Page 104 of Dirty Pool

“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.”

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.