Made For You

Ch. 6: All Work & No Play

Sofia

Helene doesn't get my memo to leave me the fuck alone. The old hag is dressed like a Victorian Gothic woman in her black striped dress, and a pointed face with a pair of studious beady, soulless eyes. Her hair is tied back behind her head in a tight bun.

She has ignored all of my instructions since she managed to force me out of Gabriel's room.

She even took the liberty of dragging me by my wrist when I wouldn't move from a place, rambling about something along the lines of "Master would be furious", "Master gave strict instructions", and "Master's orders must be followed". If she didn't look like a human, I would have taken her for some kind of ogre or troll.

"This is the entertainment unit," Helene brags, continuing to chat, her voice causing an impatient throbbing in my head. "Master Gabriel usually holds his meetings here instead of the conference room above so if you ever want to come here, you must send someone to check in first. The Master doesn't like interruptions."

The entertainment unit with its billiards table, rows of books shelved neatly inside thick bookshelves designed intricately, and glamorous stunning decor everywhere I look, reeks of masculinity. The smell of woody room freshener bathing the unit does nothing to ease my agitated nerves.

While Helene, the head maid, continues her garrulous speech, I step to one of the bookshelves lined with delightful editions of classic literature. I pull out a copy of Northanger Abbey, my fingers grazing the cover weaved in golden threads, the letters carved in further shimmering gold. I haven't seen this edition anywhere and I know I have every single special edition of the book back at my house.

This looks custom-made, matching the spine of every other book on the shelves.

"Do you have any idea where he is?" I murmur to Helene, cutting her speech off in between. "He hasn't been home for three days in a row."

I only mean to muse but she surprises me by actually answering.

"Never, Miss Bianchi. We aren't supposed to know the Don's whereabouts."

I spin to face her with an eyebrow impossibly touching my hairline. Nothing in her fifty-eight-year-old face gives away whether she is lying.

"He isn't the Don yet," I mutter, walking to one of the single-seaters embroidered with lion head designs for arms. "Don't you find it hypocritical of him that he claims to love the Don so much yet has stripped the house of all his authority?"

"Miss Bianchi!" The hag has turned red by the time I take a seat, lifting one knee over the other and opening the book to its first page. "Do not speak of the Master in such a way. He won't like it."

She has a surprisingly loud voice for someone who was taking permission to talk to me previously.

"He doesn't like me either," I muse, flipping the pages robotically. "I'm still here, ain't I?"

"You're very brash."

"I know."

She allows me some moments of silence during which I disinterestedly read passages from my favorite chapters of the book. My mind isn't quite at peace. Ever since Gabriel left two nights ago, after ordering me to keep the door locked, I was woken by the servants who passed on the information that their Master wouldn't be home for a while.

By 'for a while' I had assumed they meant a few hours. But that isn't the case. He hasn't been home for three days. I have been waiting for some news that he died somewhere or was killed in a brawl like made men often indulged in when someone tickled their egos the wrong way.