Made For You

Ch. 35: Blood is Blood

Sofia

The footage plays like a film, except this time I am its only audience. Seated on the couch, ready for the funeral in black, I tell myself I am clever enough to find out a clue but with every replay my hope dies.

Gabriel is still getting ready. He hasn't spoken a word since he went to sleep last night. As much as I think of teasing him to get out something snarky, I draw back. He wouldn't like me to interfere this way.

He is struggling. I want him to know I am there but he won't let me in. The only way to prove my worth to him as someone more than his fiancée is by getting a clue.

The video replays for the hundredth time. I watch myself standing with my back turned to the gunman when in a brief second, I see something I didn't notice before.

The camera angle behind the gunman has me catching a subtle detail that eluded me all these times. I gasp, replaying and there it happens again.

A flicker of movement before he shoots the gun, he adjusts his collar, exposing a tattoo carved upon his neck.

A tattoo of a wolf, its eyes facing front, right at the center of his nape. It is only for a split second before he shoots at us.

"Son of a bitch," I mutter faintly, my fingers instinctively reaching for another replay click, my focus on the telltale mark.

The Don's words come back, echoing ghostly in my mind.

The lion sleeps with an eye open because the wolf is always hunting

He knows who it is. He doesn't want to say which could mean only one thing—it is someone very close to us.

I am so hooked on replaying the video repeatedly that I take no note of Gabriel who has come out of the dressing room.

"Ready, Sofia?" His voice breaks through my concentration.

I snap the laptop shut, lifting my gaze to him. Even though I have grown accustomed to seeing him dressed in the darkness of black, today his attire is particularly striking—a pitch-black suit that hugs his form, tailored to perfection, paired with trousers that seem to swallow the faintest hint of light.

He adjusts his watch, his thumb brushing his wrist every two seconds as if he can't find the right position that fits comfortably.

Should I tell him what I found?

That would be the right thing to do. Yet, I swallow back the words just as they come to the tip of my tongue.

Not today. Today is a day of grief.

"Yes," I say, forcing a polite smile. I stand up and walk to him, grabbing the wrist he is busy grazing with his thumb. "Will you be alright?"

He is quiet, the slight shivering of his hands a sign of what is eating him from the inside. This is the most powerless I have ever seen him and that does something to my heart.

I tell myself it is loyalty, just that. I respect him for what he is to me.

There is no heart involved in the deal.

Why does that seem like a lie then?

"Yeah, I'll be," he replies, lips pursed tight. "Let's go."

He drops my hand off his wrist, intertwining our fingers instead as we walk out of the room together.

He doesn't let me go, his grip only tightening as we make our way to the car.

***

The skies are grey like the clouds were in mourning too.