Page 12 of A Trap So Flawless

I take it out and snap it open.

And then, I put on Darragh’s ring.

No one notices at first. I head outside with Mamma, feeling like the ring on my finger is as big and bold as a flashing neon sign. But not one person says a word. Black vehicles line the sunlit avenue. Papà’s and Sal’s.

“Carlotta. You go with Curse.”

Papà’s voice cuts through the pretty scene. I turn to find him coming out the dark green door behind us, dressed in a suit, his hair slicked back.

His eyes settle on me. “I’ll drive the bride.”

Foreboding sinks through me with cold claws. Childish visions of me somehow escaping on the way to the church, a triumphant runaway bride, get crushed under the heel of his expensive Italian leather shoes. Papà won’t let me out of his sight until this ceremony is done. He’ll hold my fucking hand and make me sign the Declaration of Marriage if he has to. The wedding has been kept fairly small. Every guest there knows the reality of our two families. No one will bat an eye at a young bride’s signature being forced – practically forged – on the page by her papà.

No one will lift a finger to help me.

Papà doesn’t wait for acknowledgement from me. He approaches the driver’s side of a sleek black SUV. When I reach for the door handle nearest me, he grunts, “Not there. Front seat.”

He probably thinks if I sit in the backseat, I’ll try to throw myself out into traffic or something. Maybe he suspects I’ll still try it from the front. But at least he can grab me from there and haul me back.

I hold my skirts with my right hand, my left hand going to the door handle. Sunlight catches on the bright, beautiful yellow of the pear-shaped diamond of the ring, sending hot bolts of multi-colored fire spangling against the vehicle’s black paint as I pull open the door.

Inside the vehicle, Papà doesn’t speak as he drives.

So I do. I fill the silence, recognizing that this is the first time I’ve had alone with him since coming to Montréal. If there’s ever a chance to change the course of things, it’s now. I tell him that I don’t want to live in Montréal. That I don’t want to marry Sal. That I’ll probably make him miserable as his wife. That finally earns me a snort and a growling retort.

“You’ll learn to be a good wife,” he says bluntly, “or you’ll learn it from the back of Sal’s hand.”

My mouth floods with the tang of metal. I still remember the ringing slap Papà gave me when he found out I’d lied to him about Dario’s death.

“From the back of his hand,” I reply flatly, “or from the bottom of his stairs?”

His eyes slide to me from the side, and a little of the anger has gone out of them.

“Sofia drank too much,” he finally grunts, as if that’s that. As if that somehow makes it all better. As if that even makes sense.

“And your wife doesn’t?” I scoff, amazed that he would think that’s some kind of convincing excuse. “Doesn’t matter how drunk she gets, I’ve never seen her fall down a set of stairs to her death!”

“Basta!” he snaps. “I don’t want to hear another word from you about your mamma!”

“Fine,” I shoot back, my temper rising in tandem with his. He’s the one I got it from, after all. “Then why don’t we talk about Darragh?”

Sal’s restaurant – Sofia’s – is visible for a few moments as we drive by. We’re almost at the church.

“I don’t want to hear a word about him either!” Papà thunders.

“Well, you have to! What the hell do you think is going to happen when he comes back to Canada? He’s just going to let us all go live our lives without him, all hunky dory?”

The car slams to a sudden stop. We’ve reached the church. I pretend I don’t notice, pretend it isn’t even there, focusing the entire force of my attention on Papà.

“He isn’t coming back for you.”

It’s silly, but I can’t help it. I jerk with the impact of the words as surely as if they came in the form of a slap.

I’ll be back for you.

It was the last thing Darragh said to me.

A promise. A threat. A vow forged in the blood between my legs.

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