Matteo's Rapture

Huit

Emma Chassériaux

Laglio, Lake Como, Italy
The Lucchese Manor
The twenty-ninth of June, 12:34 a.m.

I don't think I've ever been more exhausted in my whole life.

We traveled all day. The last time I took a time check was before we got off the plane, around eleven forty five. I'm not sure how long the car ride was, I couldn't keep my eyes open, but I'm guessing it's probably the twenty-ninth now.

Mama's birthday.

"Let's go." Matteo murmurs lowly, holding the car door open. I don't have it in me to hesitate or argue with him, partially because I feel like I'm going to pass out but also because his threat still lingers in the back of my hazy mind.

I have a feeling, it's not idle.

It's dark outside but the prodigious estate is gleaming beautifully with some yard and pathway lights. The house is white with tones of gray it seems like. I'm in the midst of eyeing the impressive landscape when his large hand unexpectedly slips into mine. His fingers wrap my dorsal side, tightening with an unspoken warning when I instinctively try to pull my hand away.

And then I'm following behind him, trying to keep up with his extensive strides. One of his men opens the cathedral designed glass door and we walk inside the empty home, well, almost empty.

There aren't as many men as there were back at the villa, but there's a presence and it's strong.

Protective of their don.

Beside the extravagant grand staircase, there's a girl, probably around my age if not a little older. She smiles softly, cider brown eyes twinkling warmly. Her dainty hands are intertwined as she stands with poise in a navy blue and white maid uniform. It's like she's glowing, olive skin, dusky strawberry cheeks. Her cinnamon butter blonde tresses cascade to her chest in waves.

My first thought is; she's absolutely beautiful. Existing with a distinctive polarity for this place, is she here on her own terms?

"Bianca," Matteo's tone nearly knocks me into a state of hyper awareness. He sounds...cheerful? It's not exaggerated but there's a light lilt—something that isn't present even when he's in the mood for one of his wicked games.

"Teo, ben tornato." I can't help but watch in astonishment as they interact. She's looking at him with absolutely no fear present, like he isn't some twisted individual that belongs to a twisted world.

"Questo è Emma." He lets go of my hand before slipping his into the pockets of his black slacks. "Portatela su, metterla a suo agio."

The smile that never left her face widens, her gaze shifting to me. "Va bene."

Matteo twists, my shoulder knocking against his arm as he peers down at me. He doesn't have to say it, his message is silently communicated—his gaze unwavering.

Seconds linger before he walks around me, leaving me in the trusted care of a radiant Bianca. I'm thrown off a little when she moves closer, her genuineness is not a mask. "Parli Italiano?" She inquires softly, transparently kind.

"U-Un po." I answer truthfully, I understand a lot more than I speak.

"We'll converse in English then." she dips her head to the side, gesturing to the staircase. "Per favore, follow me."