by Bethany-Kris
Knowing him, he had not taken it well.
At all.
She could tell just by looking at him that he hadn’t taken it well. She didn’t need her father or someone else to confirm it.
All of his fears for her … he was staring at.
Wordlessly, her father closed the door to the hospital room so that their conversation could not be overheard. Or maybe it was that he didn’t want anyone else to see his very obvious fear and pain as he regarded his daughter again. She sat still on the edge of the bed as he closed the space between them—she was back to that again, back to not being able to look him in the eyes.
He had to know.
Where she was when it happened.
With Michel.
“Last night,” he said quietly, directly in front of her, “what did you tell me?”
The lump in her throat grew thicker.
She couldn’t talk.
“Gabbie, speak to me,” Charles ordered.
“I said I was going to bed early,” she whispered.
“But?”
“I snuck out the back, and met up with Michel.”
Peeking up, she saw her father nod. “Where you were with him this morning, aye.”
Oh, God.
“Yeah.”
People were wrong.
The truth was not easier than a lie.
“I knew,” her father said, dragging in a heavy breath as he spoke, “that you were seeing the young Italian man for a while now. I hoped you might come to me with it, but when you didn’t … I knew that I had to make a choice. I had to send a message to them—to him—that this was unacceptable to me.”
Gabbie’s brow furrowed. “But why? Why can’t I—”
Her father grabbed her arms, then, both of his hands circling around her hard enough to hurt. His fingers dug into her skin until her muscles wanted to protest from the ache. He shook her hard, forcing her to glance up at him so she could see the sheer terror staring back at her.
“I made a choice,” he said, “because I believed you even though you’d lied to me again and again. Do you understand me? I made a choice this morning that would make it clear to that young man where I stood about what was happening when my back was turned. And because you lied to me—”
Gabbie blinked. “You ordered the drive-by?”
Charles let her go, and took a step back, his hands shaking again. She understood, then, why her father was so entirely set off balance. She got it—really feckin’ felt it in her bones like nothing else in her life before this moment. Her own father had almost killed her. Oh, sure, she understood that her lies and his trust in her had caused it, but his choice was still made.
He could have been burying her.
He understood it, too.
More than anyone.
It hurt her in a visceral way to stare at her father in those seconds. For more reasons than just the obvious. She wanted to be mad at him because didn’t she have every right to feel that way over his mistake? And yet, she felt most mad at herself because she, too, was at fault here for this mess.
In a way …
There were parts of her that still didn’t want to feel the hints of emotions teasing at the very fringes of her senses. The betrayal that clung to the echoing beats of her heart, and the disappointment that ached in her bones with every breath she took. If she truly felt those things, then she would be bitter.
She loved her father.
Loved him so much.
Gabbie never said he was perfect, and she was the first to point out his flaws. Yet, he was still her father first before anything else, and she was not willing to let something like bitterness or contempt stain that love she felt for him.
But it was still there.
Taunting her.
She was disgusted that this was where it had finally brought them. To this moment of her almost dying. And for what? Because of a feud she had never really understood? Because her father and his men couldn’t play nice with others, and didn’t care to try? She was well aware that she didn’t have a great understanding of the mafia and the world her father lived in every day of his life, but was it worth this?
Was she worth that?
Gabbie didn’t know.
She didn’t think her father did, either.
“It was you that ordered the drive-by this morning,” she said again.
It needed to be said again.
It had to be heard again.
“I’m sorry,” Charles mumbled. “I’m so sorry, Gabbie.”
“This has to stop, Daddy,” she told him. “Don’t you understand? It has to stop now.”
He nodded fast. “And it will. It will.”
She wanted to believe him.
But could she?
• • •
Gabbie was almost drifting to sleep in the hospital bed when the jiggling of the doorknob had her blinking back awake instantly. The hospital had long since quieted—visiting hours were over, and despite her father’s complaints, he wasn’t allowed to stay.
She ate a snack that the sweet nurse brought in, and realized all at once just how knackered she was. Sure, she kept asking for her phone so that she could call Michel, but no one seemed to know where in the hell it went. She resigned herself to falling asleep when nothing on the small TV seemed interesting, and she really didn’t have anything else to do.
Peeking over the pile of blankets, and expecting the same nurse to check in like she had done an hour earlier, Gabbie froze in the bed. It wasn’t the nurse at all.
“Michel.”
He winked, gave her a smile, and slipped in the room without ever saying a word. He closed the door behind him, and she swore it didn’t even click when it latched shut. His footsteps couldn’t even be heard as he quickly crossed the room, and came to the side of her bed.
“Did they make you leave?” she asked.
He shrugged, his hand coming up to stroke her cheek and move some of the wild curls out of her face. The graze of his fingertips along her cheekbone was enough to make her eyes flutter shut, and she reveled in warm, soft skin against her own.
“No one made me do anything,” he said, making her open her eyes again to look at him above her. “But it wasn’t exactly comfortable out there. Someone was kind enough to say I probably didn’t want to be here when your father finally came around, so I slipped out and walked around until visiting hours were over. I snatched an ID someone had left sitting around in the cafeteria to get back in your ward once everyone was already gone.”
He flashed the badge in question, chuckling. “I’ll drop it off at the nurses’ station before I head out again.”
She blinked. “You didn’t actually leave?”
Michel smiled. “Why would I leave, Gabbie?”
“I just … never mind.”
In the next breath, he bent down so that he could drop a sweet kiss to the very tip of her nose. Gabbie couldn’t help but grin under her pile of blankets, suddenly a hell of a lot warmer than she had been before. His hands slipped in to cup her face, so he could tilt her head up a bit, and get another kiss.
That one wasn’t as innocent.
Still sweet, sure.
But it burned her from the inside out, too.
“Scared me to death,” he whispered against her lips.
“Me, too.”
“I bet.”
“Thanks for staying.”
Michel laughed darkly. “Oh, I wasn’t going anywhere. Fucking nobody was keeping me out of here, no matter what I had to do to get back to you.”
God, she loved that.
And him.
She was starting to think she loved him, too. No, that was a lie. She didn’t think it at all. She knew it, deep down in her heart that raced whenever he was near, and the way he made her feel just by looking at her. She knew he was in a room simply by the way her skin prickled in the best of ways. It was crazy—she would never deny that.
But love didn’t make sense, right?
&nbs
p; Love was supposed to be insane.
Nonsensical, even.
People started wars over love. They died for it. To keep something they cherished so very much, they would do anything for it.
So would she.
The lump in her throat was back again. It had disappeared for a time, but now that her mind was running crazy … it was back to keep her silent again.
“You okay?” Michel asked.
Gabbie smiled. “As long as you’re here, I’m grand.”
She could tell him another time.
They would have more days.
Her father said it, right? He was going to make sure this didn’t happen again. Charles would stop this stupid feud so that it didn’t get any worse. Surely, that meant she would have a lot more time with Michel, so this could wait.
“I’m here for as long as you want me,” he said.
“I like that.”
Michel sighed, adding quieter, “Well, at least until early in the morning, and then I’ll slip out again. Don’t want anyone having a fit seeing me here, right?”
Gabbie scowled. “Yeah.”
“Don’t do that. Only smiles with me, babe.”
Her laughter colored up the room. “Get in this bed with me, then.”
“Whatever you want.”
Michel wasted no time crawling into the bed, and while there wasn’t nearly enough room for them both, somehow, they made due. Both ended up on their sides with Gabbie tucked into Michel’s chest, and his arms locked around her form like bars keeping her away from the rest of the world.
Exactly like she wanted.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
All the exhaustion that had been teasing her right before Michel came into the room was back in a blink. Her eyes drifted closed, but she didn’t mind now that he was here. No doubt, he would wake her up in the morning to say goodbye, too.
That was all that mattered to her.
In her dreams, she swore he whispered, “Ti amo, cara bella mia. Sempre.”
She didn’t know what that meant.
It still sounded lovely.
• • •
“All right, into the car you go, lass.” Charles bent down just enough that he could stare at the man driving. “And you, you feckin’ wagon, you best make sure you drive like you know how to. You understand me?”
“Yeah, boss. I got you.”
Charles smiled, and straightened. “As I thought.”
He held opened the back passenger door for Gabbie, and she just shook her head before slipping into the car. The heater had been turned on which was enough to make her feel slightly better—at least she wasn’t standing in the wind, anymore. Her father had thought far enough ahead to make sure that he brought her a new coat, and a change of clothes to wear after her discharge from the hospital.
She was not walking out of there in a feckin’ gown.
Charles had been the first person, after Michel left, to enter her hospital room that morning. Visiting hours hadn’t even started when he showed up, but there he was. Apparently, he had gotten on the phone with the doctor to have her discharged as early as possible.
She was grateful.
It was only once her father was in the car, too, next to her in the back seat that the driver pulled away from the curb. She passed the hospital a look over her shoulder, watching it and the bad memory of being brought there fading the further away they drove.
Another silver lining.
“How’re your glucose levels today?” her father asked.
She shrugged. “Better.”
It wasn’t a lie.
Her body still ached, and mostly, she was knackered. Yes, she had gotten a restful sleep, but trauma was exhausting in general. The bed was going to be her favorite place for the next several hours, simple as that.
“I just can’t wait to get into my bed,” she said, sighing.
Charles stiffened.
Gabbie didn’t miss it. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said carefully, “I just thought you might like to stay with me for a wee bit … this was a lot to take in, that’s all.”
She blinked at the passing buildings. “But I want to go home.”
“And I would like to see you with me for a bit.”
“Daddy—”
“Gabbie, don’t argue. We’ll discuss this another time.”
She would have argued.
But she was so feckin’ done.
“Fine,” she grumbled.
Not that this was a surprise. Charles had never changed in all her years, and the first thing she thought about when it came to her father was just how overprotective he could be when it came to her. She should have expected this to happen, honestly.
“Things are about to get better,” her father said quietly.
She glanced back at him. “Will they?”
“Much better, sweetheart.”
She had a feeling he meant the Italians.
She hoped that was it.
For more reasons than he knew.
ELEVEN
Maybe it was because Michel had grown up around the kind of wealth that was both stunning and surreal, but the sight of money never did very much for him. Not like some people who practically salivated at the sight of stacked bills on the table.
He’d once watched his grandfather buy his grandmother a thirty-carat gold chandelier the size of a small car to hang in her library just because he thought it would go with the theme. His mother bought herself a private jet for her fortieth birthday and didn’t even ask for the price tag before handing over a card to pay for it. The watch on his wrist, currently, cost an easy five grand and that was before the case he used to store it and keep it constantly spinning to maintain time.
Money wasn’t a new concept to Michel. There was nothing about it that he found particularly miraculous because he’d been desensitized to it. No doubt, that was his incredible privilege staring back at him—someone might find it disgusting that they assumed he didn’t truly appreciate the value of money, even if that wasn’t the case.
It simply didn’t make any difference to him when money was around. Which was a topic for another day, but he found it also did him a lot of good at times where money was on the table.
Everyone else in the room?
Watching that money.
Michel?
Unimpressed.
His father liked to say that nothing good came from men who were entranced by a small stack of bills. They couldn’t be trusted not to touch it. Seemed simple, right? Dante had a point, a good one.
Michel never had any desire to reach out and put his hands on something that didn’t belong to him just because it looked pretty and seemed foreign to him. Someone else, though? It became a constant urge they had to fight.
Nothing good in this business.
“Michel, you’re up next,” Sal said.
Tribute was another concept that wasn’t anything new to Michel. Growing up, he’d watched more than one tribute meeting from afar as his father sat at the head of a table, accepting his payments from every Capo in la famiglia. He’d also partook in the Cosa Nostra tradition more than once during his high school years when he was dealing drugs, and had to pay a portion of his earnings to one of his cousins making their way up in the ranks of the mafia.
Once a month, people gathered to meet whomever they owed their portion to, and handed it over. It wasn’t the actual tribute—that happened when the made man took his portion from the earnings he made through several venues, including people like Michel, to the man heading the family. The boss. Like Michel’s father.
He’d been lucky enough, or that’s what people would tell him, to be on both ends of the spectrum. The person on the front lines making money for the Capo, and the person in the room when that Capo brought his earnings into his boss to pay the tribute. He understood what happened now when he paid this money to the Capo, and he knew very well what would happen when Sal took his portion higher up, too.
Some details of tribute might vary between families. Things like how much of a percentage one might pay from their earnings, or how they might pay it to the boss be it through an envelope filled with cash, illegal transfers through offshore banks, or even safety deposit box pickups. Those were the minor details.
But the tradition itself?
Tribute?
Never changed.
One always had to pay the boss.
Michel stepped up to the table in the restaurant as the other man moved back, already done with his time there. The stack of bills on the table filled over half of it, though, all separated in different denominations. It was enough to make the man—a new bookie, Michel thought—glance back to look at the cash one more time.
In front of Sal sat a black notebook which he used to write down each person’s initials, and the money they brought in. It was how the man made sure no one was stiffing him when he could look back months for trends in payments, and more. There was always a bit of variance month to month, but nothing major. And if someone had constant variances that were concerning, then Sal had the proof staring back at him to deal with the issue.
Nobody wanted that.
To someone else, they might open that book and wouldn’t have a clue what they were looking at. Sal didn’t seem to have that problem at all because he knew exactly what he was doing to keep track of his money and people.
Sal was already scratching Michel’s initials down on the paper before he even spoke to him—M.M. “Put it in, and pay it down.”
Michel, unconcerned about the rest of the money on the table, and the other people in the room who were currently waiting their turn to pay or leave, pulled out a three-inch stack of bills that he’d made over the last month. Another month working for Sal as a dealer. Almost three altogether. A big part of him was ready to just focus on what he came to Detroit for.
Med school.
Before Sal could tell him to do it, Michel slipped half of the bills into the machine that would easily count the money, and spit it out on the other side. Once that half a stack had gone through, the machine beeped loudly, and a number came up on the screen in digital, red numerals. Sal nodded, and pointed his pen at the machine before plucking up the neat stack on the other side to begin separating it out by denomination.