Page 40 of Dirty Pool

The man shot him a look.

Michel stared right back.

Clearly, he was missing something here, but he didn’t have the first clue what it was. For the most part, he spent the last week with his head down, and hidden within the safe walls of his small house. Not that a locked door would stop anybody from getting in if they really wanted to grab him and pull him out, but what else could he do?

So, he stayed in.

Made no trouble.

Said nothing.

He took the time to heal because clearly he fucking needed it. Most of the bruising was now a faded yellow and brown. All of the swelling in his face was gone. He didn’t wake up sore, and still tasting blood in his mouth from the Irish beating.

All good things.

Michel was seriously hoping that was the end of it, too. He wasn’t willing, in any way, to go another round with the Irish. He knew better than to hound on the issue, or spread the story around about what happened.

He didn’t even complain about it just in case someone took it the wrong way, and thought that he wanted them to answer the Irish back with something to make it clear where he stood. He didn’t want to make anything clear except to say what was done was fucking done.

His mother and father called earlier in the week, and he didn’t even say a damn thing to them about the attack. It wouldn’t do anything good for him, the Italians here, or the Irish, for that matter. There was no point in making a fuss, not unless he wanted a bigger issue to be caused over it all.

Let it be done, he figured. They made their point, and he heard it loud and clear.

That wasn’t cowardly.

That was smart.

Michel was all about being smart.

Or … trying.

Sal clearly had other plans if his next statement was to be trusted. “See, the Irish have been toeing the lines we made for a while now. We made peace to keep the streets clean. Too many innocents were getting caught up in the mess, but … we can’t let this go. If we were to let this go, Michel, then what might they try next? That doesn’t make for good business.”

All of the sudden, that tequila Michel had just swallowed threatened to make itself known again. It was about to spill right back out of his mouth, and currently burned his tongue like the bile twisting in his stomach and climbing up his throat.

“Sal, I said not to answer them back,” Michel snapped.

The man waved a hand. “Least we could do, Michel.”

“No, it’s not. I said I made a deal.”

“It’ll be fine. Tonight, they’ll know the Vannozzos aren’t fucking around with their shit anymore. We’re just as strong in this city as they are now—or we’re damn close to it. They can’t be fucking with us like they did with you. The boss gave his okay. It’s done.”

No, it wasn’t fucking done.

Michel didn’t understand how Sal could be so flippant about this. Maybe it was his raising under a man who made it his first priority to never get into a street war with another family, but Michel’s first instinct was to fix an issue.

And not with violence.

His father didn’t work that way.

A war between criminal organizations was nothing to scoff at, honestly. And it could happen fast. A few words tossed, and a punch thrown in the middle, and there they would be. Fucked. The entire city would be caught up in a chaotic, violent mess. No one would be safe—not innocents, made men, or anyone in between.

Someone like Michel?

Or Gabbie, even?

They were just fodder to this kind of shit.