In God We Trust [SPORADIC UPDATES]

SIETE

chapter seven ✗ ira

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"WHY DID YOU call me in here?"

Mateo lifted an eyebrow at me, gesturing to the seat beside him, before turning back to his computer. I glared at him, not only for disregarding me but also for his blatant disrespect. "I'm not a damn dog, Mateo. Don't tell me to sit." I bit out. I couldn't help it. If I was going to help him, I was going to make it known that I was loathing every second of it, even if it pissed him off. His feelings were not of importance to me.

Mateo leaned his head against the seat, running a hand over his face with exasperation. "Just sit down, gattina. Don't make this harder for the both of us."

My angry stare remained, and I stubbornly stood at my place across his desk with my arms folded over my chest. "Please," I told him.

He looked dead at me, golden eyes gazing so strongly that it made a shiver run down my spine. "Excuse me?"

I placed my right hand on my hip, using the other to flip my long, dark hair over my shoulder. "Did your parents ever teach you plain etiquette or even any basic manners?" I asked snarkily.

Mateo looked at me blankly, but I could tell my comment had successfully gotten under his skin. His jaw tightened, making it impeccably sharper and defined as he attempted to control his anger. My plan was working... so far. One time, when I was younger, my brother had jokingly told me that if I was kidnapped, escaping would be easy because I would annoy the kidnapper to the point where he'd just bring me right back home. It was stupid, but in this case, I really wished he was right. I was being naïve, but it was all I had left to depend on.

"Please sit down, Veronica." He said through gritted teeth. He must've decided he wasn't in the mood for my antics, because he had given up quite quickly. A small flourish of hope spread in my chest-- maybe it was working? Was my irritating, argumentative tendency beginning to wear down on him?

I smiled sweetly and took my seat next to him. "Got any weed?" I asked.

He scowled at me. "No. You're not getting high."

I sighed. "You're no fun. What kind of drug lord doesn't get high?"

"I do get high, just not off my own supply." He answered. "Now, I called you in for a reason--"

"What reason?" I questioned, purposely interrupting him.

Mateo sent me a mean glance and looked up to the ceiling, mumbling something in Italian, as if he were asking God for the patience to deal with me. "Jesus," He glared at me, "Do you ever shut up? What is it with Latin and Italian women and not being able to close their mouths for a damn second?"