Matteo's Rapture

Onze

Emma Chassériaux

Laglio, Lake Como, Italy
The Lucchese Manor
The twenty-ninth of June, 4:20 p.m.

The bedroom door creaks open, allowing the appetizing smell of food to drift in. I'm hungry, have been since Gabriele locked me in here earlier—but I also have no desire to appease him. I saw it coming earlier, the slap. I'd pushed him, and I knew my comment about letting the Gutierrez brothers kill me would get under his skin. But still, I'm angry. Angry that he'd proven my previous statement true, angry that there's always going to be a discrepancy in power between us. It'll always be Matteo: 1 and Emma: 0, I can't even fucking fight back when he slaps me.

This is my reality, and it's swirling with anger and determination. I'll leave here, escape this circle, this life.

"Grazie Bianca, but I'm not hungry." I fib, wrapping my arms tighter around my legs and nestling my chin deep between my knees.

"You're lying." I whip around instantly upon hearing a familiar gruff voice. Whisky eyes narrow slightly, "It's not good to lie."

I eye Gabriele keenly when he strolls closer, hands securely supporting the tray stocked with food. "Eat." He huffs, setting it down at the end of the bed.

Steam rises from spaghetti, topped with a red sauce that's probably producing the savory aroma. On the side is a piece of chicken, lemon chicken it looks like.

For fuck's sake.

It looks really good.

"I said I'm not hungry." I grumble. His lips press thinly together as he turns around, moving towards the balcony doors with slow, calm steps.

I scowl, annoyed by his sudden presence. "That means you can lea—"

"Just eat the fucking food." Gabriele quips, head rolling to the side lazily. He glances back, a bored look twinkling within his gaze. "Poi andrò, and you can go back to sulking by yourself."

My eyes flicker to the plate of food as a wave of irritation courses through me. I know I'll have to eat eventually, but the idea that it's possible Gabriele's here breathing down my neck because Matteo ordered him to does nothing to quell my rising temper. "And if I don't?" I challenge flatly, gazing back at him but he's no longer looking at me.

"La mia famiglia is known to have short tempers." He answers after a few moments, shoulders rising as he breathes in deeply and crosses his hands behind his back. "Questo non è un gioco a cui vuoi giocare." On instinct, I scoot back a little when he pivots around—his gaze piercing. "Not with me and not with him."

The threat is subtle but loud at the same time. And I can tell by the unwavering look he's pinning me with, he's serious. "So pick up the fork and stop acting like a child." His eyes flicker towards the tray. "Or I'll treat you like one and do it for you."

My fingers are slowly wrapping around the fork before I can think—all while being under acute scrutiny by a man who looks like he wants to snap my neck.

It's like this for a few moments, quiet, me lightly blowing on my food, eating, him watching me. But then my eyes shift to the knife on the plate—and my head starts flooding with ideas.