Rage

♠TWENTY SEVEN♠

• Raquel De Silva •

It was just past midnight, and everything had been going fine—until Sal's brother lit the match. The silence that followed was unbearable. My hand froze mid-air, fork hovering over my plate. The tension turned icy, so sharp that the only thing you could hear was the hum of the fridge.

Antonio leaned back in his chair like he'd seen it coming from the start. Rocco was fidgeting, rubbing his chin, then his eyes, like he knew he’d fucked up.

Nadia’s eyes were daggers, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

I bit my bottom lip without realizing and dug my thumb into my palm, strangling my fork until it clinked against the glass table.

Everyone's head turned toward me.

I froze.

"You need to talk to him," Antonio said. I assumed he meant Rocco—until I met his eyes. He was looking directly at me.

Face Sal? Face that man? No way. I hesitated, but then Nadia spoke.

"Yes. He clearly has a soft spot for you," she said firmly, like she was absolutely certain.

Rocco glared at me like I was the problem now. Antonio raised a brow. Nadia sipped her wine.

"Yeah, uhm... you're probably right," I mumbled, pushing my chair back. Time to face moody Sal.

I grabbed his blazer from the coat rack and headed toward the back glass doors. He’d gone outside.

Why was I even nervous? I’d lived with this man for a month. The least he could do was yell at me. Besides, I was usually the one doing the yelling. It’d be fine.

I spotted him at the far end of the yard, leaning against a pillar with a cigarette between his lips.

I thought he quit.

The thick smoke curled from his mouth, lit by the dim glow of the porch lights.

"I thought we weren’t letting what they say get to us?" I said gently.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at me.

Fair enough. That was a dumb opening line.

I stepped closer. His body went rigid. I watched him intensely, his eyes looked red, like he was so close to loosing it

"You can go, if you're feeling disgusted," he muttered, never once looking at me.

What the hell? Disgusted?

"Sal—"

"You don’t have to be here," he interrupted, pressing the burning end of the cigarette against his own finger.

"What are you doing?" I gasped, rushing to him and pulling the cigarette from his hand. "Let’s go inside. We can talk about this—"

"Talk about what?" he snapped. "Tell me, Raquel. Because clearly you know so much."

"Tell me what we’re even talking about? That I killed my own mother? Because that’s old news. I’ve heard it—not once, not twice, not even three damn times. So if you’re here to repeat it again, save your breath."

He lunged for the cigarette in my hand, but I moved back.

"That’s not true. It’s not true," I insisted.

He stared at me for a while before laughing bitterly. "You don’t know. You don’t know a damn thing. So let me give you some advice—go home."

"I’m not—"