Page 6 of A Trap So Flawless (Titans and Tyrants #4)
I take the dress from the garment bag and step into it.
I hear – practically feel – Mamma’s exhale of relief.
She says nothing as she does up the fasteners at the back.
It’s hard to breathe in this thing. The bodice is tight, and it’s got heavy long sleeves.
Just perfect for a September wedding on a day that promises to be unseasonably hot.
Outside, the sun shines merrily down, like all is right in the world.
Too soon, the dress is on and done up. Mamma says something under her breath – it sounds like a prayer – then grabs her glass of champagne and heads into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
I stare at that shut door, feeling like something is slamming shut on my own future.
My hands tingle, then begin to go numb at my sides.
Trying to focus my fingers on something so that they don’t lose feeling entirely, I grab my clutch purse and start rifling through it. My trembling fingertips brush, then seize, that smooth, black box.
I take it out and snap it open.
And then, I put on Darragh’s ring.
No one notices at first. I head outside with Mamma, feeling like the ring on my finger is as big and bold as a flashing neon sign. But not one person says a word. Black vehicles line the sunlit avenue. Papà’s and Sal’s.
“Carlotta. You go with Curse.”
Papà’s voice cuts through the pretty scene. I turn to find him coming out the dark green door behind us, dressed in a suit, his hair slicked back.
His eyes settle on me. “I’ll drive the bride.”
Foreboding sinks through me with cold claws.
Childish visions of me somehow escaping on the way to the church, a triumphant runaway bride, get crushed under the heel of his expensive Italian leather shoes.
Papà won’t let me out of his sight until this ceremony is done.
He’ll hold my fucking hand and make me sign the Declaration of Marriage if he has to.
The wedding has been kept fairly small. Every guest there knows the reality of our two families.
No one will bat an eye at a young bride’s signature being forced – practically forged – on the page by her papà.
No one will lift a finger to help me.
Papà doesn’t wait for acknowledgement from me. He approaches the driver’s side of a sleek black SUV. When I reach for the door handle nearest me, he grunts, “Not there. Front seat.”
He probably thinks if I sit in the backseat, I’ll try to throw myself out into traffic or something. Maybe he suspects I’ll still try it from the front. But at least he can grab me from there and haul me back.
I hold my skirts with my right hand, my left hand going to the door handle. Sunlight catches on the bright, beautiful yellow of the pear-shaped diamond of the ring, sending hot bolts of multi-colored fire spangling against the vehicle’s black paint as I pull open the door.
Inside the vehicle, Papà doesn’t speak as he drives.
So I do. I fill the silence, recognizing that this is the first time I’ve had alone with him since coming to Montréal.
If there’s ever a chance to change the course of things, it’s now.
I tell him that I don’t want to live in Montréal.
That I don’t want to marry Sal. That I’ll probably make him miserable as his wife.
That finally earns me a snort and a growling retort.
“You’ll learn to be a good wife,” he says bluntly, “or you’ll learn it from the back of Sal’s hand.”
My mouth floods with the tang of metal. I still remember the ringing slap Papà gave me when he found out I’d lied to him about Dario’s death.
“From the back of his hand,” I reply flatly, “or from the bottom of his stairs?”
His eyes slide to me from the side, and a little of the anger has gone out of them.
“Sofia drank too much,” he finally grunts, as if that’s that. As if that somehow makes it all better. As if that even makes sense.
“And your wife doesn’t?” I scoff, amazed that he would think that’s some kind of convincing excuse. “Doesn’t matter how drunk she gets, I’ve never seen her fall down a set of stairs to her death!”
“ Basta! ” he snaps. “I don’t want to hear another word from you about your mamma!”
“Fine,” I shoot back, my temper rising in tandem with his. He’s the one I got it from, after all. “Then why don’t we talk about Darragh?”
Sal’s restaurant – Sofia’s – is visible for a few moments as we drive by. We’re almost at the church.
“I don’t want to hear a word about him either!” Papà thunders.
“Well, you have to! What the hell do you think is going to happen when he comes back to Canada? He’s just going to let us all go live our lives without him, all hunky dory?”
The car slams to a sudden stop. We’ve reached the church. I pretend I don’t notice, pretend it isn’t even there, focusing the entire force of my attention on Papà.
“He isn’t coming back for you.”
It’s silly, but I can’t help it. I jerk with the impact of the words as surely as if they came in the form of a slap.
I’ll be back for you.
It was the last thing Darragh said to me.
A promise. A threat. A vow forged in the blood between my legs.
“What are you talking about?” There’s a tremor in my voice. It matches the renewed jittering of my fingers in my lap. “You can’t seriously believe that.” Mad Dog Darragh. Like a hound with a bone. Doesn’t matter how far I go. How deep I’m buried. He’ll find me.
“The engagement deal I struck with that Irish fuck was built on a foundation of false pretenses,” Papà says.
He aims a furious finger at my throat. “He’s a liar.
Just like you. He has no right to you now.
Not to mention the fact that I’ve spoken with Callum Gowan.
We’ve made the prospect of marrying you distinctly unappealing to him now. ”
“What?!”
“He’ll be disinherited if he marries. All the Irish business. All that wealth.” He snaps his fingers. “Gone.”
“You… You’ve been in contact with his grandfather? What the hell did you offer him?”
“I didn’t have to offer him shit,” Papà sneers.
“He wanted this marriage even less than I did. He figured a little change in his will might scare his batshit fucking crazy grandson straight.” His eyes suddenly fall to the hands twisted together in my lap.
His brows draw themselves into a harsh line.
His nostrils flare. “What the fuck is that?”
“An engagement ring.”
“Sal never gave me a ring to give you.” Realization dawns, but that dawn is darkness on his face. “It’s from Gowan, isn’t it?”
I nod. A stilted jerk of my head.
“Can’t believe he actually fucking bought a ring,” Papà spits. “And I can’t believe you’d be stupid enough, and stubborn enough, to wear it to your wedding today.” A vein throbs at his throat. He holds out his hand. “Give it to me.”
“No.” The word’s out before I can call it back. I bite my lip, tasting the vanilla smear of my own lipstick. “It’s mine.”
“Everything you have, everything you fucking are, is mine!” Papà explodes.
“Until you walk down that fucking aisle and sign yourself over to Sal! Do you understand me?” He takes an uneven breath, then stabs his open palm closer, right below my throat.
“Give it to me. Now. Before I break your finger trying to take it off of you myself.”
I clutch my hands together, my left inside my right. As if to protect the glittering ring. It’s bizarre, almost comical, the attachment I have to it now. I didn’t even want it in the first place.
Papà’s eyes flash. He seizes my left wrist. I cry out, trying to drag my hand out of his grip, but I should know by now it’s futile.
At least he doesn’t break my finger. He could if he wanted to. But I think all he really wants is to get the ring off of me. The band yanks harshly against my knuckle, scraping the skin.
“Stop!” I gasp as the ring disappears into his fist. “What are you going to do with it?”
Why the hell does it even matter? Why do I even bother asking?
But I can’t stop myself. I’m suddenly frantic. Like what happens to that ring is somehow even more important than what happens to me.
“I’m going to keep it,” he says, “because this doesn’t even scratch the surface of what he – what both of you – owe me.
And if he dares to come within a hundred metres of a Titone after this, or a Di Mauro…
” He drops the ring into his suit jacket pocket, pushing it down below the pocket square.
“Then I am going to take this ring and shove it down his fucking throat.”
Papà exits the vehicle, and before I can even take a breath he’s at my side, yanking the passenger door open. “Followed,” he adds, his bulk blocking out the sun, blocking out everything , “by a bullet.”