Page 53 of A Trap So Flawless

Just like me.

Fuck.

She opens the call app and types in what must be her mother’s cell phone number. Then she holds the phone at the side of her head and waits.

It doesn’t take long.

“Mamma?”

At the sound of her mother’s voice on the other end, she breaks. All the tears she hasn’t cried since learning of her da’s demise come pouring out. Her left hand goes to her mouth, her beautiful face crunching up with the force of her sobs.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Seeing her like this makes me feel like someone’s dragging their teeth down the insides of my ribs. It’s like a nails on a chalkboard sensation, but inside my chest cavity. It makes me want to crawl out of my own miserable skin.

I cannot fucking stand it.

She can mourn him if she must. But I’m not going to stand here and watch her do it.

I leave her in the bedroom and go downstairs to the kitchen. I should eat before the rest of this god-forsaken day begins. But as I hunt through the fridge and cupboards, I find myself choosing things Valentina likes instead. I usually have something simple with protein in the morning, if I eat anything at all. But instead of cracking a few eggs into a pan, I’m toasting waffles.

Darragh Gowan, Mad Darragh, feared leader of the Irish mob in Toronto. And I’m standing in front of the toaster, waiting for a frozen pastry to cook just right.

Un-fucking-believable.

It kind of makes me want to hurl the entire toaster, waffles and all, out the window. But all I do is slather butter on them once they pop, and then pour maple syrup on top. Then, I add water and beans to the coffee machine. By the time I’m pushing the button so the machine can do its thing, I hear quiet footsteps on the stairs.

“That smells good.” Her voice is a little raspy, but steady. Apart from the red eyes, there is no sign of her earlier crying jag. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Does putting a processed, frozen pastry inside a machine count as cooking?” I ask, leaning back against the counter and crossing my arms over my chest.

She shrugs. “It’s more than I’ve ever seen any of the men in my family do.”

“Yeah, well. My parents were high or passed out or not home most of the time. You tend to pick up life skills pretty quick in those conditions.”

“Ah. So you’re a self-taught waffle master, then.”

I feel my brows rise. I’m amused, maybe even pleased, by her little jab of dark humour. It’s so much more enjoyable than her pity.

“You’ll have to be the judge of the mastery.” I plop a fork onto her plate. “Eat. Then tell me what your mammy said.”

She doesn’t take her plate to the table. She just hacks into the waffles with her fork standing right there at the counter.

Right there beside me.

“I’d give this a solid seven out of ten,” she says as she finishes the last bite. “Got a little too crunchy around the edges for my liking.”

“Noted.” I sound flippant, but I’m so gone for this girl that I actually am taking note of her waffle preferences. Like a fucking fool. “What did your mammy say? Is she still in Montréal?”

Valentina shakes her head.

“She’s at home. She was worried that I might try to come home and no one would be there. So she left Papà-” Her voice cracks. She clears her throat. “She left Papà’s body in Montréal and came back on her own.”

“Your mammy came back on her own?” I ask in disbelief. “What, like she drove here?”

The woman barely drives and drinks like a fucking fish. And I can’t see Carlotta Titone taking a regular public train like the rest of the peasants.

“So, it sounds like Curse is still being held in Montréal,” she explains. “Elio is there trying to deal with that. But he’s been going back and forth because Deirdre’s at home in Toronto and he’s not willing to be away from her any longer than is necessary.”

Ah, Elio. I used to look down on him for his pathetic obsession with Deirdre. Because I thought it made him weak.

---