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

I bend over the casket. His face looks fine – apart from the fact that he’s a goddamn dead man. But there’s no bruising, and not really any swelling that I can make out. He must not have been in the water for long.

I slide my free hand beneath his neck and lift his head. Ah. There it is. On the back of his head, there’s a wound clearly visible through his thinning hair. An angry gash that’s been sutured.

Fucking cowards. Putrid fucking scum. They hit him from behind.

Probably because everyone in this fucking city knows that nobody could take down Callum Gowan in a fair fucking fight. They’d be swallowing their own teeth before they even had a chance to raise their fist.

Or their crowbar.

Or their gun.

I’m going to find whoever did this even if I have to burn all of Dublin down to do it.

Fire rips through my head, followed by blood that does nothing to extinguish the flames. It’s carnage inside me. And behind it all, beyond the smell of doom and smoke…

It’s her. Still there. Even now.

The quiet clearing of a throat has me lowering my grandda’s head back down onto its silky pillow in the casket.

“I don’t want to disturb your time with him,” Murphy says.

“Then fucking don’t.”

His mouth thins. But he doesn’t back down or run away.

“We have some business to discuss. I wanted to find a quiet moment with you. The will.”

“What about the will?” I blink, and even that simple action scrapes.

I need a fucking drink. Or twenty.

“I’m his sole heir. What else is there to know?” I press, straightening up to face him fully instead of twisting to regard him from over my shoulder.

Murphy stiffens, then sighs, and I already know I’m not going to like what he’s about to say next.

“He changed his will not long before his death,” Murphy says evenly, emotionlessly, as if doing his best not to provoke a reaction. “You will only inherit his businesses, his house, and his wealth, if…”

“If?” I hiss, taking a warning stride towards him.

“If you do not marry.”

I feel Rowan tense nearby, though I don’t hear his swift intake of breath. I can only hear my own. My inhales are ragged, my heartbeat loud enough to bring the fucking roof down on all our heads.

“When?”

“A little over a fortnight ago.”

After I left Toronto for Halifax.

After I told him about the engagement.

And now he’s too fucking dead to take it back.

Flame and blood and rage. My bones are too big for my skin. My free hand rises practically of its own accord. Seizes Murphy by the throat. I drag him to me.

“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.

Something tells me Valentina won’t, either.

I might call her my pet, but she’d try to gnaw her way out of any cage I could construct for her that didn’t have the legal stamp of marriage on it.

She won’t bow to being my mistress. And if I don’t make good on my offer of marriage, Vinny will make sure some Italian fucker does.

I’ll kill him. Slice his guts out if he even tries…

“Who?”

Rowan’s question makes me realize I’ve said those last words out loud.

I shake my head and start walking. The line of people outside the front of the church is gone now. Everyone’s been let inside. I wonder if somebody tried to wipe all the whiskey away. Or if they’re just going to leave the casket shut.

There’s only one person out here now – a man – who unfolds himself from the backseat of a black luxury sedan.

He’s tall, dressed immaculately in a cream-coloured suit with a soft grey sweater beneath.

Some fancy looking fabric that moths would love.

Cashmere or some shit like that. Odd choice for a funeral.

But he isn’t heading for the doors with those long-legged strides.

He’s heading for us.

“Darragh Gowan.” He speaks with a London accent, a posh one that makes me think of Buckingham Palace and boarding schools. Black hair is swept back from thick brows and smoke-grey eyes.

“Who’s asking?”

“Oh,” he gives a slight chuckle, showing large, white teeth that contrast with the olive richness of his complexion. “I wasn’t asking.”

I crack my knuckles, trying to release some of the tension drumming up at the backs of my eyes. I’m about to tell him to cut the shit before I cut out his tongue when he holds out a hand and says, “I’m Amos al-Khatib. I am – was, I suppose – in business with Callum Gowan.”

I stare at his outstretched hand. Stare at the perfect line of his ivory sleeve. It would be so easily stained with blood. I can almost see it now. Seeping from edge to elbow.

Then, he says something that has me jerking my gaze right back up to his face. Straight to the strange smoke of those eyes.

“I know who killed him.”