Trapped in his End Game (Series)

“Ten thousand dollars?”

My voice is like a gunshot, a strong burst of wind that immediately gets swallowed by all the shit crammed in the house. There are boxes piled all the way to the ceiling now, when they were only halfway there the last time I visited. My heels clack over the filthy hardwood floors. They once gleamed, but now age and neglect made them fade.

“What the hell have you been buying?”

Mom leans on the kitchen counter, one of the few places that still has space. There’s a faint rotting smell coming from the sink. I don’t know how she cooks, much less eats, in this place. I grab the dirty glass door in the kitchen and slide it open to let fresh air inside.

“It’s none of your business what I buy.”

Mom tosses her lit cigarette in the scummy sink. She crosses her arms and pouts like she’s a child.

“Oh yes, it is my business, considering I’m paying for it. Jesus, can’t you clean once in a while?”

Vince has been bugging me about meeting my mom. He’s a traditional guy, but I’ve been avoiding it like the plague. I’m embarrassed to introduce her to him.

I mean, look at this place. It’s a sty-the complete opposite of the environment he grew up in.

“Go ahead, mock your mother. I’m sure your father would be very proud of you.” Her eyes cut into me as her mouth twists with rage. She wears bleach stained yoga pants and a tank top, which exposes her sagging, prematurely aged skin.

I haven’t visited in weeks, not even bothering to call, because I don’t want her to burst my bubble of happiness. Now I feel like I abandoned her.

“Ma, I’m not mocking you,” I say in a softer voice.

“Yes you are,” she says, her throat thick with tears. “I need more money. These debts aren’t being paid fast enough.”Belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.

Her ungratefulness fans the fire inside me. “I’m doing the best I can. I’m not giving you ten grand, Ma.”

She dissolves into tears, her chipped nails clawing her face as she sobs. “If your father was alive, he’d…”

He would have divorced you.

“He’d take care of me, not leave me to the wolves like this.”

“It’s his fault we’re in this mess.”

My head pounds as I listen to her sob and complain. Our relationship is dead. She never asks me about my life. Hell, she doesn’t even know about Vince because she never asks me anything about myself. Vince’s mother knows more about my day-to-day life than she does. I look inside myself, searching for a scrap of affection or something other than contempt for my mother and I feel like a sociopath. She makes me feel like a terrible person.

“Let’s go outside and take a walk. A bit of fresh air would do you good.”

Instead, she pulls a cigarette out of a battered pack and attempts to light it, but she’s almost out of fluid. “Vaffanculo!”

The plastic light streaks across the room and bounces off the wall as Mom collapses in an empty chair, looking depressed.

Despite how she treats me, there’s still some sick part of me that can’t bear to see her suffer. “Why do you have to be like this? I can help you clean the house. We can get rid of all this stuff and make it how it used to be.”

There are boxes and boxes of crap everywhere, even in the kitchen. I grab one and look inside and there’s a bunch of useless crap inside, mostly stuff bought from the dollar store. I take it and move it outside.

“Where are you bringing that? I just bought that!”

“It’s junk.”

She grabs it from me, bristling. “Do not touch my stuff.”

“Technically, it’s my stuff since I bought it,” I say nastily.

Fine. Fuck it. I’m tired of this. My watch tells me that Vincent is out front, waiting. I know that he’ll come to the front door if I take too long, because he wants to meet her.

“I have to go.” I stalk past her without saying goodbye, fuming as I pass by the rows and columns of crap.

“What about-Adriana, I still need the money!”

“Sell some of this junk,” I say without a backwards glance. “Oh, and Happy fucking Thanksgiving.”

The door slams behind me and I practically sprint to the black car waiting by the curb. I open the door and slide inside, wiping tears from my face. Vince, dressed in a handsome charcoal suit, frowns as he watches me cry. He’s used to it by now.

“Sorry. Let’s just go.”

“You should stop visiting her,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

I’m already regretting the fight. It’s a holiday, after all. And she’s alone in that crummy place. “What can you do? She’s my mom.”

His lips tighten and he carefully avoids my gaze. I grab the hand resting on the parking break and he squeezes me back, turning his head to smile.

I don’t know what the hell I’d do without him.

“One day, I’m going to meet her.”

“I don’t want you to,” I say softly.

My nerves are bundled in knots as Vince drives away, heading towards Long Island. On the way there, we pick up his mother, who greets me enthusiastically. We’re spending Thanksgiving with his boss and I can’t begin to describe how much that terrifies me.

“Adriana, doesn’t your mother live in Brooklyn? Should we get her too?”

“No,” I say a little too quickly. “She’s-ah, spending it with friends.”

In the rear view mirror, I catch Mrs. Cesare’s watchful gaze. “Oh, I see.”

I bite my lip as Vince pulls into a ridiculously long driveway somewhere in East Hampton. The lawn is freshly mown and bright green. Other cars are lined up along the driveway already, and I can see people moving inside the huge country house.

Vincent gets out of the car and takes my hand, pulling me in close. “You’ll do great,” he says, planting a kiss on my temple. “Just relax.”

The happy look on his face fills me with confidence. He’s right. There’s no reason to be so scared.

The oak door opens as we climb up the steps. I catch a glimpse of the interior: bright, white walls and abstract paintings from the 80’s are plastered on the walls. Creamy furniture fills the house, along with old, faded rugs. The woman standing in the doorway looks about ten years younger than the don, who stands in the kitchen with several other people. Her big hair sits on her head in bleached-blonde waves, so brittle from dying month after month. She wears a gold necklace with a picture of a saint, gold bracelets and diamonds. Her blouse is overly floral and she extends a claw-like hand to me. Her fake nails dig into my skin as I shake it.

Dear God. So this is what a mob wife looks like.