Page 37 of Dirty Pool

Michel blinked back into consciousness slowly, his stomach threatening to revolt. Bad sign number one, he thought. There was a good chance he was concussed, and the last thing he needed for that was to be passed out, for fuck’s sake.

He remembered being dragged from the basement of Charles Casey’s home, because apparently they didn’t even trust him to walk on his own two legs. Before that, he could vividly see Gabbie in his mind—God, she was kind of like an angel in the darkness. His saving grace, in a way. Had she not come down into that basement, he seriously doubted that he would have made it out of there alive.

Did she even know that?

Jesus.

He was never going to forget how her voice sounded when she spoke up, and asked her father to spare him. Soft, sweet, and oh, so clear. Her words were smooth, but scared. A lot like the way she stood there, her hands shaking at her sides although he didn’t think that she knew it. She was just doing what she thought was right. Asking for him to be let go was right to her, even if she was terrified to ask for it.

The rest didn’t matter.

Except it mattered to Michel.

He owed that woman his life.

Cazzo.

He was brought back to the present when the vehicle jumped a bit—a speed bump, maybe? Michel’s hands came out fast to steady his body so that he wasn’t tossed around like a ragdoll in the damn trunk.

Fucking Irish.

They didn’t screw around. The Irish were known for their violence—savagery, really. They didn’t give a single fuck about anything, and their actions often showed it. He knew better, because he’d been told more than once growing up, that they didn’t mess with the Irish. No one wanted to start problems with an Irish family unless they wanted to suffer for it.

And here he was.

Doing exactly that, idiot.

Michel hated the uncertainty of his current state. That he didn’t know where in the hell he was, or where they were taking him. Sure, he remembered what Charles had told his men to do, but that didn’t mean they would listen.

Killing an Italian would be nothing to them. He wasn’t even a made man.

Fuck.

He missed New York.

Why didn’t he just pick a medical school there again?

Michel fought his hazy mind as his eyes grew heavy again. If he was concussed, there was no damn way he was going to let himself fall asleep. He wasn’t sure how much longer he was in that trunk while the vehicle swayed and jumped as he was driven to … who knew?

Finally, though, the car did stop. Michel perked up, his fists balling at his sides just in case he might need to fight when, or if, they opened the trunk again. He could taste the remnants of dried blood in his mouth, and his face ached like nothing else.

As did the back of his head.

There was a ringing in his ears, too. Not to mention, his body felt taut and tense. Like his back was sore, and his legs were far too cramped. He was sure he’d taken a few kicks to his ribs given how each breath he took in hurt like nothing else.

They hadn’t held back.

Once the idiots at the warehouse figured out he couldn’t save their friend—who died on that bloodstained blanket before they could even leave—it was all downhill from there. First, they argued about what they were going to do with him.

Kill him, or not?

Two settled on beating the shit out of him while the third man called someone to ask for an opinion on what to do. Apparently, they could take him without permission, but they didn’t think killing him without an explicit okay would be the proper thing to do.

Right.

Goddamn fools.

Then, the trunk opened all at once. Bright light spilled in from the outside, making Michel momentarily blind. He blinked, his hands coming up to cover his face to shield from the light so that he might be able to see what was happening.