Page 8 of A Trap So Flawless

“Maybe you pretend this new will never existed then, eh?” My fingers tighten involuntarily. Murphy jerks in my hold. “File this new one away somewhere nice and safe. Like the bottom of a fucking fireplace.”

I shove him hard, sending him stumbling and gasping. He almost topples over, only saving his balance at the last moment by grabbing the side of the casket. He stares down at Grandda’s face, panting.

“Those… were his wishes…” he wheezes. “I won’t change them for you.” He turns towards me, his gaze watery but steady. “Will you kill me, then? Kill me here in the house of the Lord? Kill the witnesses to the new will, kill my staff? I know you’re capable. You’ve got all of Callum’s anger and power and none of his control.”

Control. If I had me some of that, I wouldn’t be engaged to the daughter of my most hated enemy. I wouldn’t be marrying a fucking Sicilian, throwing away everything my grandda worked for, because I can’t get a grip on my own twisted desires.

I wouldn’t be breaking my own fucking rules.

I am slipping.

If I’m not careful, I will fall.

A sudden beam of sunlight illuminates a stained-glass window above us. It sends a spear of scarlet light straight down onto my grandda’s corpse. Like it’s trying to push him all the way down to Hell.

But Hell is here. I’m already fucking in it.

I approach the casket once more. Murphy takes a wobbly step away from me.

I lift the bottle of whiskey over Grandda’s head. I consider smashing it down. Caving his dead face right in.

Instead, I pull out the cork at the top. Tipping the bottle, I let the contents spill down over his greyish skin, soaking into his hair and the suit somebody’s dressed him in. The scent of whiskey mixes with the sour chemicals of death. When the bottle’s empty, I toss it into the casket, followed by the cork.

Then, I close up the entire thing and leave.

A few minutes after I exit the church through a side door, Rowan follows.

“Are we staying for the funeral?”

“No,” I bite out. The rain has stopped for now, everything glittering green and grey. “I need to get a copy of that new will. See who stands to benefit from me being taken out.”

It could be a hint as to who killed Callum. Who would stand to gain?

“There is no other heir,” Rowan says. “I spoke briefly with Murphy just now. If you negate your claim through marriage, everything gets put into a trust.”

“A trust that Murphy will manage?”

Maybe I should have killed the fucker. Squeezed and squeezed that skinny neck until his eyes popped like grapes.

“I think you know,” Rowan says in a low voice, “that Murphy would rather not be responsible for all of this. It wasn’t him.”

I know it wasn’t him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he advised heavily against the decision Grandda made in the end. He likely knew how messy this would be. Knew his life could be in danger as a result. Murphy was probably the most loyal son of a bitch Callum had in his circle.

Besides me.

But what of that loyalty now? Now, when my grandda’s chosen to strip everything he can from me? I oscillate between nuclear fury and a grim sort of understanding.

Because, in his own shitty way, I know he thought he was doing this for me, not to me. He saw his own son lose himself in obsession. Drugs. Drink. My mammy.

Love for my mammy killed him dead as surely as that fucking rope.

I promised my grandda that would never be me.

And here I am – here I fucking am – already grinding the gears of my brain into dust trying to figure out how I can keep my inheritance while keeping Valentina, too.

Two months ago, this wouldn’t have even been a question. I would have laughed out loud at the idea that a bride would be worth forfeiting everything I’m fucking owed.

Not now. Now, I’m running through scenarios. I could keep her as my fiancée for a while until I figure out what to do. But something tells me Vinny won’t tolerate a drawn-out engagement.

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