Trapped in his End Game (Series)

Maybe I don’t want to know.

The ride to his mother’s house is silent as Vince weaves in and out of traffic, and finally we’re swinging around Harlem to leave Manhattan. Orange light shines through the window as we drive over the Robert F Kennedy Bridge and lands over my thighs in an orange strip.

I’m a little bit nervous as we drive closer and closer to Brooklyn.

She might not like me. My own mother doesn’t.

“What did you do today?”

Vince looks unhappy, almost like he wants to distract himself. I hope he’s not regretting that he brought me.

“I bought this dress. I also-I shoplifted a bunch of makeup.”

The guilt’s been eating at me all day and I want to confess to someone. I expect him to be angry, but he throws back his head and laughs like it’s a hilarious joke.

“Why?”

“I was stressed out,” I say as my cheeks burn.

“Over this?”

“Over everything.”

He lays his hand on my lap and squeezes my thigh. “It’ll be all right eventually, Adriana. You’ll see.”

Why do I get the feeling he’s talking about himself?Content is property of NôvelDrama.Org.

Eventually, we stop in an upscale part of Brooklyn in front of a row of low-rise, brownstone apartment homes. Dappled sunlight shines through the trees lining the block. It’s a beautiful, quiet street.

“I bought this place for Ma a few years ago.” He leans on his car, regarding the house for a moment with a small smile.

I’m envious. I wish I could do that for my mother. Hell, for myself. “This is really nice, Vince.”

“Didn’t you say your Mom lives in Brooklyn?”

“Bushwick, yeah.”

Vince winces sympathetically as he walks around the car, sliding an arm around my neck. His fingers brush against the tag under the fabric and he pulls it out.

“No, don’t take it off!”

“What? Why not?”

I’m so fucking embarrassed as he looks at me with laughter in his eyes, uncomprehending.

“I need to return it,” I hiss.

“It fits you perfectly.”

“I can’t afford it, all right?”

My skin heats up as people walk by us. My eyes dart frantically up and down the street, anywhere away from him.

“I’ll pay for it,” he says in a low voice.

I meet his eyes, mortified. “Vince, no!”

“Oh, yes,” he says in a darker tone. He holds my neck firmly, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t let me buy you anything.”

“That’s so not true! You get me food all the time-”

“That’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing. It adds up.”

Before I can protest, he rips the tag from my dress and glances at the price. “It’s peanuts and you’re worth it. You deserve nice things.” He takes my furious face in his hands and kisses me so gently that I can’t help but melt a little.

“Thanks,” I say breathlessly when he pulls back.

“Your welcome, my little thief.”

My heels wobble on the pavement as we walk up the steps to his mother’s brownstone. The polished, dark wooden door frames a thick glass. Vince rings the doorbell and I’m digging my nails into his palm. A grin spreads over his face as a distorted shape grows larger.

The door swings open; revealing a slight woman with blonde dyed hair and tanned skin. She’s dressed in a long, flowing skirt and a white blouse.

“Hi, Ma.”

“Vinny!”

She wraps her thin arms around Vincent, who stoops down so that she can kiss him on both cheeks. Her face shines with ecstasy as her gaze falls on me and gasps out loud.

“Oh my God, you must be Adriana!”

I’m blushing when she pulls me in for a hug, kissing both cheeks as her body trembles with excitement. Vincent’s mom exudes warmth, but it’s a little bit intimidating to be on the receiving end of so much attention from a stranger. She holds my arms as she pulls back, appraising me. To my astonishment, her eyes are wet.

“Bless you! I never thought my Vinny would find someone.”

“Ma!”

“Well, it’s true!” she says defensively.

She releases me and I look over to see Vince shaking his head, a faint pink tinge coloring his cheeks.

I laugh a little bit to myself as he ushers me inside. I’ve never seen him look vulnerable, but I’m thoroughly enjoying it. It’s fascinating to see controlling, possessive, proud Vince squirm. The house is decked out with brand new furniture. I expected to see moth-eaten couches from the 80’s, but Vince’s mother seems to be committed to making her house look modern. Religious artifacts are strewn around the house: figurines of Jesus, Joseph, and Mary adorn the mantelpiece over the fire, there are crosses everywhere, small Italian flags, but none of it is cheesy or overdone. The whole house is meticulously clean. It’s clear that Vince probably pays for a maid service, so that his mother doesn’t have to do it herself.

She strokes his head and fawns over him, asking whether he’s been eating well and what did he eat for breakfast and he looks skinny, is he sure he’s eating? I feel a strange pang as I watch them and look around at the beautiful house.

An amazing, ambrosial smell saturates the air, growing stronger as we approach the kitchen. The table is already laden with salumi, freshly cut slices of Italian country bread, olives, and cheese.

“Eat, eat!” She flaps her hands, motioning us to sit down as she gathers plates. I ask her if she needs help, but she declines.

All of it reminds me so much of my grandmother that I immediately feel at home. It’s all familiar to me; from the type of bread to the cold cuts she chose. Nostalgia bites the back of my head as I take a powdery piece of bread and rip off a chunk to eat.

Mrs. Cesare smiles at me as she drops a glass of water in front of me. “Adriana, tell me about yourself. Where are you from? What do your parents do?”

I swallow hard as my throat tightens at the subject. “I’m from Brooklyn, just like Vince. My mother lives in Bushwick alone and she’s unemployed, but I try to help her out. I’m going to school at Columbia.”

I’m hoping that the mention of the school will deflect her questions about my parents, and it does.

“Columbia! Maddon, that’s a great school. Your mother must be proud.”

My mother could care less. “Yeah,” I say, smiling.

“So modest,” she says as she walks back to the stove. She opens the lid of her dutch oven and steam spills off the edge. “I made stracotto.”

Vince stretches his arms behind the chair. “One of my favorites.”

“Adriana, what are you studying in school?”

I take an unnecessarily large gulp of water that makes my throat bulge as I swallow it down. “I’m not sure. I don’t know whether I’ll be attending school this fall, so I haven’t thought of it too much.”

Mrs. Cesare takes our plates and begins doling out the stew. The pot roast sits on a bed of crushed tomatoes and the smell immediately makes my mouth water.

“Why not?”

Across the table, Vince gives me a sympathetic look as my hands fidget under the table.