Page 50 of Dirty Pool

“Oh, do tell?”

Michel laughed, but tipped his head into her hair to muffle the sound. “Ah, I shouldn’t be telling a little Irish girl anything about my family, Gabbie.”

“First, I am not a wee lass, you feckin’ eejit.”

His arm squeezed her again. “Be nice.”

“That was nice!”

“Insulting me is—”

“How we Irish people show our affection.”

Michel let out a heavy sigh. “Guess I’ll take your word for that.”

Well, it was the truth.

“All right,” he muttered, “my ma is … well, if you were someone with a big name—”

“Like a celebrity?”

“Okay, that. Or … politicians, someone rich, and so on.”

“Mmhmm, go on.”

Michel nipped her neck again. “She’d be someone on your speed dial to make sure you were supplied with whatever you needed to keep you happy.”

Gabbie froze. “Like a drug dealer for the stars?”

“She’d be offended if you called her that. It’s a whole organization. She controls dozens of girls who are constantly on call. It’s what she’s done since she was a lot younger.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Your mam is a Queen Pin?”

Michel nodded. “Pretty much.”

“And your da is a mob boss.”

“Italians prefer the Don, but yeah.”

“And you never considered the family business?”

Michel laughed again, and that sound soaked into Gabbie like nothing else ever had. She peeked over her shoulder just to see the way he looked when he was free, and happy. It was quite a sight—all those hard lines of his face softening just enough to make him look slightly younger, and joyful.

He held her tighter as his chuckles faded away. His lips were back on her skin again, his words whispering into her ear. His tone turned serious, and yet, his voice alone was enough to make her warm to the touch, and shivering all over.

“I love them, and I respect my family for what they’ve done in the criminal world … never be confused about that, but it isn’t me. Not entirely. I wanted to be more,” he told her, “I needed to be more than what was just expected, Gabbie.”

He would be.

She had no doubt.

“Never pretend to be average for the comfort or approval of others,” she said. “It’s the exceptional who change the world—not the status quo.”

Michel’s hand found hers, and their fingers wove together tightly. “Exactly.”