Page 9 of A Trap So Flawless (Titans and Tyrants #4)
Valentina
T he police took my shirt as evidence.
They took Curse too. Along with most of the other men who were at the reception.
For questioning, I assume, though in Curse’s case, if could be for something worse.
The last image I have is him leaving me behind that bar with his gun drawn.
I don’t know if he killed any of the bikers in the street.
We have contacts in the Montréal police and the justice system here, but I still don’t know when he’ll be back.
I don’t know when Papà will be back, either. He’s in surgery now at a university hospital downtown. Mamma is there, having travelled with Papà by ambulance straight from Sofia’s . I’m alone at our townhouse after being dropped off by the police, my own round of questioning finished for now.
I shower, scrubbing myself thoroughly despite my exhaustion. I emerge raw, naked, makeup-less. But not ringless. I towel dry my hair roughly, then twist it into a tight knot on the top of my head. The pulling sensation at my scalp feels weirdly good. Reminds me I’m alive.
My phone, which is on the bathroom counter, begins to vibrate, and I have to swallow a panicked yelp. I take three deep breaths, then hover my finger over the screen, about to ignore the call.
Until I see that it’s Elio.
I accept the call and I hear his voice before the phone even reaches my ear.
“What the fuck happened?”
“Bikers,” I reply. “I think. I saw motorcycles.”
He breathes out harshly on the other end.
“Curse just called me from fucking jail. He shot two of them. It’s going to take me some time to get his situation sorted out. And what about Uncle Vinny? Curse said he thought he got hit.”
“Yeah.” I’m surprised by how quiet and even my voice is. There’s no tremor, nothing to indicate I was the one trying to keep his blood in is body with my own two hands. “In the chest. He’s in surgery.”
“ Christo Santo .”
“Sal got hit too,” I say woodenly. “In the head. I guess I’m a widow now.”
I try to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, but it’s obscured by steam from the shower. Like a veil.
“I’m coming down there tonight,” Elio says. “I just need to make sure Deirdre’s safe first. The bratva are making some fucking moves right now.” He swears. “This is the worst possible timing for us to show weakness.”
“Timing. Yeah,” I reply without emotion. “And what about the timing of Darragh’s return?”
Silence.
The quietness enrages me. Hot anger floods my body, piercing the numbness.
“Answer me, Elio! Curse is with the police. Papà might not make it through the fucking night.” My voice cracks on that last part, but I keep on going, my voice rising higher and higher. “What the hell do you plan to do about Darragh in the meantime?”
“Why are you asking me about Darragh?” Elio replies. “He hasn’t been a problem since he used my ribs and kidney as his own personal punching bag.”
Oh my God. He doesn’t know. Papà didn’t tell him. Neither did Curse or Mamma…
Probably because they all knew he’d lose his fucking shit.
“Darragh is the one who threw Dario off that roof.”
“What the fuck are you-”
“And I was engaged to him. Am engaged to him.”
“To Dario? I know, I-”
“No!” I practically screech. “To Darragh Gowan! He gave me a ring! And it was all sanctioned by Papà! But then Papà found out about what happened on that rooftop, found out about the lies, and he dragged me here to marry Sal instead. I don’t think Darragh even knows.”
If this were a video call, I would hold up my ring finger like I was giving him the bird. Show him the heartbreakingly perfect yellow diamond.
“Well, Darragh coming back to Canada and finding out his fiancée has been married off to another man was not a variable I was fucking anticipating,” Elio says dryly.
“I will come to Montréal tonight,” he reiterates.
“I will see what can be done about Curse. And I will see to it that Darragh never fucking gets his hands on you.”
If only he knew. If only he knew how many times Darragh’s had his hands on me already…
How much I’ve grown to hate it and to crave it.
“Don’t do anything. Don’t talk to anyone,” he orders me. “Stay exactly where you fucking are.”
He hangs up without another word.
For a moment, I follow his commands. I remain motionless in the steamy bathroom with my phone pressed to my damp ear.
And then I’m moving. Getting dressed and grabbing my shit. A bag. Money. Credit cards. Extra clothes and toiletries. I’ve even got my passport, because there was talk of a honeymoon after the wedding. I toss that in as well.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be waiting, like a good little principessa , at the house.
Or joining Mamma at the hospital to support her and wait for news on Papà.
But I just… I can’t. I fucking can’t. Papà’s the reason we’re in this city at all.
He would have happily married me off to someone who, on a balance of probabilities, probably murdered his first wife.
I did my best to staunch his bleeding. I did my best to save him.
But there’s nothing else left for him inside me. Not now. Not here.
I need to get out of this city. I can’t be here when Elio arrives.
Stay exactly where you fucking are , my cousin said.
I won’t. I can’t.
I can’t submit to Titone men any longer. I’m going to lose my mind – lose myself – if I have to obey one more command. If I let one more person choose my future for me.
There’s no one guarding me for once. No men at the door, no men at the windows. Everyone’s been too dispersed in the chaos, being questioned by police or getting treated in hospital.
I’m alone, and through the heavy haze of trauma and blood that dulls my senses, I think I can taste freedom.
I walk out the door and I leave my phone behind.
I stop at the bottom of the steps outside the townhouse, waiting for someone with an Italian name and a gun to stop me. But no one does. No one’s out here except for the occasional car driving by and an older woman walking her tiny dog.
I start walking, slowly at first, but gaining speed with every step.
Anxiety jangles in my nerves as I head towards a busier intersection.
There’s an ATM there. When I reach it, I shove in one of my credit cards and withdraw as much as the ATM will allow, which turns out to be one thousand dollars.
I’m not sure a thousand bucks is going get me that far in the grand scheme of things, but it’s a start.
I can find another ATM tomorrow. Ultimately, I’ll need to rely on cash more than credit cards, otherwise Elio will have no trouble tracking my financial transactions and locations once he discovers that I’m missing.
Missing. My insides squeeze with sudden guilt. To them, I will be missing. Mamma, who’s already in rough shape, is going to be hysterical.
But I can’t keep making decisions for other people’s benefit. At some point, it has to be enough. Sal’s gruesome death has provided me an opportunity I might never get again as long as I live. The chance to make a choice for myself.
What that choice will be, I’m not entirely sure yet. I doubt I can just disappear forever and make a new life for myself somewhere. Elio and Curse would find me eventually.
But, at least for now…
For now, I can choose my own path.
A white and red vehicle approaches on the road, the telltale colours of a Montréal taxi. I practically run into the busy street to hail it. It stops, and when I get in the driver asks, first in French, then in English, where I want to go.
Where I want to go?
Fucking anywhere. Anywhere but here.
“The airport,” I reply, closing the car door behind me.
I pay the driver in cash when he drops me off at the international departures area of the Montréal airport.
Inside, I’m able to use a different credit card at an ATM to withdraw another thousand dollars.
I try to do it somewhat furtively, stuffing the bills into my bag and hoping no one notices.
I don’t plan on getting mugged in the middle of a busy Canadian airport, but I don’t think there’s anywhere on Earth that it’s truly safe to brandish big wads of bills like the one’s I’m carrying.
Next, I manoeuvre through the various throngs of people to the closest Canadian airline desk. When I tell the polished woman behind the desk I want to get on the next flight, she scans her screen then says, “We have a flight to London in thirty-seven minutes.”
“London, England, right?” I press. “Not London, Ontario?”
The last thing I need is to think I’ve gotten on some international flight only to land back in my own damn province. But the agent smiles and nods.
“Yes, that’s correct. It’s headed for the United Kingdom.”
“Great,” I say, dropping my bag heavily at my feet and blowing a strand of still-damp hair out of my eyes. “I’ll be paying for that in cash.”
Her nicely groomed eyebrows rise at that, but she processes the transaction anyway. My bag is small enough that I can take it as a carry-on, so I don’t need to linger at the desk once she’s printed out my boarding pass. I’ll have to hustle through security and find my gate, though.
But before I get there, I hear the woman’s voice, raised to get my attention.
“Miss! Excuse me!”
I almost want to ignore her. I’m worried that something’s gone wrong with my booking, or my passport. I was literally just at a crime scene today. Could the Montréal police have put some kind of stop-order on me leaving the country?
She calls again. I halt and turn to see her running after me, her cute, sensible heels clacking on the airport tiles.
“There was an issue with your boarding pass,” she says. Her cheeks are very red now. Maybe from running after me. “I’ve printed you another one.”
Before I can ask any follow up questions, she plucks the original boarding pass out of its bookmark-style position in my passport and slides the new one inside.
“The gate has changed, and the flight has been moved up by fifteen minutes.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Will I even make it through security that fast?” I cry.
“You will if you hurry! Look for gate one hundred eighteen!”
I clutch my passport and boarding pass and nod. “Thank you,” I say. Then I hitch my bag up higher on my shoulder and run.
Security takes longer than anticipated, part of the slowness being my own damn fault, because I had liquids loose in my bag that didn’t follow the 100 millilitre rule.
By the time the security agents throw away my bottles of moisturizer and perfume, I’ve only got minutes to spare.
Everything becomes a hot, harried blur as I sprint through the airport.
The announcements – even the ones involving my own gate – pass through my head unrecognized and unheeded.
I just keep looking for gate one hundred eighteen.
I can’t afford to miss this flight. It’s not just a financial thing, having used a good portion of my cash on the ticket.
It’s also a time thing. If Mamma has tried to contact me and hasn’t gotten through, she might have alerted Elio.
Already, he could have tracked my credit card usage to the ATM at this airport.
If I want to go, it has to be now.
But by some miracle, I make it. I flash my passport and boarding pass for the agent at the gate and rush onto the plane moments before they close everything up.
A male flight attendant with a nice haircut and an even nicer smile checks my pass and directs me to where I should sit.
Looks like I’ve managed to snag a window seat.
I wince and apologize to the two people in the row who now have to stand up for me to sit there, one of whom is a lady who looks like she’s got to be at least eighty years old.
But they’re both friendly about it. The lady has a lovely accent.
I wonder if she’s from somewhere in Newfoundland.
The guy who was sitting in the aisle seat even puts my carry-on bag in the storage compartment for me.
The kindness of these two other passengers in my row leaves me feeling strangely soothed.
I squeeze over to my seat and flop down.
Once I’ve done up my seatbelt, relief and exhaustion hit me, one after the other.
A heavy one-two punch that has my eyelids sliding instantly down over my eyes.
I cross my arms and lean against the window.
I’m asleep before we even leave the ground.
When I wake up again, there’s light pouring in from the window, and someone is trying to get my attention.
“Sorry?” I rasp groggily.
“They’re coming ‘round with the food. Your choice of pasta or chicken pot pie, love,” the older lady from the seat beside me says kindly.
My stomach grumbles.
“Chicken pot pie, please,” I say as the flight attendant reaches our row.
Anything that doesn’t resemble food that might be served at an Italian wedding is aces with me.
I struggle to sit up straighter, my neck and back aching after sleeping all hunched over to the side for…
How long has it been? The sunlight doesn’t mean much when we’re flying into a timezone ahead of Montréal’s. And I’ve never flown economy like this.
“Are we almost there?” I ask as the flight attendant hands me the steaming tray.
“Yes,” he says. “We’ll be landing in Dublin in less than an hour.”
I nearly drop the tray onto my lap.
“Oh, let me help you with that,” the lady beside me says. Her knobby, wrinkled hands make surprisingly short work of undoing the latch and lowering the tray on the back of the seat ahead of me. “There, now.”
That accent.
It’s Irish.
I put the food down slowly. Some might even say calmly, though I’m anything but. Once the food is secure, I pull my passport out of my pocket. Prying the pages apart, I rapidly scan my boarding pass.
Seat: 23F
Gate: 118
Destination: Dublin
This makes no sense. This can’t be happening! I booked a flight to London. The agent at the desk assured me it was England! London, England!
The agent at the desk…
The same one who practically ran me down after I bought my ticket. Who shoved this new boarding pass into my passport and sent me sprinting for security before I could even have a chance to notice what had changed.
My stomach curdles. My pulse ratchets up.
Someone got to her. In those miniscule moments between me leaving her desk and her trying to call me back, someone talked to her. Bribed her. Threatened her. Someone who already knew I was there.
Someone who’d bend every truth, break every rule, to trap me.
Someone who wants me in Dublin.
The ring on my left hand glitters before I yank it off and slam my passport shut.