Matteo's Rapture

Sept

Emma Chassériaux

Somewhere in Ajaccio, France
The twenty-eighth of June, 12:52 p.m.

Shades of turquoise and azure glisten with a sparkle only the sun is capable of producing. If I were outside right now, I know I'd be able to smell the sea.

Every passing second in this car makes me want to off myself. No space, no matter how great, will ever be enough to comfort me in Matteo's presence.

His patience with me is wearing thin, I'm surprised he's even in the same car as me. But I have feeling, now that we're leaving Corsica—he'll never let me out of his sight.

The air conditioning is on, lightly blowing tendrils of my hair around my face. It's cool in the car but I feel like I'm on fire, hands clammy in my lap. He hasn't said a word to me since he practically forced me to get in the car, and I haven't bothered with taking the lead. I'm treading on thin ice already, I'd rather not test my luck.

I nearly twitch in my seat when the gps announces that the airport is fifteen minutes away, longingly looking back as the car approaches a roundabout.

Matteo's abducting me and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it.

"Arrête ça." He brusquely commands in French when I sniffle, my arm pressing further into the door as I flinch. I haven't been able to stop crying since I got in the car, but now reality is truly starting to settle in—this is happening. And I thought I'd be able to do it, to be brave. But I can't, I'm realizing I can't.

I just want to go home.

"Hey!" I nearly jump out of my skin, twisting in my seat when he snaps his fingers. "Cut it out." Pools of ash gray are glaring at me, on the face of it—endlessly narrowing. "All the fucking crying," his accent is thick, face fixed with irritation. "enough is enough."

I don't know what to say, I'm not even sure he wants a response. So, I play it safe, wiping underneath my eyes with my knuckle as I wordlessly stare back at him. "Collect yourself." His ash gaze rakes over my face before he leans towards me slightly, a wavy lock falls in front of his eye. "O ti darò qualcosa per cui piangere davvero."

He doesn't have to ask me if I understand, I do.

Crystal.

~

Ajaccio Napoleon Bonaparte Airport
1:10 p.m.

I stumble clumsily over my feet, half in awe of the size of this jet and half scared shitless.

There are Lucchese affiliated men everywhere, settling down in their seats, conversing with each other in their native language, slightly bowing their heads at Matteo out of respect when we walk by. No one looks at me though, not even a glimpse—I am invisible.

I glance over my shoulder, peering up at him but he doesn't look at me. He instead, continues to push me down the aisle, his hand that's planted on my lower back feels like it's burning through the fabric of my dress.

I try to root my feet into the carpet when I quickly realize where he's leading me. But he is predator and I the prey—one firm nudge and he's stepping on the backs of my heels again.