Matteo's Rapture

Six

Emma Chassériaux

Corsica, France
The Chassériaux family villa
The twenty-eighth of June, 10:30 a.m.

My insides ripple as another wave of nausea courses through my body. I groan weakly, trying to avoid swallowing—that compressing feeling in the back of my throat that only urges me further. It's no use though, my able hand is slamming down against the granite vanity top before I can even take another breath and then I'm violently puking, again.

My throat burns when I gradually transition to dry heaving, my eyes squeezing shut as I cup my hands under the cold running water to splash my face and rinse my mouth out.

Matteo has decided that I'm going with him—back to Italy. Killing two birds with one stone, a punishment for my dad and a punishment for me.

Control, he needs it to thrive. Take away a man's wife, his sons—one literally and his daughter but leave him to suffer. To come to terms with an unexpected betrayal and the death of a soulmate. A lifetime to repent, a repentance he controlled, that's revenge.

Cruel and irrevocable. An eye for an eye following the guidelines of a Lucchese mobster.

Then there's me and his apparent fondness. I don't know what it is, I was young and naive and I thought I was just another notch on his belt. After all, I was seventeen going in eighteen, he was nineteen going on twenty and the son of the head of the Italian Mafia—girls weren't important to him. Especially girls like me.

But I've seen it, that look in his eyes. I've caught his attention again. Or maybe I never lost it?

What I know for sure is that I want absolutely nothing to do with Matteo Lucchese, I'll die before laying with him again—I won't let him in again.

"We need to get going." Gabriele's deep voice thunders, bouncing off the bathroom walls with an echo that makes my ears perk with defensive alertness. He was tasked with taking me up to my room and making sure I pack, his hawk-eye nature assists him with overseeing that I follow Matteo's directions.

My eyes flicker open, looking up to meeting his icy gaze through the mirror. "Are you done?"

I don't answer him, sloshing the water around in my mouth instead before spitting it out and turning off the tap. His jaw ticks, shoulders rolling back slightly as he shifts on his feet. "I've got to wrap that." He nods towards my wrist.

It's then that I notice the elastic bandage in his bear paw sized hand.

"I can do it myself." I lie through my teeth, wincing at the slight movement of even my fingers.

He's advances on me with feline grace, I barely hear the sound of his shoes against the tile floor. I twist around just in time as he stops in front of me, his face fixed with chilling impassiveness. "I'm not my cousin." His rough hand grasps mine and I cry out, attempting to pull my hand back as a throbbing sensation trickles from my fingertips to my wrist.

Cousin?

"I have no patience for you." He flips my hand over, thumb pressing firmly into the center of my palm as he tugs slightly—effectively stopping my efforts to pull away.