Page 1 of A Game So Reckless

Chapter1

Valentina

The earliest memory I have of my father is of him beating another man to death.

Some girls, when asked about such a memory, could probably conjure images of smiling men presenting them with tricycles or sitting them on Santa’s knee at the mall. Soft hands and strong ones. Calloused. Dirty fingernails, maybe.

But no blood.

I think I was four. It was back in the old house, before we moved into the mansion on Brindle Path.

I was out of bed when I wasn’t supposed to be. And I knew I wasn’t supposed to be. But that’s always kind of been my problem.Testarda come un mulo.I don’t listen. Stubborn like a mule. Mamma always says so.

My papà’s office door was open. Just a crack. Just enough for quiet noises to filter through. There was no yelling. No swearing, no shooting, no crashing of furniture or breaking of glass. Just the vehemently quiet hiss of my papà’s rage, the answering rumble of my older cousin Elio’s voice.

And then a jarring smack of sound that made me think of cracking wood, like a splintering toy, followed by a thud that caused the floor beneath my little bare toes to vibrate, even way out there in the hall.

There was a man on the floor. I could see the blank and bloodstained mask of his face through the cracked-open door. The man jerked, rolling with the sudden force of a violent kick. His limp shoulder hit the door, and before the door clicked all the way closed, I saw my papà’s broad-shouldered silhouette outlined in the dim glow of the lamp inside the room, white dress shirt splattered red. Knuckles raw.

I would have thought it was a dream if it weren’t for the bloodstain in that very spot that no cleaner or housekeeper or loyal Made Man grunting and sweating down on his knees could ever get out.

It was still there when we left that house for good.

For some reason, that’s the memory seeping in at the edges of my mind right now as I stare at myself in the salon’s pristine wall of mirrors. A bead of dark hair dye rolls onto my forehead, and for a nauseatingly vivid moment, it’s the blood of a man glimpsed through a barely-open door fifteen years ago, black as fucking paint.

“Shit! Sorry,bella,” Antonio says, nabbing the little drip of dye with a gloved knuckle.

I wave away his concern. I can’t manage to be bothered about the streaky stain on my skin today. I’m only meeting my fiancé tonight. Who needs to look good for that?

Even the mere thought has my mouth pulling into a grimace. Dario fucking-ass-wipe Fabbri. Toronto city councillor, son of one of Canada’s biggest real estate development moguls, and, most recently, my intended groom, hand-picked by my papà. My eye catches on the truly god-awful pink diamond engagement ring on my left hand, and my grimace deepens.

“Oh, hell no, honey. Don’t tell me you’re regretting going dark already,” Antonio says, misinterpreting my sour expression. “I tried to talk you out of it. It’s summer! You’re supposed to go lighter! Let the sunshine catch on all those gorgeous caramel highlights I gave you a month ago.”

“I’m not regretting it,” I tell him, plastering a smile onto my glossy lips.

He looks unconvinced, but dutifully turns his attention back to painting my strands with the espresso-coloured sludge.

“You still haven’t told me why you suddenly wanted to go so dark.”

“Can’t a girl goau naturelevery once in a while? It is my natural colour,” I point out blandly.

Antonio snorts.

“I’ve been doing your hair since you were, what, thirteen? Never once have you worn your natural colour.”

I roll my eyes, but only because he’s right. I’ve lightened my hair for years. Even now, I barely recognize myself with the stark, dripping darkness of the thick hair framing my face.

“So, out with it,” Antonio says sternly as he finishes dousing my hair and begins wrapping it all up in thin plastic. “It obviously isn’t a break-up. Not to mention that gigantic fucking ring that keeps blinding me every time you move.”

A break-up. Now it’s my turn to snort. As if a girl like me with a papà like mine is allowed to date casually enough to break up with someone.

The first date I’ve ever been on hasn’t even happened yet.

It’s happening tonight. With the man I’m already engaged to.

An acrid reply is on the tip of my tongue. It’s almost out of my mouth before I can suck it back.

I’m in mourning.

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