Page 64 of Vicious Games

“Bullshit!” I holler. “That fucking nun forced her to come here for what? Because she ate more porridge than she was allowed?”

“Porridge?” Enzo repeats, confused. “Whatever. I think you need to walk it off. You’re not making any sense.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying, Enzo. That nun is brainwashing Frankie.”

“And what’s it to you?” my twin asks, his curiosity piqued

I grind my teeth, refusing to give him an answer. It’s not like I know why I suddenly want to burn the school’s chapel to the ground with Sister Margaretta in it. Instead, I shove my hands into my front pockets and turn away.

“Just tell Frankie I’m waiting for her at the parking lot when she’s done.”

Enzo stares at me, clearly dumbfounded, but doesn’t argue.

Maybe he’s right. Perhaps I shouldn’t be this pissed. And yet, here I am.

I get that people need something to believe in. I get that some find comfort in faith. But what I don’t get are all the rules. Who decides what makes someone ‘virtuous’ or ‘sinful’? Who gets to draw that line?

Everyone sins. Every single person on this earth breaks the rules in that little black book they preach from.

You know who has the longest-running book club in history? The Catholic fucking Church. And Frankie—bright-eyed, sharp-tongued, all fire and fight—is being groomed to believe she has to give up her life, her body, her sense of self, for some invisible man in the sky.

It makes zero sense to me. And I’m not sure it ever will.

Twenty minutes later, I finally catch a glimpse of her walking over to me.

I’m leaning against a tree a few feet away from my car, arms crossed, still stewing, though I’ve had enough time to cool down.

Mostly.

“You done?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

She nods, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her cardigan. “Yeah. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

“Whatever.”

I grab her backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and reach for her hand, lacing our fingers together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Wait. What are you doing?” she asks, eyes wide, flicking down to where our hands are joined.

“Making sure no one else interrupts our tutoring sessions.”

“And holding my hand is necessary for that?”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t fight me. Doesn’t pull away. And I don’t let go.

I don’tneedto hold her hand.

Hell, I didn’t even think about it.

Just did it. Because Iwantedto.

And I always do what I want.

Mom says I’ve got impulse-control issues. I say it’s one of the side effects of being a Romano. We don’t wait around for permission—we act. No excuses. Just instinct. And apparently, holding hands with Frankie O’Malley just became the only instinct that has felt right this whole goddamn day to me.

We drive to Jude’s apartment in silence, neither of us in a hurry to acknowledge what just happened back at school.

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