Trapped in his End Game (Series)

Shoeless, I wander the apartment in circles, debating whether I should sneak outside while he’s asleep. He came in early last night. I know better than to ask what he was doing, but he collapsed into bed with his clothes on and has slept through the morning.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

It’s noon. I’ve a class at 1:30.

Chewing my lip, I debate whether it’s worth the risk to go. My grades are in the toilet because I’ve missed so many classes. I’ve been dying to get out of the apartment, and Maria’s frantic phone calls tells me that she found out about the shooting.

I know that he’ll freak out if I leave.

I’ve read all the articles online about what happened: Deadly mob shooting claims four lives at Greenwich Village restaurant, Vittorio slaughter at notorious mobster hangout, Vittorio-Rizzo war far from over as deadly shooting takes four.

Somehow, they make me feel more removed from the whole thing. Like I didn’t just come back from a chain of funerals. I remember the envelopes stuffed with cash that Vincent slipped into the widows’ hands. Such a strange custom.

All in all it was a depressing week. I don’t want to waste a second of my life, and I’m tired of being cooped up in this apartment.

Gazing at Vince’s sleeping body, I scribble down a note and grab my backpack, slipping on my shoes at the last second. My heart pounds as I reach the doorknob and twist. I don’t feel safe when I’m in the elevator going down, even as I sprint across the street into the subway.

Still, a heavy weight lifts from my shoulders as I sigh into a plastic seat. I’m finally free. For now. I know that what I’m doing is stupid and that there are people who want Vince dead, but I can’t sit in Vince’s apartment with all of the shit that happened playing over and over in my brain.

I stride across the campus, feeling lighter than I have in weeks as I walk among fellow students, who walk briskly through the cold air. My teeth chatter and my nose runs, but I’m happy to be out of that place.

My strides are faster when I see my dorm. There are a few things I forgot that are still there, and I can catch up with Maria.

“Excuse me, Ms. Baldino?”

I look around and see two men in trench coats, which hang open to reveal their suits. The man who spoke to me has a receding hairline and wears a severe frown. My breath hitches in my throat.

“Yes?”

He pulls out his badge and my heart sinks. FBI.

Oh, fuck.

“Special Agent Eric Palmer, FBI. We’d like you to come in for questioning.”

* * *

I’m in deep shit.

That’s all I can think of as I sit in a dark office surrounded by at least six men who wear somber expressions as if my mother died.

You can’t say anything.

“Ms. Baldino, we know you’ve been involved with Mr. Cesare and we know you were at La Ciccia weeks ago during the shooting.”

My head snaps towards the balding man who accosted me at Columbia. I don’t say a word as he stares at me. I look back unblinkingly until my eyes start to water.

“So?” I say aggressively. “Am I under arrest?”

“No,” he says in an even voice. “But it’s in your best interest to hear what we have to say.”

I don’t think so.

“You were almost killed, and we know that it wasn’t the first time your life has been in danger.”

The blood drains from my face as I clutch the wooden table, staring at their faces. Are they bluffing?

“Months ago someone robbed one of Nicky Santoro’s card games, didn’t they? Illegal gambling conducted as a business is a federal crime, and we know there was a mishap. People were killed.”

How do they know all this shit?

My insides churn with piping hot fear, but I keep the lid clamped down. I will not break. I will not talk. My lips stay firmly sealed and my hands slide under the table.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?”

Agent Palmer gives me a shit-eating grin as he looks at my blanched face.

“Face it, Adriana. It’s only a matter of time before you get caught in the crossfire of this war between the Vittorios and the Rizzos. We’re not asking you to testify or wear a wire. We just want information. In exchange, you’ll enter the Witness Protection Program. Or you can keep lying to yourself about what kind of man your fiance is.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeat, a little more harshly.

Agent Palmer glances at the others before giving me a frustrated look. “Do you realize you’re engaged to a man whose family is responsible for your father’s death?”

Wait, what?

My heart stalls as I look into Agent Palmer’s steady gaze. “What are you talking about? My father was killed by-”

“The Vittorios. Why do you think the police never followed up on the case? They knew what happened, they just didn’t know who exactly was responsible.”

No, it’s impossible. Mom would have told me.

“I don’t believe you. You’re lying.”

“You just don’t want to believe. Your dad borrowed a lot of money from the family, Adriana. He got involved with the wrong people, and they went to your house to collect. They were going to ransack the place, but something went wrong.”

It makes so much sense that I want to vomit.

“No, that’s wrong. That’s not what happened!”

It’s not right. It can’t be. They’re just trying to trick me.

“Yes, it is,” he says in a deadpan voice. “They killed your father.”