Page 26 of Dirty Pool

The only available chair was next to the fools in the corner, and Michel was not going to sit beside them like they were familiar in any sort of way. Maybe it was his raising, but he’d never known it to be okay for someone like him, with his last name and standing, to lower himself for the comfort of others.

“I’d rather stand.”

Sal’s gaze narrowed briefly before he muttered, “Your choice.”

Sure.

Then, the man in the chair waved a hand at the man holding the razor to his cheek, his mouth barely moving at all while he spoke. “Meet my father—Senior. Or, that’s what we call him to distinguish as we own the same name.”

Michel nodded at the older man. “Ciao. Nice to meet you.”

Senior arched one, white brow high as he looked Michel over. “I cannot say the same at the moment, Michel Marcello. Hasn’t that father of yours taught you anything yet about the world outside of New York, or did he just plan for you to learn it as you fucked up?”

“Easy, Papa,” Sal said, chuckling. “He’s a young one, isn’t he?”

Michel tried not to be annoyed.

And failed.

“I didn’t realize I was on Irish territory until it was too late last night,” he quickly explained. “And I was only doing what you told me to, Sal. Answer the calls, go to the buyer, and do the drop. That was it.”

Sal grunted under his breath. “Never place blame on someone else when it’s far easier to simply accept what you can change about your own errors.”

Oh, great.

Were they having a whole thing here?

A moment together?

Michel had a man in his life who liked to spout Yoda shit at him like he was supposed to give a damn. His own father. He was far more likely to listen to Dante than Sal, anyway, not that he figured that would be very good to say out loud at the moment.

“I know I fucked up,” Michel said simply.

Senior let the razor glide down the side of Sal’s face, and was the next to speak, saying, “Detroit is not like New York, Michel. There, I doubt you have to consider your actions, or how they will affect other men around you like you will here. I understand that you come from a family and a man where your last name is enough to allow you to sit at the table with the rest of them, but it will not work that way here. Your father, nor your last name, will keep someone from killing you because you’ve caused us an issue.”

Sal’s finger pointed upward at his father. “What he said.”

“I don’t expect where I come from to do anything for me here,” Michel replied.

Because he really didn’t.

“And I’ll be more careful,” he added.

Sal sighed, and waved a hand, stopping his father from continuing the shave. Senior stepped back from his son, allowing Sal to sit up in the chair. He tugged the towel away from his lower throat, although his face was still only half shaved. He didn’t seem like he gave a damn about it when his gaze landed on Michel again.

“We have had problems with the Casey family for years,” Sal explained, “because those Irish bastards are the stronghold here. We have only recently managed to get to a peaceful place with them, and do understand that we cannot afford to go back to war with them. And we won’t.”

“Not for you, anyway,” the enforcer in the corner muttered.

Sal jerked a thumb in the idiot’s direction. “What he said.”

Michel nodded. “I got it.”

“Good. Make sure of it.”

Not waiting to be dismissed—he wasn’t a made man, and in all reality, Sal wasn’t as much his boss as just a guy supplying him—Michel turned to leave. It was Sal’s voice over his shoulder that stopped him from going one step further.

“Did I hear you got close to Gabbie Casey in the club last night, too?”