Page 71 of Dirty Pool

“You dare to insult me with childish names?” Sal demanded, pointing a finger at Gabbie’s father.

“Are you not accustomed to being told when you’re acting like a feckin’ eejit, lad?”

Sal’s face reddened. “Irish trash. That’s what all of you are.”

“Sal—”

Michel’s warning, though he hadn’t stood from the table quite yet, was interrupted by the other man shooting him a glare. To his benefit, Michel didn’t shrink away from the look, but he did shake his head.

Like he was over it.

Gabbie understood the feeling.

She almost wanted to hide.

She probably should.

This was getting bad, and fast. Her father would have been the first to tell her to slip out the back, and wait until the dust had cleared. On any other day, she might have listened. But at the same time, on any other day, she would not have been there.

She was only there because of Michel.

And her father’s request for it.

Gabbie didn’t move from her stool because Michel was still sitting at the table, and she worried what might happen when she wasn’t there to see it. Men in this life were always far more likely to keep peace and not turn to violence when there was a woman around to check their behavior and inclinations.

Or, that’s what her father liked to say.

“A month,” Charles spat out, his calm façade cracking a bit. “An entire month wasted planning this meeting because I thought—wrongly, mind you—that you Italians had a serious need to quit this bollocks between us on the streets. But don’t worry, I understand now what this was really about, lad.”

“Oh, do tell?”

“You don’t want peace. You want a real war,” her father said, deadly calm again. “And if you continue, I promise that you will get it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Get out of my pub before I blow you out of it, Italian.”

“Daddy—”

Michel’s gaze flew to Gabbie when she finally decided to speak up. A part of her stupidly thought that maybe she could calm this situation back down, and remind her father of exactly why they had decided to do this in the first place. No one wanted a war in the streets of Detroit between two rival criminal families.

It wouldn’t do them any good.

It would be very bad, though.

Charles lifted a hand, quieting her. “Not a word, lass.”

Michel nodded at her. “It’s okay.”

“And you,” her father snapped, his attention flying to Michel. “I wonder if your Italian friends here know that you continue to see my daughter when you believe they’re not smart enough to be watching you, Michel. Do they know you bed an Irishwoman regularly enough that it’s questionable whether you even know which side you’re playing for anymore, lad?”

“Daddy!”

Sal’s gaze cut to Michel again.

Michel said nothing.

Charles smiled coldly. “Now, get the feck out of my pub.”