Page 76 of Dirty Pool

Gabbie drifted into his mind again—her worried face at the pub in the background of a meeting where she never should have been in the first place. Sal hadn’t mentioned she was going to be there, and she’d not told him, either. That led Michel to believe it was probably a last minute decision on her father’s part.

Which said something else, too.

Was Charles Casey trying to make a show with his daughter? Was bringing Gabbie today his personal way of showing faith to the Italians? Did he just extend his respect to them only to have it shit on by Sal?

Likely.

That had Michel wondering if the Irish boss was really as hard up for this war as Sal was trying to make him out to be. Why would he even attempt to make peace or show faith to the Italians at all if all he intended to do was cause a goddamn problem in the end?

It didn’t make sense.

Michel couldn’t think on it for too long because Sal decided he wasn’t quite done bitching yet. It was hard to focus on one thing when a droning voice continued to mutter in your goddamn ear like a person was supposed to care.

He was beyond caring now.

“Do you know what those Irish bastards did while we were in that meeting today?” Sal asked.

Michel’s tone was dry as he replied, “No, but I’m sure you plan to tell me.”

Sal’s gaze cut to him.

He stared right back, unfazed.

“They attempted attacks on several of our locations in the city,” Sal said, not a hint of deception playing on his features. “Molotov cocktails thrown through a couple of windows, and a drive-by shooting at my father’s barbershop. They never intended to make peace. This—today—was a ruse to get some of us away from areas they wanted to target. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

But was it?

Michel didn’t trust something someone told him just because they said it. Anyone could lie, and it all started by making their lips move to say the words. Sal wasn’t any different or special just because he was a made man.

“But by all means, Michel,” Sal continued, dragging him from his thoughts, “if you feel such a strong urge to dabble with the Irish, you should go ahead and do that. Just know what that means for you in this city.”

Still, Michel remained silent.

Sal seemed to like that. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other now. Stay the fuck away from them. All of them, including the woman.”

Right.

Sure.

But probably not.

“I’ll have my driver drop you off at your home,” Sal said, turning to deliver the order to the man in the driver’s seat.

Michel was fast to speak up, then. “I’d rather relax for the night. If he could drop me off at the bar near my place, that’d be great.”

The one where he played pool.

Where Gabbie was meeting him …

Sal shook his head as though he didn’t know what to do with Michel anymore. “Fine, the fucking bar—maybe a drink will make you less stupid.”

Michel brushed off that insult, too.

Barely.

• • •

Michel knew the exact moment Gabbie walked into the bar. It was like every single one of his nerve endings sensed she was close and forced him to look up from the pool cue he was using to leaning against as he surveyed the table in front of him. Well, to anyone else it probably looked like that’s what he was doing. Really, his mind was going over every single detail of each incident or meeting that he knew about between the Italian and Irish families here in Detroit.