Page 3 of The Trap

Not sure what to do, I stand with unexpected awe as the masked person lifts their hand to wave at me, fully aware of my presence. Frozen, I watch them slink back into the bushes.

My breathing quickens, the urge to check on my mother running rampant in my system, but I can’t move. The potent scent of booze swarms my senses as my father’s wrinkled hand slaps down on my shoulder before twisting me around to face his heartless stare.

“You get the fuck back to bed. You hear me, boy?” he slurs, intensifying his hold on me.

“What the fuck are you going to do about it?” I challenge him.

A chilling cackle attacks my eardrums as he moves his hand from my shoulder, lifting it midair, slapping me hard across my cheek. The burn on my flesh intensifies as his whiskey-stained breath invades my senses. “I’ll make you regret the day you ever stepped foot into my world, son.” The emphasis he puts on the word ‘son’ is enough to make my stomach jump in disgust. He doesn’t treat me like a son and the most parental thing he’s ever done for me is provide a roof over my head out of obligation.

His threat means nothing to me, just like he does.

But what does mean something to me is my mother standing in the doorway with a look on her face that has somehow surpassed the fear that was there before. Tears slink past her eyes, falling onto her shirt. It’s then, I notice the necklace that she always wears is gone and in its place are red scratch marks that will likely bruise in the morning. Her moving lips mouthing “I’m sorry,” before she bursts into more tears and runs into the now darkened hallway.

I go to follow her, but I’m stopped by my father’s clenched fist crashing into the side of my face. I lose balance but I’m determined to see if she’s okay. He senses this and winds up for another punch to my other cheek, followed by a hook to my temple. My head throbs as undeniable dread fills me as I fall to the ground. Darkness, like I’ve never experienced before from my father’s punches robs my consciousness. And as I begin to fade, the only thought that’s clear in my fading mind is that tomorrow, even if the sun decides to shine, this house will forever be prisoner to the dark, ominous cloud that hovers it.

TWO

PRESENT DAY

“Who’s that?” I ask, pinching the stem of the wine glass between my thumb and index fingers, giving the rich Malbec a swirl, as I bring it to my lips.

“That,” my cousin’s voice drags for emphasis, “is the target.”

Well fuck me.And here I was thinking tonight’s meeting would be boring.

Placing the glass onto the table, I tease the cap of my tongue piercing with my teeth, gawking at the fine piece of ass in the surveillance photo before me. My fingers trace the edge of the picture for a moment, studying the man’s defined features.

His skin is painted with an assortment of black and gray ink scattered about his arms, complimenting his athletic build. He’s tall, at least six two, maybe even six three, but the way he carries himself without a clue that he’s being watched makes him appear much larger. Crossing my legs in my seat, I clench my thighs, continuing to drink him in. Excitement mingles with adrenaline because usually the targets are average looking, nothing to write home about, but this man is anything butaverage. Fuck, I bet those chiseled cheekbones–covered in the perfect ratio of scruff to skin–would feel like heaven caught between my legs while I tug at the dark hair that hangs perfectly near his brow. He’s fucking hot, devilish looking even, and I’ve never seen anyone, target or otherwise, with such piercing eyes. Even squinting, like he’s doing in this candid picture, trying to use his large, veiny palm as a visor to block the sun, they look to be the lightest shade of gray with a hint of amber.

Carmine’s palm flattens, spreading his fingers over the picture, dragging it closer to him and out of my view. “Let me correct myself. That is the target’sbrother. Who you willnotbe fucking. So whatever thoughts were just swirling in that head of yours, squash them.”

I roll my eyes as I take a long gulp of wine. “You know what, Carmine, you can be a real buzzkill,” I mumble against the glass. “And a twat block,” I add, about to swallow another sip just as his grubby hands snatch it out of my hand.

“Hey, I was drinking that!” I exclaim, lifting off my seat to reach over and grab it back but Carmine being his typical self is always a step ahead. Just as my nails tap against the stem, he puts the cigarette hanging from his lips directly into the wine glass, extinguishing his Parliament.

“What fucking ever,” I scoff, turning around in my chair, looking at the bar for the bartender, José. Carmine clicks his tongue; his overpowering cologne grazes my senses as he leans forward to tap me on the shoulder.

“Yes?” I grumble with a half-smile.

“I own the place, prima. I’ll have José get another once we’re done talking,” he reminds me with a wink.

“Fine,” I sigh, “so if that man that I can’t fuck is the brother, who is the one I should be putting all my attention towards?”

Skating his fingers inside his pinstripe jacket, he digs for the picture to show me. “Him,” he simply states, placing thesurveillance photo on the table, just above the brother’s picture that he snatched from me before.

Disappointment stabs me in the gut, because while this man, with chiseled features and a distinguished brow, is objectively good looking, he doesn’t wow me like the brother did. I lift the picture to get a closer look, but it’s the other picture that tempts my periphery.

“Okay, cool, does he have a name?” I urge, motioning for him to continue but of course, in typical Carmine fashion, he stays stoic with a shit-eating grin on his face. I love my cousin, but his incessant need to drag things out constantly tests my temper.

“Yes, he does. That son of a bitch is Brett Cromwell, eldest son to Alistair Cromwell, the real estate tycoon,” he pauses to air quote, “who somehow convinced the prosecutor that the only crimes he committed were the ones that would guarantee him a cushy stay in Otisville and not where he really belongs.”

“Rykers?” I interrupt.

“No. In a fucking hole in the ground, that’s where,” he mutters with ample disgust.

Expecting Carmine to go into more detail about this assignment, I press my elbows onto the table, settling into my seat, but the only noise he makes comes from pressing his lips together to light another smoke.

“Sooo,” I drag, trying to shift gears, or in this case, Carmine’s mood. “What’s the brother’s name?”

---