Matteo's Rapture

Un

  Emma Chassériaux

Corsica, France
The Chassériaux family villa
The twenty-seventh of June, 11:24 a.m.

It's another near unbearably hot day today. The unusually warm summer air licks at my exposed skin and I hiss when the underside of my forearm brushes against the searing metal railing of the balcony.

Corsica is almost never this hot but I revel in its uncomfortable warmth because it's my home away from Paris, my roots, the Chassériaux. The vast green blends for miles with the sandy brown until it gradually disappears into the distance, and through a dry haze, lies the beautiful Mediterranean. Swatches of blue for all to see and admire.

But peace is hard to find this time around, especially since Papa can't seem to find any himself. I wonder what he knows—the secrets he'd never share with me or mama. Secrets about him and his arrival.

My ears perk slightly when a familiar voice from behind me travels through the gentle gust of wind, colorful words in French dance in the breezy air around me.

"Il fait putain de chaud."

I turn only to come face to face with my ever the poet and disgruntled twin. A look of displeasure—that's seemingly always there—is etched onto Christian's ecru face along with his trademark scowl that deepens when a ray of fervent sunshine flashes across his face.

"Jesus," He shields his eyes as he joins me outside, his free hand blindly reaching towards a part of the railing hidden in the shade by a tree with generously vibrant green leaves.

Breathing out slowly, I resist the urge to roll my eyes and instead choose to gaze ahead, studying all the scattered movement preparing for the king himself below. "Do you think you'll ever be able to express yourself without swearing?"

The glare Christian pins me with sears into the side of my head, "Do you think you'll ever be able to not be such a goddamn smartass?"

I simply ignore his characteristically foul-mouthed comment and swallow my smartass rebuttal. I've had ample experience to know that Christian likes to fight. Physically and verbally.

Besides, arguing with him right now is the last thing on my mind. In fact, the first thing on my mind is something I share in common with him and the other one hundred plus people on this estate.

Matteo Lucchese.

He's coming here to Corsica, to my home, a place where someone like him doesn't belong. A place he—a Lucchese, couldn't ever possibly belong to.

Papa hasn't said much about him since his impromptu announcement last week that he's paying the estate a visit today, as well as staying over until tomorrow morning. The circumstances I understand of course, but I won't dare ask. I wouldn't ask even if I knew Papa would tell me for sure.

"Have you heard anything yet?" Christian inquires and I glance at him—watching the way he crosses his arms over his chest, face hard like stone and earthy eyes narrowed like someone's peeved him to no end.

"I know just as much as you do."

My fingers twitch and I fight the urge to fidget. Matteo's been the topic of discussion recently and for all the wrong reasons. Reasons that make my stomach somersault wildly until that repulsive inclination of nausea floods my veins.