Page 103 of Dirty Pool

Michel stepped out of the shadows of the storage room, crossed the hall with two long strides, then slipped into the bathroom, and locked the door behind him just as fast. If someone had blinked, they would have missed him making the move. The door of the bathroom didn’t make a single sound as Michel let it close, or when he locked it.

Sal was still looking down at the urinal he was standing in front of when Michel’s gaze did a quick sweep to find the man. As he crossed the bathroom, he pulled the switchblade he liked to keep on him from his back pocket.

Rarely did he use that knife.

It was always his just in case.

His mother taught him to appreciate a good knife, and the wickedness it could do. He was going to have to remember to thank her for that when the time felt right.

Sal glanced up at the same time Michel came up behind him.

“What the fuck are—”

He didn’t get to finish his question. Not before Michel had reached around with one hand to grab Sal by his forehead, yanked his head back, and drew that switchblade across his throat. Blood arched against the mirrors lining the wall, and the urinals, too. A heavy, dark red spray that painted everything crimson.

A beautiful sight, really.

Do no harm, Michel thought.

That would be his oath.

One he would follow as best he could.

He’d simply not spoken it yet.

It didn’t count.

Sal dropped to the floor, and Michel let the man fall. He grabbed helplessly at his throat, trashing against the bloody tiles as more red slipped past his useless fingers that were doing nothing for the throat wound.

Bending down, Michel used the tip of his gloved-finger to draw a messy shamrock right in the middle of the bloodstains on Sal’s forehead. Then, he met the dying man’s eyes.

“You’re just a means to an end,” he said, shrugging. “Like I was for you, so it’s only fair, right? The rest of your people will find you. They’ll think the Irish did it.” Michel pointed at the shamrock on the man’s forehead, even though Sal couldn’t see it. “That’ll help their suspicions along, of course, and I’ll make sure to make another on the mirror just to really drive the point home.”

Sal’s eyes widened, and he tried to make a sound, but all that came out were gurgles, and bubbles of blood. Michel scowled at the mess he was making.

“Oh, and tonight, I’ll take out Brennan Brady, too. That’s Charles Casey’s right-hand man, but you don’t need me to tell you that, right?” Michel chuckled, resting his gloved hands over his knees, and letting the switchblade dangle from his fingertips where he spun the weapon in a slow circle. Sal was almost dead, now, and Michel really needed to leave. “Every Friday night, he likes to drink himself stupid at a pub close to his house, and then he stumbles home like the idiot he is. The Irish will find him tomorrow … they’ll think you did it.”

Michel smiled, knowing he only had a few seconds to drive this point home for Sal before the man was so gone, that he wouldn’t understand at all. “You see, the Italian boss’s cousin was killed tonight—you—by who they think is the Irish. And the man next to the Irish boss will be dead, too, and they’ll assume it was the Italians. You just didn’t push the right button to make the Irish react the way you wanted them to, Sal, but no worries … I have you covered. You simply won’t be able to watch what happens now.”

And neither would Michel.

He’d be too busy getting Gabbie the fuck out of this city.

“See you in hell,” he told Sal before standing up.

EIGHTEEN

“Our Breaking News this morning brings us further escalation of the violence on the streets of Detroit between rival criminal organizations. Late last night, Salvestro Vannozzo was found murdered in his club in the lower end of the city—no official statement has been released, but a source close to the investigation has said they believe this incident to be tied to the other recent issues brought on by organizations.”

“Feckin’ shite, get his stupid arse on the phone right now!”

Gabbie’s father’s roar all but shook the walls in the house, and yet, she couldn’t look away from the television in front of her. On the screen, the latest drama played out as the anchors discussed the breaking news alongside the reporter who had been at the scene the night before when Salvestro was pulled from his club in a body bag.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

No.

That wasn’t even half of it.