Page 15 of A Trap So Flawless

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the obliterating punch of pain – not rage, not the familiarity of fury, but fucking pain – that suddenly blinds me. Whatever it is, my vision slides and warps, like someone’s poured oil across my eyes. I can’t see this strange, married, blonde Valentina clearly anymore. I can barely see the phone at all.

I think I’m having a goddamn stroke.

I think I’m fucking bleeding.

There’s a hot stripe of moisture on my cheek. But when I reach up to wipe it away, it isn’t red. It’s colourless and watery. I blink, and feel more of that moisture sluice down my skin at the same moment that my vision clears.

Holy fuck.

I can’t let this happen. Can’t let this be what I’ve become. Fucking weeping in a warehouse because of a picture on a phone. Because of her.

If my grandda could only see me now.

But he can’t. Because he’s in the ground. Maybe rolling in his grave at what’s become of me. But dead all the same.

And you know who isn’t?

Jim fucking Shaw.

I turn from Rowan, turn from the photo and the phone and my foolish fucking ruin. The knife in my hand feels like salvation. A sacred, soothing weight as I stalk back to the chair.

“You know, if we were in Morocco,” Amos says coolly as I pass him, “I’d make him walk out into the desert until he went mad and died.”

“We’re not in Morocco,” I reply through clenched teeth, raising my knife. “We’re in Dublin.”

And in Dublin, I am going to make him bleed.

Chapter 6

Valentina

There’s a big juicy steak on my plate at Sofia’s. Usually, I love steak. As rare as I can get it. It looks like a good one, too. But I can’t force myself to take a single bite. Every time I lift my fork and knife, my throat closes up when the soft, low light catches on my new wedding band.

Except, I’m not convinced that it’s new at all. The white gold band shows signs of wear. A few pale knicks and scratches.

I think this was Sofia’s ring.

“You should eat,” Sal grunts, sawing into his own steak beside me. “I don’t need you passing out on me tonight.”

Tonight. After dinner. After this ridiculous reception. When I have to go home with him and lie down in the bed of his first wife’s ghost and consummate our marriage.

Passing out would be a blessing.

My left ring finger itches underneath the band and around the knuckle, the skin still raw from earlier. Papà and Mamma are across from Sal and me at the table, along with Sal’s consigliere and his chatty, busty wife. Apart from that, it’s mostly just Sal’s men, some of Papà’s other Montréal allies and their wives, and Curse in attendance at the reception. The wedding was a small one. There wasn’t even a photographer, besides Mamma trying to take some frantic shots on her phone when she realized no one was documenting the day.

I can feel Sal watching me from the side as his jaw works, the muscles pumping beneath the shaven skin while he chews. If this is some test of wifely obedience, I think I’m already failing.

Might end up at the bottom of the stairs on my very first night with him.

It should be a terrifying thought, but fear has been buried under a cascading numbness that goes from my head all the way down my spine to my toes. It’s only early evening, but I’m already exhausted.

I’m only nineteen, but I feel so fucking old.

I curl my left hand into a fist and raise my right hand. Only my right hand doesn’t go for my fork, it goes for my glass of wine. I hold it gingerly by the stem, swirling the burgundy liquid in front of my face, letting Papà’s words from earlier filter through my head.

He’ll be disinherited if he marries.

He isn’t coming back for you.

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