Page 70 of Dirty Pool

A bell chimed overhead, and Gabbie’s gaze shifted to the entrance of the pub. The first two people to step inside had her tensing on the stool even as her father offered the men what she considered to be a friendly smile.

Michel stood beside the man dressed in all black. She didn’t recognize the other Italian’s face, but from what she knew about Cosa Nostra through hearing people talk, he had to be important. Or at the very least, he held some title that allowed him to come into a meeting first with a rival family, or even, be there at all.

“Casey,” the man greeted.

Gabbie didn’t miss the way her father’s lips threatened to pull into a scowl at the Italian man standing beside Michel greeting him by his last name. A wee bit rude, all things considered. Especially if they were all here to make nice, and calm any of the issues that had been left to fester too long between their two organizations.

Friends didn’t spit out last names like it was dirt.

This man did exactly that.

Already, they were starting out in a bad way. Gabbie didn’t need for her father to confirm that for her to know it was true. Still, Charles stepped forward with a hand outstretched to take the Italian’s that was offered back. The two shook hands before her father gestured at the only table that had been left in the middle of the floor.

A single chair sat on one side.

Two were on the other.

“Sit,” Charles said, “and we can begin this meeting.”

Michel’s gaze drifted to Gabbie, and for the first time, she really stopped to take note of him. She hadn’t before only because he was the one thing in this pub that she currently felt comforted by, in a way. She didn’t think Michel was going to do anything to purposely make this go sour. After spending an entire summer sneaking around with this man, she felt like she probably knew him better than anyone else in her life.

She trusted him.

Others, not so much.

He looked good in his black blazer with a silk shirt underneath that had the top two buttons undone at his throat. It gave her just a peek at the golden skin beneath, and reminded her what it felt like to have that skin pressing against hers in all kinds of wonderful ways.

Except this wasn’t the time.

But that’s what Michel did to her.

Michel passed her a quick smile, and she returned it just as fast. Then, the three men took their respective chairs at the table as the other Italians that had been brought along slowly began to trickle into the pub.

Only a handful.

Six, in total.

The same number of men her father had inside the pub, she noticed. Gabbie had to wonder if that was purposeful, or not. It wasn’t the right time to ask, but she assumed yes. She also thought it was very likely that each side here today had a number of men posted outside somewhere to keep an eye on things just in case.

Everybody needed a backup.

“Are you willing to calm the violence on the streets between your family and ours?” the Italian man asked at the table.

Charles brow dipped, but other than that, he didn’t give much away. “Are we pretending, then, that your lads didn’t attack my family after an agreement had already been reached with your … friend here? Michel, is it?”

Michel cleared his throat. “I explained the agreement—”

“He doesn’t speak for us,” the Italian man snapped.

“But I did tell you, Sal,” Michel argued. “I made it clear what the Irish wanted.”

Sal didn’t even glance in Michel’s direction. In fact, he didn’t take his eyes off Gabbie’s father. “You seem to be mistaken, Casey. You can’t … attack one of ours, and then expect us to let it go simply because you allowed him to live. That’s not how it works.”

Charles’ back tensed as he leaned forward a bit. “And yet, in almost the same breath, you dared to tell me he doesn’t speak for you, lad. Which tells me you’re willing to play word games, but for what goal? What load of shite are you trying to feed me here because you Italian feckers always have something on the side, don’t you?”

Sal stood fast from the table, the chair skidding out from behind him before it crashed to the floor. That sent several men sitting around the pub in booths flying to their feet, too. Someone racked a gun—Gabbie heard the sound echo, but no one was looking away from the three people at the table to really figure out who it was.

Charles stood from his seat, too. Although, he did so with a great deal more grace and care than the Italian man had done. His chair didn’t topple over, and he took the time to fix his suit jacket as he eyed Sal with unbidden contempt.