Page 47 of The Trap

“I know that, Raiden. What is it?” Colson repeats, but I don’t answer. I just keep staring at my father’s name. I need to lift my gaze and read what’s typed on the rest of the paper, but I can’t. The grief of his loss. The reality that this sick fuck is in possession of something that was obviously stolen is overwhelming me, turning my brain to mush. I clamp my eyes shut trying to center myself and snap out of it, but it’s Colson’s voice, smooth and deep, followed by his hand rubbing my lower back that pulls me from my spiraling. “What’s on that paper?” he asks, this time with less urgency in his voice, even though I know he wants to know, but now his focus is on brushing his fingers back and forth down on the small of my back. As if he knows it’s melting my angst so I can function without fear overtaking me.

“It’s my father’s signature. It looks like some agreement,” I mumble. The words of the agreement are typed out. His touch soothing my anxiety, I feel like my senses are sharpening.Dragging my eyes to the typed portion of the letter, I see a name next to my fathers.

“Demonio,” I mutter out loud. “Demonio,” I repeat, trying to jog my memory. Why do I know that name? Mind racing, I exhale, trying to think. Suddenly the meeting I had with Carmine back at the Sandy Claws months ago trickles into my mind. He mentioned the name Demonio and that our assignment at the Cromwell’s was for him. But that name…it also means Devil. And then it hits me–the masks. The one they gave Colson, the one that he just threw on the ground.

Unease warps my stomach, as I shout to Colson, “Pick up the mask!”

Confused, he does as I say, snatching the mask in his hand.

“Does that mask mean anything to you?” I ask him as he inspects it, and I can’t help but notice the hesitancy in his gaze. He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the inked column of his throat.

“Colson,” I repeat his name, urging him to push through whatever is running through his head and answer me.

“It was there that night,” he mumbles.

“What night?” I ask, motioning him, practically begging him at this point to hurry up.

“The last night that my mom was alive,” he chokes out, trying to stifle the emotion threatening to break his steady rasp. “I saw somebody wearing a mask like this outside the window,” he says, motioning to both the mask on his face and in his grip.

I look at the mask, taking in its devilish features, realizing it looks more aged than the one disguising half his face. And then the anxiety that has been crippling my ability to think subsides, and in its place: clarity. I’ve seen that mask before, a long time ago. My father’s friend, GregorDemoniohad it, tucked in his jacket pocket, and it fell onto the floor when he went to leave. I remember picking it up and handing it to him. He took it,staring at me with his cold, steel gray eyes and said thank you, but the effect his stare had on me lingered. He spoke calmly but his eyes…they were so sharp, yet so sad, and they looked through me, as if trying to signal to something within my soul.

I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I look at the chain in my hand, the oval pendent with diamonds surrounding the etching of a cross in the middle of a field of hibiscus flowers, and the etching spelling Demonio on it. I stare back at the signature next to my father’s,G. Demonio. My gaze slides up, as the words–merger, families, deal–all send signals to my jumbled mind.

Suddenly the cryptic saying the voice said before rings in my memory. “The Devil is in the details.”

“Colson, does the mask say anything?” I shout, feeling the pressure accelerate my heart rate.

“Twenty Seconds,” the voice interrupts.

“Ugh,” Colson mumbles, searching the mask frantically.

“On the inside, is there anything? An engraving? Anything at all?” I urge as the mask fumbles in his hand.

I sigh. “Gimme,” I mutter, snatching it from his hands, quickly inspecting the front before flipping it over to see the inside. Lifting it so the black light highlights the inside embroidery. It’s faint, but it’s definitely there. I squint, bringing it closer to my eyes.

“What is it?” he asks, but all I can focus on is the stitching hidden on the inside brow line of the mask.

“Raiden,” he repeats, competing with the timer's ten second warning flare. “What is it?”

“C. Demonio,” I mumble.

“What?” he shouts, the timer on its final countdown.

I look up at him. His chiseled features, both rugged and refined disguised by the devil’s mask. Slowly I scan from his cupid’s bow, up his nose until my gaze lands on his eyes.

Steel.

Cold.

Sad.

Gray.

It’s like I’m not even staring at Colson, but the man who once had this exact mask in his possession before he left my house that day and never returned. A million questions race through my mind, but one thing becomes blatantly clear to me.

The man in front of me is not a Cromwell.

I turn my attention to the missing pieces of this puzzle. The chain etching, the paper in my hands that is now so clearly a marriage contract between two families that hated the Cromwells. It’s all coming together, but I still have so many questions.

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