Matteo's Rapture

Quatre

Emma Chassériaux

Corsica, France
The Chassériaux family villa
The twenty-eighth of June, 8:46 a.m.

Nobody moves a single fucking muscle but him.

I watch, drowning in suffocating regret while he taps the cigarette against the table before pushing it between his full lips—hands cupping around the cancerous stick as he moves the flame back and forth across the tip.

Why couldn't I just keep my fucking mouth shut?

Matteo Lucchese is livid, beyond that and then some if possible. I can tell by the permanent fix of his jaw and the way he's looking at me like he did last night while he played around with my ability to breathe, no one—especially me is safe from his wrath. Regardless of protection, everything is on the table. Impulsive people like Matteo don't give a fuck, they see a color further than red.

And that's why it's a level more than dangerous when they run a familia. Because there is no care, not even for loved ones, those you're supposed to cherish.

"Vai." He says in an octave lower than I've ever heard before. Five of the the ten men that I made a mental note of depart without missing a beat—no hesitation, no lingering, they simply just do. And I watch them—frantic with nerves as they walk past Maxence without sparing a glance, not seeming to care that he's discretely started to reach for the gun I know is planted like a second skin on his side.

His eyes meet mine and I know something's not right, but he's slow to react, not quick enough for the people we've welcomed into our home.

A man that I've never seen before is behind Max in almost an instant, appearing from the garden just a couple of a hundred feet from the courtyard. He in a way, reminds me of Matteo. Dark, brooding, sinister, and he in turn has a gun to compliment the violence promised.

"Max..." Everything occurs in slow motion, the disarming of Max's gun while he makes a move towards me—the look on his face, one of horror and pure fucking fear.

"Drop it," The man behind Max orders, Italian as I expected. His gun is leveled with Max's head, steady and unwavering. Final.

"M-Matteo," I swivel back around, met with a man who's operating without a care in the world. He watches me as I watch him. The rolling up of his cuffs, the half finished cigarette that hangs loosely from his lips—the storm brewing behind those charcoal eyes of his.

"Matteo, w-what are you d—"

"I'm saying this now," he interrupts me, dropping the cigarette into a glass of water as he blows the remaining smoke to the side. "because you won't believe me later—I didn't want to do this. You just don't fucking learn."

"W-What?"

He doesn't answer me, he doesn't have to. The shriek that tears its way out of my throat is painful and raw. But not as painful as the grip on my hair and the zinging pain in my hip as I'm yanked out of the chair. I didn't even see him reach across the table.

This is his answer.

Utensils clatter to the ground along with my plate as Matteo drags me towards him—unaffected by my resistance.