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He must have stayed there all night waiting for me.
He opens the doors to let us in and slides into the driver’s seat.
“Drop me off at Broadway, please. I’ve had enough, Adriana,” Kat breaks the silence. She turns to stare at me for only a second and then back out the window again.
“I’m sorry Kat,” I whisper loud enough for her to hear. She doesn’t stop staring out the window.
I can feel Alessandro’s eyes on me through the rearview mirror as we make our way to Broadway.
He stops the car when we arrive at Broadway Street.
Kat grabs the car handle and takes a look at me. “I don't know what the fuck is actually happening. But be safe, Adriana.” She opens the door and steps out before I can speak.
“Where do you want to go?” Alessandro asks, putting the car in drive.
Our eyes meet in the mirror. I look out the window the moment it does. “I have no idea.”
He doesn’t say a word again as we drive silently through the city.
I contemplate the idea of going back to my father or traveling to some other country. But I can’t move away so quickly tonight. I’d need papers and lots of cash; I don’t have either right now.
“Where are you taking me?” The street looks familiar.
“My house in Brooklyn. You’ll be safe there.”
“I don’t want to stay in your house,” I say blatantly.
Alessandro hits the brake abruptly and I end up at the front of the car from the sudden stop.
“What the hell was that?”
“I stopped for you. Get the hell out if you have somewhere else to go.”
I stare at him infuriated. He waits for another minute as we continue the staring contest.
“Guessed as much.”
I hate that he is right. I hate him so much.
He resumes driving till we reach a medium-sized apartment on McDonald Avenue. He unlocks the door for me. “Get down.”
I stare at him, confused.
“Can you just not be too stubborn right now and listen to me, Poppy? I’ll be right back.”
I get out of his car to the front of the apartment. He drives down the street and makes a turn.
I rub my sweaty palms on my blue jeans nervously.
Where the hell did he go?
I spot him walking up the street a minute later. He takes out a key to unlock the front door when he gets to me.
His apartment smells like citrus when I walk into it.
He switches on the light as we step into the living room. It’s smaller than his home in Manhattan. It’s painted white but has fewer artworks on the walls. I stare at them.
“Don’t touch anything,” he instructs before disappearing into the hallway.
