Matteo's Rapture

Dix

Emma Chassériaux

Laglio, Lake Como, Italy
The Lucchese Manor
The twenty-ninth of June, 12:49 p.m.

"You're not planning on doing anything rash, are you?"

The back of my thighs stick to the leather chair, knees bouncing up and down as my sneakers make a continuous squeak against the hardwood floor. I'm not entirely sure how I'm feeling, physically? Like absolute merde. My throat aches with every swallow, raw from me screaming bloody murder until Gabriele threatened me. Mentally? I-I don't know, hurt? Angry? Done?

I hear him, coming up behind me until that familiar spice tickles my nose. "Fixing to be irrational." Matteo squats down next to the chair, hands laced together—ash eyes burning into my face. "Emmy." His palm lands on my knees, thumb pressing into the bend where they're folded over the chair. I stop fidgeting immediately, fighting the urge to recoil in disgust.

"You're a liar, you lied to me." I croak lowly, turning to look him right in the eyes. "Mi hai mentito."

He keeps a straight face, fingers thrum against my knees lightly. "I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"I did—"

"I asked you what you did to my father." I search his face, watching him watch me just as attentively. "And what did you tell me?"

His brows lift, "I told you nothing."

Shaking my head, I push the chair back slightly, wanting distance. But he still here, with me, by me—suffocating me. "I gave you one answer, and it was about Christian."

"So that's why he was nowhere to be found?" Matteo pulls back, towering over me as he stands up and rounds the mahogany desk. "He killed him, didn't he?"

I watch him pull out the top drawer, taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Was it him? Did he do it?" I press. He takes his sweet time though, taking out a stick, tapping it against the desk before rolling his thumb over the spark wheel.

He stares at me, inhaling deeply before exhaling, a cloud of smoke and the smell of tobacco permeate the air. "No," he sits down in the chair that looks like it was made for man of power. "amore mio. He didn't."

I don't understand...

"Then where is my father?"

"There's a reason no one fucks with the cartel." Matteo takes another drag, thumb rubbing his brow bone. "They're messy, hell sent. They do things differently than most familias. It's better to have them as an ally rather than an enemy, something your father should've known. But he was careless, and he had...issues with prioritizing." His lips part, exhaling the smoke while also simultaneously inhaling it through the nose. "Issues with being honest and loyal—qualities a boss can't afford to lack. It was either them or me."

I frown, the back of my neck tingles with an uneasy sensation. "W-What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said." His eyes narrow faintly, "It was either them or me."

"I—"

"Andrés Guiterrez, the man your father killed, has three sons. Dicey fuckers, Rafael, Stefan and Éder. All of whom wanted your entire family dead. Vous savez ce que ça va veut dire?" He leans forward, elbows resting on the desk as he taps the cigarette against the ashtray. "Two generations, done. And afterwards, if they were still feeling sore—your extended family in America and France. It would've been a cleanse, I made a decision."