Matteo's Rapture

Seize

Emma Chassériaux

Laglio, Lake Como, Italy
The Lucchese Manor
The fourth of July, 8:03 a.m.

I think if things were different, if I wasn't me and he wasn't him—the first word that would come to mind if someone asked me to describe him is...extraordinary.

Extraordinarily magnificent.

That's what I thought when I first met him. Naivety and blindness held that conclusion about him together by the manipulative binds he so skillfully crafted.

I used to think I was in love with him.

Head over heals, actually. Even when he left—he was at the center of my universe. Well, during his grace period.

In love, one and one are one. He told me that. And sometimes, if I try hard enough—I can hear him. I can smell him, I can taste him, I can feel him. He used to be gentle. Crass, but gentle. Night and day.

Extraordinary.

Magnificent.

He was different and it would've been forbidden and so it was.

Extraordinary.

I realize it now—something I think I always knew but didn't want to admit; I was in love with the idea of him. I was so fixated on the slim chance that our future would be different.

But he's a Lucchese and his path was cemented in chaos before it intertwined with mine.

An eye for an eye will leave everyone blind.

I wonder of those he's crossed, those alive if so.

Who will be the one to blind him?

Me?

I watch him get dressed, the space between me on the bed and him in the closet doorway is nowhere near enough for me to feel safe.

"Why do you hate me?" I croak, the lack of sleep and mental dissolution seeps through every word.

I'm just so...tired.

He chuckles.

Charcoal eyes meet mine. "You amuse me, amore mio."

"And you scare me."

"I should." He says.

My skin prickles, white-hot rage floods my veins. "This is madness, Teo." I tread lightly, "This, us, it's madness. We're not who we used to be anymore—I don't love you anymore. Why can't you see that? Why can't you let me go?"

His gaze narrows and I shrink a million sizes. "You think there's someone else out there for you?"

"That's not what I'm trying to say." My toes graze the wooden floor as I shift on the bed.

"No?"

"No."

His fingers slip around the gun lying on the white oak dresser and I watch him carefully as he begins to approach he bed. "Humor me then, baby." The pet name is terrorizing, "Tell me what you're trying to say."