

  And her father’s request for it.

  Gabbie didn’t move from her stool because Michel was still sitting at the table, and she worried what might happen when she wasn’t there to see it. Men in this life were always far more likely to keep peace and not turn to violence when there was a woman around to check their behavior and inclinations.

  Or, that’s what her father liked to say.

  “A month,” Charles spat out, his calm façade cracking a bit. “An entire month wasted planning this meeting because I thought—wrongly, mind you—that you Italians had a serious need to quit this bollocks between us on the streets. But don’t worry, I understand now what this was really about, lad.”

  “Oh, do tell?”

  “You don’t want peace. You want a real war,” her father said, deadly calm again. “And if you continue, I promise that you will get it.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Get out of my pub before I blow you out of it, Italian.”

  “Daddy—”

  Michel’s gaze flew to Gabbie when she finally decided to speak up. A part of her stupidly thought that maybe she could calm this situation back down, and remind her father of exactly why they had decided to do this in the first place. No one wanted a war in the streets of Detroit between two rival criminal families.

  It wouldn’t do them any good.

  It would be very bad, though.

  Charles lifted a hand, quieting her. “Not a word, lass.”

  Michel nodded at her. “It’s okay.”

  “And you,” her father snapped, his attention flying to Michel. “I wonder if your Italian friends here know that you co
ntinue to see my daughter when you believe they’re not smart enough to be watching you, Michel. Do they know you bed an Irishwoman regularly enough that it’s questionable whether you even know which side you’re playing for anymore, lad?”

  “Daddy!”

  Sal’s gaze cut to Michel again.

  Michel said nothing.

  Charles smiled coldly. “Now, get the feck out of my pub.”

  • • •

  “Why would you do that, Da?”

  Charles didn’t bother to entertain Gabbie’s question as they arrived back at his home. Instead, he walked right past her, not even bothering to remove his boots or coat. If that was the game he wanted to play, then she didn’t mind going along with it.

  “I asked you a question!”

  “And I don’t have to answer it,” he replied dryly. “You’re under some sort of impression that I owe you an explanation, Gabbie, and I do not. I am your father, not your friend or otherwise. You are the child in this relationship. And it does not matter that you are edging closer to twenty-one every day because at the end of it, that changes nothing. I am still the parent, and you are still my child.”

  Gabbie heard the door open behind her, and footsteps as men trickled into the house. She’d driven to the meeting with her father, and his driver. She came back to his place because this was where her vehicle happened to be.

  She didn’t plan to stay, though.

  Not after today.

  “Why would you put my relationship with Michel into the conversation like that?” Gabbie demanded, following her father deeper into the house. Men trailed behind her, too, but she refused to pay them any mind. She was going to get an answer from her father one way or another. He didn’t have to like it. “If you have something to say about the fact I see Michel, then you should bring it to me.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “What?”

  In the doorway of his office, Charles spun around to face Gabbie with fire in his eyes. For the first time in as long as she could remember, a part of her wanted to shrink away from the way her father was looking at her right then. So mad, and disappointed. It was as though he was seeing her through new eyes, and this was not the person he wanted to see staring back at him.

  She could say the same to him.

  Still, she held firm.

  She didn’t move.

  “What good would it do me to tell you to stay away from the lad, hmm?” her father demanded sharply. “I think I have said more than enough over the last several months since you’ve run around with the prick that it’s clear I don’t approve. But whatever it is, you’re determined to see it through, so I might as well let you get it out of your system now before reality comes to wake you up.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  Charles scrubbed a hand down his face. “You’ll learn in time. As I intend.”

  “I—”

  “And as for that Italian fecker,” her father continued, “he needs to pick a side, Gabbie. If he wants to entertain the Italians in the daytime, and then shift with my daughter in the shadows when no one is looking, then the man can’t be trusted, can he? A lad like that … his mind is too sharp, lass. They had to know what he was doing, and then he can decide what he really wants to do. I know where he comes from, and you have to watch him like it, too. I need him to know that I am aware of his choices, and he has others to consider now.”

  “Are you giving him the ultimatum, then? Them, or us?”

  Charles arched a brow. “It isn’t that complicated, sweetheart. You don’t have to understand when all I want you to do is follow along.”

  Wasn’t it that complicated?

  She thought so.

  “Follow along with what?”

  Charles waved a hand at her, and she knew what that meant without him telling her. A dismissal. He was done with their discussion, and she was quite aware how that worked with her father. Once he was done, he was finished. No amount of her prodding or pressing would get more from him.

  “I have men to deal with,” he told her. “And you haven’t checked your sugars since this afternoon. Go do that now.”

  “My sugars are fine!”

  “Do it.”

  She wasn’t a child.

  She still felt like it sometimes.

  Charles gestured at the group of lads that had attended the meeting, too, and were now waiting in the hallway just beyond Gabbie. Without waiting for her to really move out of their way, they pressed past her in the tight quarters, not even bothering to excuse themselves or pass her a second glance.

  She wasn’t important.

  Dismissed.

  “Da—”

  “Go, but not too far because I expect to speak with you again later,” her father ordered one last time. Then, to the men in the office, he added, “They never intended to settle, lads. That much is clear. We won’t act … yet. We’ll wait and see what they do first, aye, and then we’ll make the hard choices.”

  Charles shut the door in Gabbie’s face, essentially leaving her alone in the hallway. It was amazing to her how she could feel so many things all at once. Anger warred with her disbelief and astonishment. Panic swelled in her heart, swirling with anxiety and sadness.

  Did it really have to be like this?

  What did that mean for her?

  For Michel?

  For them?

  She didn’t know, and she didn’t like it.

  The muffled voices continued on behind the office door, and she glared at it for a full minute before finally deciding to head out. A few things weren’t lost on her, though. Like the way her father said they wouldn’t act yet. She took that to mean good things. There was still a slight chance this newest problem could be settled … somehow.

  Her faith was low.

  Hope was still there, though.

  Secondly … she heard her father loud and clear on Michel. He wasn’t impressed, and he didn’t approve, but he knew better than to tell her to stop. He was never going to lock her down, and force her hand where Michel was concerned. Perhaps Charles loved her too much to do that, or he simply knew it would be pointless.

  Either way, Gabbie had options, too.

  But what exactly were they?

  The phone in Gabbie’s pocket buzzed, and she knew before even pulling it out who it would be texting her.

  Michel.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  His text was simple.

  Meet me at the pool tables tonight.

  Was it safe?

  Did it even matter?

  Gabbie looked over her shoulder at her father’s office well aware that he had told her to stick around. She wasn’t supposed to leave, and he wouldn’t be pleased to find out she did, not to mention, that she had gone for Michel.

  Those were her options, though.

  Him, or them.

  Her father would always want her to pick the family.

  She was always going to pick Michel.

  Including now.

  I’ll be there, she texted back.

  THIRTEEN

  “I should kill you.”

  In the backseat of the town car flying through the downtown streets of Detroit, Michel’s first thought was that’s nice. Thankfully, his arrogance decided that probably wasn’t the right thing to reply to Sal’s statement, and he kept quiet. Turning the screen of his phone off as the Capo looked over at him from the other side of the vehicle, he wanted to keep his last text to Gabbie asking her to meet up with him later private from the man.

  Especially after that statement.

  “Pardon me?” Michel asked.

  “Yes, exactly that,” Sal snapped back at him. “Excuse you, Michel. You seem to forget what blood runs through your veins, and where your loyalties are in this city. Would you care to let me remind you?”

  Michel’s jaw clenched. “Not particularly.”

  He seriously doubted Sal gave a shit about Michel’s opinion here. And he didn’t particularly care to hear
Sal spew his bullshit, either.

  “I should kill you,” the man repeated, shaking his head, the frustration clear in the lines on his brow. Tension drifted through the car, heavy and unpredictable. A lot like what Sal’s intentions with Michel were, and what he might do next. “If you were any other man, I would fucking kill you for what you did here today.”

  Michel arched a brow. “And what did I do? Take off classes because you demanded I follow you to a meeting today. I’m not a made man—I don’t have to follow your goddamn rules, Sal.”

  “I’ve never been more aware of your standing, Michel. Trust that.”

  “What in the—”

  “The only thing that’s keeping you alive right now is the fact your father is the boss of the largest North American crime family—that is it. Because if your father wasn’t who he is, I would have you delivered to him in enough little pieces that they would never be able to put back together before they buried you.”

  Okay, that was quite a threat.

  Michel respected it, even.

  “All this because I chose to see Gabbie Casey,” Michel stated.

  It wasn’t even a question.

  Sal laughed a bitter sound, and swung his gaze to the window where he could watch the buildings and streets pass their vehicle by. “See, right? That’s a funny way to explain how you’ve been regularly fucking the Irishwoman behind everyone’s back, I suppose.”

  Was it behind their backs, though?

  Because Michel didn’t think so.

  There was a difference between purposely doing something with the intent of hiding it from others, and simply thinking it wasn’t anyone’s business in the first place. He was more of the latter opinion than the former. This conversation was the perfect example of exactly why he felt like that, too.

  They didn’t care about him, or what he wanted. All they expected Michel to do was toe the line of what they thought was acceptable, and his opinions didn’t matter at all to their endgame. Something he still hadn’t figured out, and it was yet another reason why he didn’t trust one of them anymore.

  “I’m not a made man,” Michel told Sal again. “You don’t, and will never, get to dictate to me who I can date, or otherwise. And even if I was a made man, you can bet your ass that I would always defer to my father before I would ever remotely consider defaulting to your opinion or wants about my life.”