Page 23 of A Trap So Flawless (Titans and Tyrants #4)

Darragh

I rise early the next morning, leaving Valentina sleeping in my bed. I shower and get dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve black shirt. Then I put my leather jacket on top.

And beneath the jacket I put my gun.

When I return to the bed, my sleepy little pet doesn’t appear to have stirred at all. She’s just where I left her, dark locks of her wavy hair spread like strands of seaweed across the pillows. It still feels unfair, even after all this time, how perfect her fucking face is.

In another life, in another time or version of myself, I might have taken pleasure in ruining that face. Breaking it. Scarring it.

But here, now, all I can do is watch in worshipful fucking resentment as the morning light bathes each feature, like even the sun is her own personal attendant.

I will never fucking forget what it was like to have it rain every damn day in Dublin until the morning she stepped foot off that plane.

I could just let her sleep. Pretend we’re not in Toronto for any reason in particular. Keep her sleepy and cozy and well-fucked, tucked up in my bed, exactly the way she made me promise that I wouldn’t.

I toss my phone onto the pillow beside her. The bouncing weight of it makes her frown in her sleep.

“It’s time to wake up,” I tell her. “And call your mammy.”

She groans and looks like she might ignore me. Until my words fully sink in, bringing reality with them.

With a strangled sound, she opens her eyes and grabs the phone. Then she pauses, her eyes seeking me out, like she thinks this is some kind of trap.

“Go ahead,” I tell her. I touch my phone to unlock it with my fingerprint. “It’s all yours.”

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.

But I can’t look down at him for that any more. Because now I’m in the exact same fucking gutter with him.

“So Elio came back to check on Deirdre, and he brought Mamma with him.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lips mook matte with sticky sugar.

I’ve never enjoyed maple syrup. The fact we have any here at all is a testament to my shopper’s preferences, not mine.

I still want to lick it off her anyway.

“I want to go as soon as possible,” she goes on. “Mamma’s all alone at the house. Sounds like all the capos and soldiers are either in Montréal right now, or Elio’s got them guarding Deirdre. Mamma is all alone. And unprotected.”

She stares at me.

“Oh, fuck no,” I say, reading the message in her look. “If you think I’m going to be your mammy’s personal bodyguard, then you must have lost your goddamn mind.” I take the empty plate away. “No more waffles for you. The glycemic load is turning your brain into shit.”

I put the plate and fork in the sink while Valentina huffs behind me.

“Well, I don’t know what else to tell you,” she cries, throwing her hands onto her hips. “I’ll be living at home with her.”

“No. You won’t be. You will be living here. Or in whichever house I am occupying at the time.”

I’m not letting her sleep away from me. Not even for one bloody night.

And I sure as shit am not going to move into Vincenzo Titone’s fucking house, even temporarily.

“But-”

“But nothing. You are mine. You go where I go.”

“I’m yours?” Her gaze sparks. “In what capacity? Because you certainly haven’t called me your fiancée lately, and last time I checked, if you married me, then you’d lose your entire Irish inheritance.”

“You know?”

She nods, her mouth doing that tight, frowny thing she sometimes does before she cries.

“Papà told me right before my wedding to Sal. He told me… Told me that he and Callum had made the idea of marriage to me very unappealing to you. He told me you’d be disinherited if you went through with it.

” Her voice gets very small. “And that’s why you didn’t come back for me. ”

Her words are in my guts and they are twisting.

“Pet,” I say hoarsely, “Valentina, precious, I didn’t know about Sal.”

“You didn’t know. Yeah. Yeah.” She nods to herself, then suddenly switches gears and angrily shakes her head. “Do you know why Papà got all pissy with me and told me that? Because I was wearing your fucking ring.”

My chest hurts.

“I wore your ring. Just like you told me to. Wore it on the morning of my wedding to somebody else. Papà ripped it off and told me you were never coming back for me.”

A shimmering tear rolls down her perfect cheek. I catch it beneath my thumb. It burns like acid.

“So forgive me,” she snarls, batting my hand away, “if I married someone else with a proverbial gun to my head. Forgive me if I believed him. Because even now, you’re proving Papà right.”

“Proving him right about what?” My voice shakes. I have to fight to keep from shouting in her face.

“That the change in Callum’s will was enough to keep you away.”

“ Keep me away? ”

I lose the battle and shout it after all. She’s not cowed or frightened by my volume. Quite the opposite. She’s always been a passionate fighter. Probably would have made a good boxer. She stands up straighter as I grip the counter on either side of her, caging her in.

“How the hell can you say that something like that kept me away?” I snap, pressing myself against her. My cock is straining for her. “When I brought you home myself, against my own better judgment? When I fucked you in my bed last night? And then made you fucking breakfast this morning?”

I grab her hips and forcefully spin her around. My hand finds the back of her neck. I give a shove, pinning her flat against the counter. Then, with my other hand, I wrench down her stretchy black pants and thong. I shove my fat tip against her cunt – already wet.

“Is this me keeping my distance, pet?” I ask through clenched teeth as I push inside her. “Is this how I stay away?”

I take up a merciless rhythm, and she pushes back against me just as desperately as I thrust forward.

It’s violence between us. It’s vicious. It’s exquisite and terrible, chaotic and painful and perfect.

Valentina’s spine arches needily as I fuck her, her neck bending back towards me.

I fist her hair with one hand, wrenching her head even further back, then press my other palm to the front of her silken throat.

“I don’t care what the fucking will says,” I hiss against her ear.

“And I don’t need a wedding to make you mine.

You are already mine in all ways. Always.

And just for the fucking record-” My movements grow harder.

I punctuate every word with a brutal drive of my hips.

“I will” – thrust – “always” – thrust – “come” – thrust, thrust, thrust – “back for you.”

No matter who she fucking marries. No matter who her daddy is. No matter what she’s done.

Valentina’s moan splits the air. Her pussy flutters, then contracts on me like a vise. I want to fuck her through it, but I can’t. My balls go tight and then I’m exploding, and it’s all I can do to stay standing.

I’m still inside her when she shakily inhales and says, “Maybe I am yours, Darragh. But I can’t be your fucking goomah. Good Sicilian girls like me can never be mistresses to men like you.”

“A good Sicilian girl,” I grind out, “wouldn’t have my still-twitching cock inside her right now.” I give a small thrust, feeling her silken walls quiver in response. “What are you saying, anyway? Are you saying that you want me to marry you?”

I go still, my cock yet inside her. I don’t breathe as I await her response.

If she told me she wanted me to marry her now…

I’d be powerless. Just like I was powerless when she asked me to come with her back to Toronto.

I’d probably burn my grandda’s townhouse down myself if only she’d willingly marry me among the ashes.

“That isn’t what I’m saying,” she replies flatly. “At all.”

Once, when I was sixteen, I took a very hard blow from my grandda to the head. That’s what her response feels like. Like a punch that comes very close to killing me.

I don’t know why it should stun me. I’ve always known any marriage to her would have to be forced. Otherwise, I would have gotten down on one knee with that ring, like some normal fucking sap, instead of arranging it all behind her back.

She might reach for my hand – or my cock – when she’s lonely or horny or feeling afraid of the dark. She might even beg me to stay with her.

But she won’t beg me to marry her.

And when she was free in Montréal, when she had her chance to run, when she could have gone anywhere, done anything…

She booked a flight to London. Not to Dublin.

When she learned of her da’s death, she said she’d come back to Toronto with or without me.

She didn’t choose me.

As I slide my cock out of her and fix my clothes, I grimly confront the fact that she probably never will.