by Bethany-Kris
He knew what she was going to say.
Knew it in his soul.
It still fucking hurt.
The risk in approaching her father was simple—Charles could have killed Michel before he ever even got the chance to tell the man about the things he knew. He’d thought that if he made it clear which side of the lines he stood on, then no one could question his motives here. No one would think he was playing both sides, and maybe it would get him what he wanted in the end.
A pipe dream.
That’s what it was.
Still, Michel had to try.
Now, he was paying for that attempt. And as far as he could see, this was the last option he really had to make use of. Everything else, he had already done. What more could Michel do now to get Gabbie back with him?
Nothing, apparently.
This was it.
And she was about to ruin it.
He stared at Gabbie the same way her father did, waiting for her to finally force that lie out of her mouth. Yeah, he knew she was lying. He could tell by the way her hands shook at her sides, and she kept glancing away from him as her throat jumped with every swallow.
Because she was swallowing her lies, too.
It’s okay, he wanted to tell her. More than anything, he wanted her to know that he didn’t blame her for the choice she was about to make. He wasn’t going to pretend like he knew the shit going on behind these closed doors, and he didn’t doubt that she had her reasons for this mess here. That didn’t make it easier on him.
Not at all.
“Lass, get on with it,” Charles said, his tone firm.
Gabbie nodded, and her gaze drifted to Michel again. Still full of tears that had yet to fall, and cutting him when she blinked, and finally, one of those tears slipped down her cheek. She was quick to wipe it away when her father’s head was turned so that he didn’t see the emotion.
Michel saw it, though.
He saw.
It only confirmed what he already thought, regardless if this was killing him inside, and it was going to hurt even more to walk away from her … she didn’t want this, and she was about to lie to him.
“Da’s right, Michel … it’s for the best if you leave me alone,” Gabbie whispered.
He blinked.
Yeah, she was lying.
It still fucking ached.
“All right,” he heard himself mutter.
Because what else could he do?
“I’m sorry,” Gabbie said quickly.
Michel shook his head. “Don’t be, bella.”
Charles cleared his throat, and his gaze swung back to Michel. “Have you gotten what you wanted, then? If so, I think it’s about time you take your leave before the rest of your lot figures out you made a trip down to speak with me. I hear the Italians are watching us. I hope they’re enjoying the show they’re not getting from me.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Michel replied.
He wasn’t lying.
Not that it mattered.
The Irishman scoffed. “I doubt that. See yourself out, lad.”
Michel did.
But not before looking back to see Gabbie still staring at him. Now, though, her father was distracted by watching Michel leave his house.
She mouthed, “I love you.”
He only nodded.
Because yeah, he knew.
• • •
“Son, how’re things?”
Michel’s gaze drifted to the phone on the edge of the pool table. He’d put it on speaker simply because he didn’t want to talk at all, but that would be the first sign to his father that something was wrong. Once Dante found a bone to dig, he’d keep going until the entire skeleton was revealed under the dirt.
He was in just the right state lately—one of pure desperation—that he very well might spill his guts to his father about everything happening here in Detroit, and how this last year had fucked him straight up. Everything from the snakes running the Italian organization here to the Irish family that didn’t seem to give a single shit.
Michel didn’t understand how to fix this.
He also knew he couldn’t tell his father. Dante would have one, and only the one, goal where Michel and Detroit were concerned. It would be a simple one, too. Get Michel as far away from that city as possible. His father knew how this kind of thing worked, and there was no way Dante, even heading an organization as large as the Marcellos, would make his way here just to insert himself between the war of two families.
It wouldn’t happen.
Because Dante was smart.
Fuck.
Michel used to be smart once, too. Or he thought so, anyway. Last year, he’d been at the top of his class at the end of the final semester. Top five. And now, even his schooling was suffering because of the hell that was going on all around him. He couldn’t focus, and his grades showed it. Sleep was an evasive bitch, and his professors were pointing out his distraction more and more often.
He mostly ignored the issue of school simply because he knew at some point, he could fix that. If he needed to do a year over because things got to be too much, and he let his grades slide terribly, then that was fine. He didn’t like it, but he would do it.
School was something he could fix.
Gabbie being out of reach was not something that was as easily corrected. It had never been more apparent than now. He was dying. There had never been another time in his life when Michel felt so entirely useless.
“Are you coming home at the end of the month?”
Michel looked up from the shot he was prepping to take, and stared out the window of the bar. Heavy, white flakes drifted down in front of the glass, and he let out a sigh. December came before he even knew what happened—he’d spent almost a whole month in a daze that he couldn’t break free from no matter what he tried to do.
He stared at his phone.
No call from Gabbie.
He watched the news.
More violence from the Italians.
He went to school.
He thought about her.
Michel couldn’t get her face out of his head as he left her house that night he went to speak to her father. That pain staring back at him from where she stood at the other end of the hallway, and how he just knew it was reflected back in his eyes.
She’d been lying.
And yet, she still said what she said. She stayed with her father. He was quite aware that it was likely because she wasn’t being given a choice, but that didn’t change anything for Michel. It didn’t change the fact he couldn’t get her the hell out of there. Not to mention, he still hadn’t figured out a way for them to be together.
A whole month wasted.
Fucking useless.
“Michel, you’re not even listening to me, are you?”
Shit.
He gave the guy at the other end of the pool table a wave as if to silently ask for a minute before he went back to their game. Apparently, he couldn’t even hold a conversation and play a game of pool at the same time, lately. His head was just too full.
With his mistakes.
With his inabilities.
With her.
With too much.
“I’m listening,” Michel lied after he’d snatched up the phone, and took it off speaker to make the conversation a little more private. “I was just … busy.”
If his father heard that brief pause as Michel searched for another lie, Dante didn’t call him out on it. He was grateful.
“I thought maybe you were avoiding the question because you don’t want to come home for Christmas, and assumed I would be angry,” his father replied.
“I’m not coming home for Christmas, but I didn’t think you would be mad when I let you know. Besides, aren’t you and Ma coming up next month, anyway?”
Didn’t his mother say they were thinking of stopping in on their way to California in the New Year? How long did that give Michel before his father was in this city, realized the chaos happ
ening all around his son, and yanked him out of Detroit?
A month … ish?
Fucking great.
“Michel, I am sure you can afford a week off school,” his father said. “I know they give you a month break, son.”
Dante wasn’t wrong.
His break started mid-December.
“I’m not coming home for Christmas,” Michel said, not offering any more information and refusing to argue further. “I have to catch up on things for school.”
Not entirely a lie.
He also wouldn’t be studying.
Michel was not leaving this goddamn city unless Gabbie was going with him, or she couldn’t. He really didn’t want to consider the reasons that would make it impossible for her to come with him if he found an out for them both, but he knew it was still a possibility. Nonetheless, it didn’t change his opinion or decision. He was going to be here until the very end, and he would not be leaving without her.
Simple as that.
He still couldn’t explain it to his father.
“Fine,” Dante murmured, bringing him back to the conversation. “I’m starting to think you love Detroit more than you love your own family considering you’ve only come home all of one time since you moved there.”
“I hate this city and most of the people in it.”
The words slipped past Michel’s scowling lips before he could stop them. It was hard not to notice the absolute silence that filled the other end of the line as soon as he said it, too. Shit, that’s not what he meant to do. He didn’t need his father thinking something was wrong here. He had to do this alone.
“Is there a particular reason why that is?” his father asked.
Michel pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his frustration away. “It’s many things, but mostly, the people here aren’t like the people back home.”
“The Vannozzos.”
How did his father just know?
Well, Dante partly knew.
Michel would not fill in the details. “They’re part of it, sure.”
“I never did like that faction of my organization, but they bring in decent money, and mostly keep business clean. There isn’t much more a boss could ask for, honestly.”
His father wasn’t wrong.
They were also snakes.
“Just stay out of their way,” Dante said, his tone stiffer than was normal, “and let them do their business, Michel. You made friends with a few, didn’t you?”
“It didn’t stick.”
Dante chuckled. “I won’t say I am disappointed. I know you think every made man is going to be like the rest of your family, or even your cousins, but it’s a different dynamic everywhere you go, and I would rather you didn’t integrate too much in families I don’t feel are … trustworthy.”
Jesus.
That would have been great for his father to tell Michel a year ago. He had the greatest urge to turn around, and beat his forehead on the edge of the pool table because he felt like such an idiot. How he managed to find himself in this situation, Michel would never truly understand.
Oh, no.
That was a lie.
He knew exactly why.
For love.
“I hear they’re having some trouble with the Irish there as well,” Dante added after a moment, making Michel’s heart stop for a split-second. Did his father know the truth about just how much Michel was involved in the business with the Irish, too? That it wasn’t just the Vannozzos? “You are quite aware of how our family always handled any Irish organizations around us, and it was with great care and concern, Michel. If they are foolish enough to take the Irish to war, as if the past hasn’t taught us Italians anything about them, then let them sign their death warrants.”
“From what I understand, the Irish haven’t entertained the Vannozzos’ trouble here.”
“Yet.” His father made a harsh sound, saying, “Yet, Michel. It is only because the Vannozzos have not done something so egregious to the Irish organization there that they have not answered them back yet. But when they do, they will not care. It will be so brilliantly violent and chaotic in that city, no one will feel safe to even walk down the street. That’s the thing about the Irish … they don’t care of the consequences. A lifetime in prison is worth their pride and legacy, son. Do not mistake their stubbornness and patience for weakness. They are waiting for the Vannozzos to step out of line, and only then will they end them.”
Michel blinked.
Was that it?
Had the Italians simply not pressed the right button for the Irish yet? What would happen if someone did push that button?
It was only his father’s voice that brought him out of those thoughts when Dante said, “You are not to be caught up in it. Do you understand me?”
Michel swallowed hard. “Yeah, Dad, I got you.”
“Good.” Dante made a noise under his breath, adding quieter, “and if you do feel like you need to get out of that city for any reason, you do that. Do not waste time, I will be waiting for you here, son.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And call your mother later. She misses you.”
Michel nodded, though his father couldn’t see it. “Will do.”
After a quick goodbye, Michel hung up the call. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his forehead, and wished shit wasn’t so … confusing. And difficult. It was all hard, too. Nothing could ever be simple for him when he needed shit to just be one clear path.
But he was the one who worked best under pressure, right?
That’s when he did his best work.
Or it used to be.
Michel leaned back a bit on the table, his hand resting against the felt top. Mistakenly, he hit one of the balls on the table, causing the other player who had been silent during his conversation to give him a look.
“That’s dirty pool, man,” the guy said, “moving balls like that.”
Michel didn’t even answer the man back. He was too busy running through his previous thoughts, and the conversation with his father.
Dirty pool.
Michel had assumed the button for Charles Casey was his daughter—the man said it, essentially, and he believed it to be true. But was there more than one? After all, the man was running a whole family. And not every person in that organization cared for Gabbie the same way Charles did.
They had other priorities. Like themselves, and the men they were protecting. Those are the ones at the top, and the ones keeping them safe.
Was there another button to push for the Irish family besides Gabbie that would force Charles Casey into a war? Could Michel find it? What would happen if he punched that button as hard as he fucking could? What if he did something that made them react?
He bet the city would be in such an uproar, and both the Italians and Irish would be so busy with one another … they would entirely forget about him. Maybe Gabbie, too. At least, for a time.
Michel was going to find out.
• • •
Sal had bad habits.
It was also one of the first things Michel tended to notice about the people around him—he found quirks, or oddities to be something that made people more interesting. He also found that their bad habits were sometimes the things about a person that spoke to deeper beliefs or explained certain choices someone might make day to day.
Sal was paranoid.
Constantly.
It was the second thing Michel realized about the man. Sal didn’t like to shake hands with strangers. The shaking hands thing was an oddity, sure, but not uncommon in the world of Mafiosi. Made men were often careful when shaking hands with someone they weren’t familiar with lest they touch the hand of a cop, or worse, a rival that wasn’t—as a proper made man would say—of their standard.
The paranoid thing?
That’s where it got interesting.
That’s what Michel could use.
Sal was so paranoid, in fact, that when he was inside one of his many busines
ses, he kept the security cameras turned off. He told Michel once, that should something happen when he was inside, and the authorities asked what happened to the footage on the security cameras, Sal would simply say it must have been a glitch. Shit happened all the time with electronics, and it was a perfectly acceptable excuse.
To Sal, anyhow.
Michel could have poked a half a dozen holes into the man’s theory, but he’d quickly learned that when it came to Sal, it was better to just keep his mouth shut. The man wasn’t interested in the opinions of others, he just wanted people to agree with him, and be done with it. So, that’s what Michel did.
Usually.
Tonight, though, he planned on using Sal’s paranoia and bad habit against him. The cameras in the club Sal frequented every Friday and Saturday night to do his business, never failed, would be turned off. Sure, Michel expected there to be a handful of Sal’s associates inside the club as well, but they were always at their posts.
At the same time, Sal drifted between his office, the VIP section, and the bathrooms in the far hallway that everyone used. Michel never understood why the man didn’t have a private bathroom installed in his office, or at least closer to it, so that he didn’t have to use the public one, but again …
Bad habits.
Normal for Sal, even if bad.
Good for Michel tonight.
The bouncer at the front of the club didn’t even give Michel a second glance—he was a new guy because Michel didn’t recognize his face at all. He didn’t have an issue with stepping aside to let Michel enter the club without standing in line as soon as he greeted the man in Italian.
He didn’t even check Michel to see if he had a weapon on him, but he doubted the bouncer checked any of Sal’s men when they came into the business. The bouncer likely thought Michel was part of Sal’s crew, and didn’t think it would cause any harm to let him in.
He had been part of the crew once.
But not for long.
Inside the club, Michel stuck to the shadows and the crowds of people so that he couldn’t be easily picked out. On the dance floor where everyone was moving fast, the music pumped louder, and the lights overhead flashed in such a way that one couldn’t properly focus on anything around them, Michel looked for the cameras.