Matteo's Rapture

Deux

Emma Chassériaux

Corsica, France
The Chassériaux family villa
The twenty-seventh of June, 11:38 a.m.

I find myself wishing a tragic fall down the stairs as the front door nears closer and closer with each dreadful step of descent that I take. The door is enchased from top to bottom in glass, and it only makes matters worse when I see the amount of men outside, his men.

Mama stands at the bottom of the stairs in a beautiful mustard yellow sundress that makes her brown skin seem like it's glowing. Her normally wild stygian curls have been pulled back into a braid—her round face free of flyaways unlike me.

Crisp hazel eyes narrow pointedly as I reach the last step but I can tell by the way her attention flickers to Christian—it isn't just me this time.

"Emma—"

"I know, I know," I cut her off, brushing strands of loose hair behind my ears.

She sighs faintly and the stiff fix on her face softens. I can tell that she's made an unspoken decision to drop whatever short spiel that twirled on the tip of her tongue.

"Madame," My gaze travels over mama's shoulder to Maxence—the older brother I never had and a member of the family. He regards us with a serious look, one he wears often like a lot of Papa's men around here do. I still remember the day Papa came home with him, a scrawny little string bean who lived on the streets of north Paris and knew all too well what true starvation was like. He's been with us ever since.

The older brother I never had.

Her dainty hand slips into mine, refocusing my attention back on her as she squeezes firmly in reassurance. "Souviens-toi de ce que je t'ai dit."

Nodding, I wrap my fingers tightly around hers when she turns away, paying Christian no mind despite his scrutinizing gaze.

I try not to trip over my feet once Maxence pulls open the door, put off by the army outside. They're scattered around the drive way—stoic and poised with an eerie strategic stance. Each one stands with their legs slightly spread apart, hands behind their backs in a professional manner that made my skin prickle with uneasiness.

"Ah," Papa says warmly, rotating to the side and giving me a full view of who exactly stands in front of him. I've never been around anyone who could just command attention just by their mere presence other than my father. And right now, Matteo is overshadowing that by a long shot.

He's staring at me, almost like he's seeing right through the pathetic front I've tried to protect myself with. There isn't a trace of that sardonic grin he used to wear proudly just to fuck with me for the shits and giggles of it. No, the man in front of me is devoid of any emotion—consummating the flair that is Matteo Lucchese. That is what the Lucchese men are known for.

Borderline feral and unsparing.

"There they are." Christian—like he's got something of pressing importance to prove—takes front and center. Towering behind Papa as his hand locks around his wrist behind his back.

"My son, Christian." Onyx curls bounce slightly as he nods his head, saying nothing but a slight shift in his footing that brings Matteo back into full view again.