Dirty Pool

by Bethany-Kris

  He had to check.

  Just to be sure …

  Sal’s bad habits followed through. Michel found three of the cameras easily enough, and the lack of blinking red lights told him that yes, they were all turned off, and probably would be for the rest of the night. Or at least until Sal was out of the building.

  Perfetto.

  Not wanting to waste anymore time, or risk the chance that one of Sal’s men might notice Michel lingering on the dance floor, he headed into the shadows of the far end of the club. Slipping down the back hallway that led to the bathrooms and a few storage rooms, Michel ducked into the storage room directly across from the men’s washroom. He didn’t bother to close the door, but he did stay just beyond the line of light that filtered in past the threshold. Here, he couldn’t be seen at all.

  Which was the entire point.

  A long time ago, Michel had decided that he didn’t want to be … like every other man in his family. It wasn’t because he thought he was better than them, or that he couldn’t handle the way they chose to live. He’d simply wanted to be different, and do more than just the mafia.

  There was still a part of him, though, that would never change. A part of him that had been raised by a Cosa Nostra boss, with uncles who were made men, and cousins that he watched work their entire lives to be that man he chose not to be. That part of him was just like them—just as volatile, and dangerous. Just as cunning, and quick on his feet.

  He simply didn’t show it.

  He couldn’t when he wasn’t them.

  Until now.

  Michel wasn’t sure how long he waited in the darkness of the storage room—it could have been an hour, but it was probably more. Eventually, though, he heard the familiar voice shouting from the other end of the hallway that said his plan was about to come together. Oh, there were still a lot of variables, and shit could go wrong, but he didn’t think it would.

  Not tonight.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Michel heard Sal say to someone else, “give me a minute here to take a piss, and we’ll take a look at the details for that deal. Grab the folder from my office, yeah?”

  “You got it, Sal,” someone else replied.

  Michel waited.

  He didn’t move.

  The footsteps came closer until he could see Sal passing by the doorway where he was hiding. The man turned to enter the bathroom, and Michel smirked a bit. He knew there was no one else in the bathroom at the moment—he’d been watching it for a hot minute, now. Still, Sal opened the door and shouted for anyone in the room to get the fuck out.

  When he didn’t get a response, he headed into the bathroom. Michel waited all of five seconds, just long enough that the door swung closed behind Sal, and he figured the man had crossed to the urinals to do his business.

  This was low, in a way.

  It didn’t offer the man any pride. He’d be found with his cock in his hands, likely. An embarrassing thing to have to explain to those who would need to be told about his death, and all. This wasn’t the way Michel would typically choose to do this kind of thing, but at the same time, it felt oddly appropriate for Sal.

  After all, the man had never cared for Michel’s pride.

  Certainly not his dignity, either.

  Michel stepped out of the shadows of the storage room, crossed the hall with two long strides, then slipped into the bathroom, and locked the door behind him just as fast. If someone had blinked, they would have missed him making the move. The door of the bathroom didn’t make a single sound as Michel let it close, or when he locked it.

  Sal was still looking down at the urinal he was standing in front of when Michel’s gaze did a quick sweep to find the man. As he crossed the bathroom, he pulled the switchblade he liked to keep on him from his back pocket.

  Rarely did he use that knife.

  It was always his just in case.

  His mother taught him to appreciate a good knife, and the wickedness it could do. He was going to have to remember to thank her for that when the time felt right.

  Sal glanced up at the same time Michel came up behind him.

  “What the fuck are—”

  He didn’t get to finish his question. Not before Michel had reached around with one hand to grab Sal by his forehead, yanked his head back, and drew that switchblade across his throat. Blood arched against the mirrors lining the wall, and the urinals, too. A heavy, dark red spray that painted everything crimson.

  A beautiful sight, really.

  Do no harm, Michel thought.

  That would be his oath.

  One he would follow as best he could.

  He’d simply not spoken it yet.

  It didn’t count.

  Sal dropped to the floor, and Michel let the man fall. He grabbed helplessly at his throat, trashing against the bloody tiles as more red slipped past his useless fingers that were doing nothing for the throat wound.

  Bending down, Michel used the tip of his gloved-finger to draw a messy shamrock right in the middle of the bloodstains on Sal’s forehead. Then, he met the dying man’s eyes.

  “You’re just a means to an end,” he said, shrugging. “Like I was for you, so it’s only fair, right? The rest of your people will find you. They’ll think the Irish did it.” Michel pointed at the shamrock on the man’s forehead, even though Sal couldn’t see it. “That’ll help their suspicions along, of course, and I’ll make sure to make another on the mirror just to really drive the point home.”

  Sal’s eyes widened, and he tried to make a sound, but all that came out were gurgles, and bubbles of blood. Michel scowled at the mess he was making.

  “Oh, and tonight, I’ll take out Brennan Brady, too. That’s Charles Casey’s right-hand man, but you don’t need me to tell you that, right?” Michel chuckled, resting his gloved hands over his knees, and letting the switchblade dangle from his fingertips where he spun the weapon in a slow circle. Sal was almost dead, now, and Michel really needed to leave. “Every Friday night, he likes to drink himself stupid at a pub close to his house, and then he stumbles home like the idiot he is. The Irish will find him tomorrow … they’ll think you did it.”

  Michel smiled, knowing he only had a few seconds to drive this point home for Sal before the man was so gone, that he wouldn’t understand at all. “You see, the Italian boss’s cousin was killed tonight—you—by who they think is the Irish. And the man next to the Irish boss will be dead, too, and they’ll assume it was the Italians. You just didn’t push the right button to make the Irish react the way you wanted them to, Sal, but no worries … I have you covered. You simply won’t be able to watch what happens now.”

  And neither would Michel.

  He’d be too busy getting Gabbie the fuck out of this city.

  “See you in hell,” he told Sal before standing up.

  EIGHTEEN

  “Our Breaking News this morning brings us further escalation of the violence on the streets of Detroit between rival criminal organizations. Late last night, Salvestro Vannozzo was found murdered in his club in the lower end of the city—no official statement has been released, but a source close to the investigation has said they believe this incident to be tied to the other recent issues brought on by organizations.”

  “Feckin’ shite, get his stupid arse on the phone right now!”

  Gabbie’s father’s roar all but shook the walls in the house, and yet, she couldn’t look away from the television in front of her. On the screen, the latest drama played out as the anchors discussed the breaking news alongside the reporter who had been at the scene the night before when Salvestro was pulled from his club in a body bag.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  No.

  That wasn’t even half of it.

  “I don’t care,” Charles barked at a man as they passed her by in the living room, “you tell those feckin’ bastards I’m not going in for any interviews today. Wagons, the lot of them. The police won’t be pushing any of us around.”

&nbs
p; Yeah, the police.

  Because—

  “Following the murder last night, a high-ranking member of the Irish Casey family was found beaten to death this morning just a half a block away from his home. The victim has been identified as Brennan Brady, and again, while no official statement has been released from the police, our source believes it to be retaliation for the killing of the Vannozzo man at the club the night before …”

  The reports went on and on and on.

  Gabbie was barely blinking.

  What time was it, now?

  She looked at the digital time on the box under the television. A little after noon, apparently. It was almost hard to believe, but she had sat on the couch after waking up, and once the news started playing, she literally couldn’t move.

  Her house became more chaotic.

  Her father grew louder.

  All of the sudden, the forced peace that Charles had made every effort to keep in his house and organization was suddenly ripped apart. He seemed to forget about the fact that Gabbie was still there, listening as he ordered men on the streets—men on the Italians. He wanted blood for Brennan’s death, and he planned on getting it by the bucketful.

  “I’ll paint this feckin’ city with it; it’s what they want.”

  Gabbie should have been thinking about her father, and her family. She should have considered the fact that the streets were dangerous, and it wouldn’t be getting better for a long feckin’ time. She should have been sad for her father’s best friend, a man who was also her godfather.

  That wasn’t what she was thinking.

  Or feeling, for that matter.

  A part of Gabbie was numb. Cold all over, and immovable. Like a statue that didn’t have any feelings or thoughts at all. Sitting there on the couch, she felt like she was fading away into the background of the people around her. All the men coming in and out of her father’s house, the cell phones that continued to ring nonstop, and the hum of the television in front of her as the reporters kept going … she saw it all and heard every second of it, but she still felt removed.

  Watching it.

  Not a part of it.

  The other part of her that did feel something and was thinking wasn’t focusing on her family, the dangers, or anything else for that matter. All that kept drifting through her mind was that this might be her chance.

  This could be it.

  Her one chance to get away.

  No one was looking at her in those moments. Her father was so busy with his men, his rage, and the choices he had to make that not once all day had he even looked her way. He’d not said one single thing to her since she came out of the bedroom that morning.

  And the others?

  Charles’ men?

  Same thing.

  She felt like shite in a way. Because how awful of a person did it make her that when her father and his people were dealing with the most tragic of circumstances, she was trying to figure out a way to get away from them all?

  “Get in me feckin’ office!”

  Gabbie jumped on the couch from the way her father shouted down the hallway. The men in the house didn’t even question Charles’ order, though. A half of a dozen boots hit the floor like galloping hooves as they headed up the stairs. She glanced upwards at the ceiling, listening as men walked over top her head, directly inside her father’s office. Then, she heard the distinct sound of a door closing, too.

  The house was quiet.

  Mostly.

  Gabbie’s heart raged.

  Like her mind.

  And her soul, too.

  There was a war going on inside her head. The part that told her it was crazy to consider anything but staying right where she was, and waiting for this hell to blow over. And the other part of her … the one that had spent every single night crying. Because she was alone and without the person she wanted the most, and she knew how much she hurt him that night he stood inside this house.

  Was Michel even waiting on her anymore? Did he still care?

  Did he still love her?

  Those were the questions that terrified her, and the fact that she didn’t have answers to any of them. Her fingers twitched in her lap as she glanced to the side, finding the landline cordless phone sitting in the cradle to charge. She wasn’t allowed to use the phone, and her own cell phone had been taken away a while ago.

  A thump hit the floor upstairs.

  She looked that way, and stilled on the couch.

  Nobody left the office.

  Gabbie breathed easier. It was almost funny how she felt like if she picked up that damn phone, someone was going to come around the corner, and catch her. She didn’t want to be controlled by fear any longer.

  She reached for the phone. Shaking fingers dialed a familiar number. Putting the phone to her ear, she eyed the entryway to the living room as she listened to the call ring and ring and ring. Silently, she begged for him to pick up.

  Just feckin’ pick up.

  On the fourth ring, he did.

  “Ciao,” Michel greeted.

  “Michel …”

  Silence answered her back.

  And then, a sharp, “Gabbie.”

  She didn’t have time to waste, so the only thing she could think to ask was, “Does it still stand—if I want to, and I can get to you, we leave?”

  “As soon as I can get a flight out of this fucking city. Do you have access to your ID or—”

  “Da makes me keep every piece of identification and my passport in my bag just in case we have to leave fast.” Gabbie glanced upward again, praying the men in the office stayed there for just a little while longer. “I could probably get a car right now and come to you.”

  By stealing it.

  Did it matter?

  “I’ll be wherever you want to meet up,” he said just as fast.

  She rattled off a street name mid-city, close to city hall, and the police station. Probably safest right now, all things considered.

  Michel let out a heavy breath. “I’ll be there. Fucking love you, huh?”

  “I know. I love you, too.”

  She hung up the phone.

  The house was still quiet, too.

  Now or never …

  • • •

  Gabbie ditched the car—one of her father’s men that had left the keys in the ignition—two blocks from where she was supposed to meet Michel. She knew what car to look for because she was sure he would have told her if he was driving something different. Tightening the coat around her throat, she tried to blend into the people walking down the busy street.

  She was just another woman.

  Detroit was full of those.

  And yet, she still felt like she had to keep checking over her shoulder to see if someone was coming after her. Surely, her father must have realized she took off by now, and there was no doubt in her mind that Charles would know the first person she went to, as well. He’d be looking for her, or at the very least, he would have sent his men out after her.

  Gabbie was almost directly in front of the city hall building—although, on the other side of the street from it—when a horn beeped. She jumped in the running shoes she’d pulled on before leaving the house and spun around fast only to realize she had walked right past Michel’s car.

  The relief was sweet.

  She almost laughed.

  Almost.

  For a brief second, Gabbie forgot about everything as she met Michel’s gaze behind the windshield. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and she was finally okay again. Her world righted itself, and started turning again. Because that’s how it felt for so long … like the world just stopped because he wasn’t there.

  She no longer felt like she had to look over her shoulder as she darted forward to open the passenger door of his car. Slipping into the vehicle, she wasn’t thinking about anything except for getting as close to Michel as she possibly could.

  He was already reaching for her.

  She reached back.
>
  The second his hands were cupping her face, and she was close enough to kiss him, Gabbie did just that. The rest of the world disappeared, then. It didn’t even matter any longer. All those nights spent on tear-stained pillows because she was without him were a distant memory. This was so much fucking better.

  Michel kissed her hard enough to take her breath away. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket because she just couldn’t seem to get him close enough even as their tongues warred. He tasted like heaven on her tongue—perfect and hers. She’d never felt quite so desperate before, but he was right there to coax her through it with every sweep of his lips against hers, and each strike of his tongue along her own.

  All too soon for her liking, he was pulling away. Not far, of course, as his lips still grazed hers when he spoke, but it was still a little too far for her.

  She hiccupped.

  When had those tears started?

  Michel let out a soft noise, and used the pad of his thumbs to quickly wipe away the wetness from her face. “Don’t cry … God, don’t cry, Gabbie.”

  “Sorry, sorry … I’m just—”

  “Overwhelmed, yeah. I get it.”

  Still, he wiped away her tears.

  He waited her out.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the bruises dotting his knuckles. Every single one them. Like he’d beaten the hell out of something. They looked painful.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Michel’s gaze darted away from hers. “Nothing, babe.”

  “But—”

  “You’re here, right? I’m here. That’s what matters.”

  Gabbie nodded because yeah, he was right. “You’re right. It’s just … everything happened so fast, didn’t it? Everything changed.”

  Michel’s jaw tightened. “It had to. It had to change, or I was never going to get you back with me, you know?”

  She sucked in a shady breath.

  He was as still as stone.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Gabbie—”