Page 16 of A Trap So Flawless

Despite that, despite everything, I still half-expected Darragh to come blasting through the church doors before I had a chance to say “I do.”

He didn’t. And I pretend that a part of me wasn’t disappointed, wasn’t just a little bit hurt, by that.

Pathetic. Literally pathetic. I shake my head at myself and bring my glass closer to my face. Hopefully I can drown just a little of that disgust for myself in these sweetened waves of wine.

But I never get to take a single sip.

The glass explodes in my hand.

I stare dazedly at what used to be my wineglass. It’s only a stem between my fingers now, a sad little spindle of glass with a lethal, broken end. Some distant part of my brain surmises that this must have been Darragh’s revenge. He put a tiny bomb inside my drink. Maybe he hoped that I would swallow it.

Or that I’d choke on it.

There’s wine all over me. My sleeves are spattered, the front of my dress soaked red like somebody’s gone and slit my throat above the sweetheart neckline. Even the side of my face is somehow wet. I bring my quivering left hand to my cheek, smearing thick, warm moisture. So slow, so slow it’s like a movie, so slow it’s like a dream, I turn to the left to see my new husband with a dark hole where most of his face used to be.

And then, everything happens fast. A cacophony rushes in, like someone’s just yanked cotton from my ears. The sound of screaming and swearing and glass shattering and the revving of engines outside. Pop pop pop.

I gasp as a set of mercilessly strong hands drags me from my chair. Curse has me in his grip, and he’s hauling me further into the restaurant, away from the broken front windows and the road with the flashing metal and spinning wheels of motorcycles beyond.

“Stay here,” he says, shoving me down behind the barrier of the bar. Then he rises and disappears, a gun in his tattooed hand.

I don’t dare look out from behind the bar yet. I’m stubborn, maybe even stupid, like Papà said, but I don’t need my own face looking like Sal’s does now. The image of it is as crisp and clear in my mind as it would be if I were gazing upon him now. I’m not. I’m staring at the ruined front of my own dress, wine and blood converging in a nauseating set of stains.

I can’t breathe.

I’m going to throw up.

I have to get this fucking dress off of me.

Despite the fact I just survived a goddamn shootout, apparently the most pressing issue in my survival is the sudden, visceral need to disrobe. I should be worried about what to do next. I should be worried about what’s become of Curse, or Mamma. But I guess some primal part of my brain is trying to protect me. And I guess it’s focusing on one of the very small things within my control.

Honestly, I don’t care about the psychology behind it. All I care about in this moment is getting this dress off before I puke or pass out.

I’m still holding the broken stem of the wine glass. I take the sharp end of it and hook it into a seam in the bodice. I don’t stop hacking away until a tear opens up. I gasp at the sight of it, like it’s the first sign of light I’ve seen in days of darkness.

Dropping the broken glass, I get my fingers inside the hole and yank for all I’m worth, feeling the fabric go taut with resistance, then give out. The dress tears harshly, loudly. It sounds like the teeth of a zipper getting yanked apart. Soon, the entire side of my dress is split, from armpit to hip. It gives me enough leeway to shunt my shoulders backwards to peel my arms out of the sleeves. Panting desperately, I wrench it down to my hips and then kick it viciously off my legs until it's nothing but a torn and dirtied pile of silk on the floor. My chest heaves and burns. I stare at it the way I’d stare at a viper, as if it can somehow still hurt me now.

But it’s just a dress. Something pretty. Something beautiful.

Something ruined.

I’m still breathing hard, but getting the dress off has released the pressure points of constriction inside me. I don’t feel like I’m going to hurl or black out now. I feel like I can think again. I consider taking off my shoes, because it will be easier to run without them if I need to. But a set of shoes – even ones with heels as high as these – will probably be better than bare feet among the broken glass. The rest of me is awfully exposed. All I’ve got on besides the shoes and the makeup is the matching lingerie set of lacy white bra and panties. From where I’m seated on the floor, I spy a set of open shelves with what look like shirts or aprons or something all folded up nicely. I seize on one and pull it out.

It's a white dress shirt, the sort that the waiters wear. I don’t bother trying to undo the buttons. I doubt my fingers are capable of that right now. I pull it on over my head. It must be for a big guy. It tents around me.

Somewhat dressed now, I still myself for a moment to listen. What I want to do is peek out from behind the bar, but the way things are going for me lately, that would only be an invitation for a bullet to find its way to my forehead.

But I don’t hear any gunfire now.

I hear frantic conversations in English and Italian. I hear the scream of sirens in the distance.

I hear Mamma crying.

It’s that sound that has me scrambling out from behind the bar, my heart punching up to my throat. My legs feel weak and watery as I rise and scan the room for her.

She’s on the floor, hunched over and sobbing so hard I think she must be badly hurt. Like she’s taken a bullet to the leg or the gut.

Mamma. No sound comes out, though I’m sure my lips move. I rush towards her.

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