Page 41 of Dirty Pool

So, no, he couldn’t be flippant.

Not like Sal was.

“I made a deal,” Michel repeated to a man he thought was his friend. He was seriously reconsidering that now. This never would have happened between his cousins and him back home. That was a fucking guarantee. “Sal, I gave my goddamn word to them.”

Sal passed him a look, his gaze cold as the man arched a brow. “That’s the thing, Michel … you don’t have a word to give. Your word? It doesn’t count here. You should keep that in mind the next time you want to speak for one of us. Now, be grateful we even give enough of a shit to answer them back for you.”

Jesus Christ.

Was it even for him, though?

Because he didn’t think so.

Michel’s jaw ached from how hard he was clenching his teeth. “You know, it’s getting tiring, Sal.”

“What is?”

“The way you talk down to me.”

Sal tipped his head in Michel’s direction, saying, “You’re not a made man, Michel. Something I was told you chose because you wanted to be a doctor. I guess being made wasn’t good enough for you, huh? Oh, and you’re not in New York anymore, in case you also forgot about that. You don’t want me to talk down to you? Then, I suggest you remember your place. Let’s be fucking honest, you’re lucky to even be in the conversation.”

Good to know.

Michel would remember that.

Absolutely.

• • •

What did Michel do when he needed to relax?

Billiards.

Pool.

The first time he ever played a game of pool, he’d been thirteen and his cousin John whooped his ass horribly. So much so that Michel almost didn’t want to pick up a pool cue, and try again. Anything that didn’t come easily to him was far too easy for him to give up. Except he did play again, and with each game, he got a little better.

Now, he could shark someone out of a thousand dollars like it was fucking nothing. Although, he tried not to do that often unless someone needed a lesson about not underestimating him. Funny how that worked … he felt like there were a lot of people in Detroit lately that needed a reminder about Michel.

Despite the fact he wasn’t a made man, and he didn’t get a seat at their table, he still came from the biggest North American crime family. An organization his father had headed for decades. Did they think he knew nothing? That he wasn’t capable of doing serious damage to them if he had enough inspiration?

Because he could.

Michel wasn’t like them.

He wasn’t obvious.

A silent sort of vicious.

That was a better description of him, but not one he wanted to focus on right now. As much as he wanted to show Sal and the rest of the Capo’s men exactly what Michel was capable of doing, he knew it wasn’t the smart thing.

And he tried to be smart.

Usually.

Instead, he resigned to keeping to himself for the past week. He didn’t purposely seek Sal out after the conversation the weekend before at the club. There were lots of other things for him to use to keep himself entertained, and he did give the man his word, too. For the summer, he was working for the Capo, and he planned on seeing that through as much as he could.

After, though?