Page 69 of Dirty Pool

Sal reached out, and clasped a hand tightly to Michel’s shoulder as other Italians stepped out of their vehicles, too. “The Irish boss called this in, and I was nice enough to oblige on account of you. We don’t need you causing any more issues, right?”

Why was it just him?

It hadn’t been just him.

Weren’t the Italians the ones who decided to go ahead and make asses out of themselves after Michel had already settled the issue with the Irish boss? He’d made a deal, and it was Sal and his men who decided to go against that without caring about what Michel thought.

He might have stirred the pot.

He did not make it boil over.

“So,” Sal continued, moving forward toward the pub’s entrance door with Michel close at his side, “we’re going to have this meeting, you’re going to sit beside me and keep quiet, and then we’ll see where we go from there.”

“And you’re willing to talk peace?” Michel asked.

Sal chuckled. “There is no such thing as peace with the Irish.”

Right.

Then what were they even doing here?

Michel was still trying to figure that out.

And Sal, too.

What was his fucking endgame?

TWELVE

“You can stop looking sour anytime, lass,” Charles said, taking the glass of black stuff the pub’s bartender offered with a nod. “Just because I ask you to sit back and be quiet doesn’t mean I plan to do anything rash today.”

He kept saying that.

Gabbie found it hard to believe.

Still, there she sat on a stool at the pub where her father decided they were going to hold this meeting with the Italians. She came because her father said that Gabbie being there was a show of his faith. He would not cause violence around his daughter when his entire life had been dedicated to keeping her safe.

Okay, that was fair.

And not a lie.

She still worried.

“It’s time to put an end to this,” her father said.

He turned his back to her so that he could survey the floor of the pub and the men inside. Scattered about at different positions, the men remained seated in the booths, waiting for the meeting to finally get started. Out the window, Gabbie could see the different cars that were beginning to pull up. It was just about time for them to start this thing, it seemed.

So, why did she feel so heavy?

Why was her chest tight?

Oh, aye.

Because history told them that nothing good came from Irish and Italians attempting to work together. It simply didn’t work that way—they were too different, both culturally and within their respective organizations.

She was a realist.

Even if her father wanted to be an optimist.