Matteo's Rapture

Douze

Emma Chassériaux

Laglio, Lake Como, Italy
The Lucchese Manor
The second of July, 11:16 a.m.

Bianca wasn't lying when she said that the sun room is perfect for peace and quiet. It's also perfect for wallowing in boredom—I've been reading in here all morning, passing useless fucking time.

Today is going on the third day that I haven't seen Matteo—or Gabriele.

Or Christian.

I woke up the following morning after our so called talk and he was nowhere to be found—not that he's missed. This is a much needed break from him, he's suffocating, but his absence is a little unsettling considering his line of work. It means that someone, somewhere, is possibly hurt. Or dead.

And somehow my brother's involved, his protégé. Hailed from France, now a constituent for the Italian Mafia under the most influential and ruthless family in our world.

"Is the book boring?" I blink, my attention fading from space to the only person I've been in contact with since el diable's disappearance.

"I—" cider eyes shimmer, watching me with curiosity. Watermelon Sugar rests between my hands, still on page twenty five—like it has been for the past hour or so. "Uh, no, I'm just—"

"Bored?" Bianca closes her book and sits up against some of the cushions in the bay window. The sunlight cast behind her makes for an interesting sight, angelic almost. "What would you like to do instead?" She smiles softly, gaze intent.

Run away.

I shrug, giving her the only acceptable answer. "I don't know."

She sets the book down beside her, "Would you like to go for a swim maybe? Or bake? We can bake something."

The temptation to say no rests on the tip of my tongue, it's something I used to do with Mama, I learned from her. But I noticed Bianca practically perk up at the suggestion, maybe it's something she loves to do too.

"S-Sure." I force a tight smile.

She's up in a flash, hold her hand out eagerly. "Dai," my hand slips into hers. "we'll make my favorite—Teo loves it too." If she noticed my smile fall, she doesn't say anything. I don't want to make anything for that putain de salaud. "Oh?" I delve cooly, bristling when two Lucchese henchmen who were stationed outside the sunroom door start to follow us down the hall. "What is it?"

She squeezes my hand, her shoulder knocking mine playfully. "Tiramisu."

Bianca moves around the kitchen like a thoroughbred housewife. If it wasn't for her maid uniform, I'd think she belongs to someone. "—and then cut this in half." I eye the lemon she pushes towards me. "Be careful of your fingers."

The steel glints against the light—taunting me with the size. It's small, small enough to slip into the waistband of my shorts. As soon as I cut the lemon, she takes it and points to a package of powdered skim milk. "One third of cup."

"What's this that we're making?" I tap the package against the measuring cup when the powder reaches the 1/3 line.

"Mascarpone," she squeezes the lemon into a stainless steel bowl. "One of the layers in tiramisu. Start dunking those." Her chin lifts to the ladyfingers, "Quickly though, they soak up a lot of liquid."