Page 2 of A Trap So Flawless

“Preliminary reports say there was a lot of alcohol in his system.”

“Bullshit,” I shoot back. Not bullshit that my grandda was drinking, but bullshit that it would have contributed to his drowning. He could hold his liquor better than anyone. The man could have walked a tightrope over that goddamn river after drinking all night. There isn’t enough alcohol in all of Dublin that would have caused Callum Gowan to… what? Just fall over a guardrail, hit his head, and sink into the water?

It reeks. And it reminds me of the drowning on Georgian Bay. Connor McNair, wannabe rapist. He was drunk, too. He had blunt force trauma, too. He drowned, too.

And none of that shit was by mistake.

It was fucking by design.

Now I just need to know who had similar designs on Callum Gowan. Not an easy task to narrow it down. A man like him probably has dozens of names on that list.

Had. Had dozens of names.

Shit.

“Gardaí will be no fucking help,” I mutter. “Either some dirty son of a bitch working for one of grandda’s enemies is helping cover something up, or they’re so eager to celebrate the death of a crime lord that they don’t give two flying fucks who did it.”

Rowan gives a grunt of agreement. He knows what I know. Callum Gowan didn’t fucking drown. Or if he did, it’s because somebody smashed his bloody brains in first.

Outside, grey clamps down on green. Clouds as thick as wool press downwards from above and buildings punch up to meet them as we leave behind the rolling rural grass for Dublin streets. Before I know it, we’re in Ballymun in North Dublin. Blocks of flats just like the one I lived in – and my parents died in – line the streets like gravestones.

There’s a paralyzing sort of nostalgia, being back here. Ireland is in me so deep I couldn’t cut it out even if I tried. Those years, those fights, the blood. The streets that made me.

It’s all here.

Except for Callum Gowan.

It’s fucking jarring, the way the buildings still stand, the cars still drive, and the rain still pisses down without him. Feels like all of Dublin should have ground to a halt in the vacuum of his absence. Everything collapsing in on itself.

But the city survived. And so did I.

I yank out my phone and stab my finger at the screen, navigating to my contacts and scrolling down to the single word the makes me feel like my blood is acid inside my own veins. Pet.

I’ve had Valentina’s number for quite a while now.

Never used it.

Fucking hell. I want to. Want to hear the perfect poison of her voice.

She’d probably hang up the moment she knew it was me. Or maybe take just long enough on the line to repeat the words she said to me last night.

I hate you.

My lips curl at the memory. I’ll take her hate. Drink it down like the finest whiskey.

She’s mine whether she likes it – likes me – or not.

Chapter 2

Valentina

Papà hasn’t spoken to me in three days. Not since the night of the masquerade ball. Not that I don’t see him – I do. He’s come with Mamma, Curse, and me to Montréal. But he doesn’t look at me whenever we’re in the same room.

Not that I’m too keen on speaking to him, either. I doubt I’m even capable of it. It would probably devolve into a shouting match.

He bound me to Darragh Gowan without ever even letting me know.

And now, he’s severed that bond before it even formed, arranging my engagement to another man entirely. A man I’ve never even met. A man more than twenty years my senior. Salvatore Di Mauro.

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