10. Ophelia

Chapter 10

Ophelia

S he's barely more than a kid. We just share a common interest, nothing more. I'd never cross that line. Look at her! The words hit me like a slap, confirming what I already knew deep down.

My immediate instinct was to flee home, to hide and wait for Romero and his father to finish their business with mine.

The sound of brisk steps on the marble entry sends my heart leaping into my throat. I step out of the kitchen but nearly retreat when I see my father's grim face.

"Ophelia." His greeting is a bark that makes me wince under the weight of his stern gaze. "What are you doing here?" The demand makes me feel like a child caught in the act.

"I… just… Romero…"

Romero's smile is immediate at the mention of his name. He steps in front of me, taking my hand and kissing the back of it. "What can I do for you, bella Ophelia?"

And once again, I feel nothing, not even a tremor at his flirtatious attitude.

"You asked me if I wanted to go for dinner."

"No, I asked you for an official date."

"Ah well, same thing," I reply, feeling my father's eyes on the side of my face, knowing it's not quite the same. Accepting an official date with Romero is almost accepting the marriage proposal that would most likely ensue.

"Saturday night, seven p.m. I'll come pick you up."

It feels like an order, not a request. It's too fast, too soon, and my heart hammers in my chest. The suffocating expectations press down on me, and all I can do is nod, the burden of duty stifling my voice.

"See you Saturday," he adds, kissing my hand once more before leaving with his father. As usual, his father glares at me, but today, he also glares at my father—a new and unsettling development.

We both stare at the door after they leave, half expecting them to return in a rush as the tension remains in the room.

"Romero Carmine, huh?"

I shrug and turn to look at my father, who is scrutinizing my face as if he's looking for the answer I'm not giving him.

"Where's Javier? Will he go with you tomorrow?" he asks, and I'm not sure where this came from.

"He's sick. There's no need. Carmine guards can keep me safe."

He keeps on looking at me silently, and I feel really self-conscious. "What?"

"I didn't know you liked Romero."

"Does it matter? Isn't that what you want?"

"I…" He sighs. "It's for the best, trust me. Romero's not a bad choice, Ophelia. Love, as romantic as it sounds, often leads to complications and heartbreak. Practical alliances are what hold value in our world."

I arch my eyebrows. "I didn't peg you for a poet."

"Come, let's have some coffee."

I follow him into the kitchen, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filling the air. I take a seat on the cool marble island, watching him skillfully operate the moka pot. I wince, remembering how many times I burned myself touching that thing when I first got here and tried to assimilate.

"Did I ever tell you how I met your mama?" His words catch me off guard. My body goes rigid as I watch him, his gaze fixed on the coffee maker, the past unfolding in his eyes.

Mom first mentioned him two days before she passed. Since then, he's refused to utter her name, always calling her "your mama." I sometimes wonder if it's simply too painful for him to say her name aloud—a name that holds too many memories, too much grief.

"No, you never said." My heart races with a mix of curiosity and longing. For a moment, I forget all about my day, eager to learn about the mother I lost too soon and the father I'm still trying to understand.

He hands me a steaming cup of coffee, the rich aroma mingling with the faint scent of flowers from the memory he's recounting. He leans against the counter on the other side, his eyes distant as he slips into the past.

"Your mama didn't know who I was when I met her." He shakes his head, a wistful smile playing on his lips. "I fell in love the moment I saw her in her flower shop. It was quite ironic, really. My wife was going on and on about me forgetting our anniversary, so I stopped in a random shop, and I saw her." His face lights up, and for a moment, he looks so far from the Mafia boss I know. It's jarring to see this softer side of him, and it makes me question everything I thought I knew about my parents' relationship.

"She knew you were married?"

He shakes his head. "No, I removed my band, and I told her the flowers were for my ailing mother." His eyes glisten with the memory, and I can see the weight of past choices etched in the lines of his face.

I know he lied, he cheated, and yet I can't help but feel bad for him. His story resonates with me more than I'd like to admit. I know all about making poor choices—I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. His confession feels like a mirror to my own life, reflecting back all the missteps and regrets.

"It was not something I expected or wanted to find; it was more a curse than anything, to be fair. Tasting the sunshine only to retreat back into the darkness." He looks away, the dim kitchen light casting shadows on his face, and I realize how human this man can be at the longing in his eyes. "It didn't last long; passion like that never does. Just the time of a fleeting dream." He lets out a long exhale. "She left me the moment she found out the truth, and I can't blame her. It was a nightmare waiting to happen."

"But it created me," I interject softly, the words of his story settling over me.

He smiles. "That it did." His forlorn look is now settled on me. "Despite what it seems, you're my greatest achievement, Ophelia. Everything I do, the choices I push you to make, are for your own good. Love never brought anything but heartbreak and pain in the Mafia. Having a union based on mutual agreement and respect will take you much further, and in the long run, it will also make you happier. Trust me."

"Why don't you ever say her name?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly.

"What?" He looks at me, taken aback.

"My mom, you never say her name. You call her ‘your mama' all the time, but I've never heard you say it."

"Diana," he says, his voice cracking on the last syllable. The sound of her name hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken memories. "Names carry your identity, and I have never earned the right to use it."

I look at him, the man who has always seemed so distant and unyielding, and see the cracks in his armor. He believes he's protecting me, but I wonder if he's also shielding himself from reliving his own heartbreak. The lines between duty and love blur, and for the first time, I feel the weight of the path laid out before me. It's a path fraught with sacrifices and heavy with expectations, and his story makes me realize how easily love can complicate everything.

"You have to let him go, Ophelia. Nothing good can come from it."

I don't ask him who he is talking about or deny anything. I won't insult him after this moment of raw emotion we just shared .

"What is happening? With Mr. Carmine," I ask, changing the subject. "He seems angry at you."

He waves his hand. "Nothing for you to worry about. Issue with the business. You know Dario, he's always stressed."

No, I do not know Dario, but I know my father, and I can see it's more than just a little issue. It runs deep.

"Romero is not a bad choice," he says, and I'm not sure if he's trying to convince me or himself.

"No, he's not bad."

He nods, and we finish our coffee in silence. For the first time since I met him, I delve into the mess of the relationship he had with my mother. He was in over his head, and I can't start to fathom the amount of guilt he must carry. A mess… At the thought, Javier's face flashes in my head. I think it's the right time for me to hear this story because I don't think I would have understood the compulsion a month back. Now I do; it's not all right or wrong, black or white, because if Javier wanted me, I would have probably given myself to him, consequences be damned.

The last thing I expect after my little tantrum is Javier reporting for duty the next day and to come find me in the garden as if nothing happened.

"I'm not planning to go anywhere," I tell him before turning my back on him.

I feel petty, I truly do, and in the grand scheme of things, I know he didn't know anything. He rejected me for good reasons—I am much younger and also the daughter of his boss. A boss, I suppose, he doesn't like very much, and he's stuck in this situation because he wanted to do the right thing and stepped in to save my life.

I'm about to turn around, to apologize, when he speaks.

"So, Romero, huh?" His voice is full of judgment, and it grates on me.

I cut a red rose and turn around, trying to face him with a cool expression. It shouldn't be that hard; I see the Mafia women wear them all the time.

"Why does it matter?" I ask, attempting to maintain my composure.

Javier's eyes narrow slightly, a flash of something unreadable passing through them. "Just seemed to come out of nowhere."

I shrug, keeping my face neutral. "It's a logical choice, isn't it? This is who we are. Gambinos stick together."

He purses his lips. "It seems that you fight it so hard."

What for? I think. I look down as I dethorn the rose. "My father sold the store."

He didn't tell me, but Julia did. She texted me this morning to tell me that the "sold" sign was up, and as much as it hurts, it's also cathartic. The last piece of my past is now gone—the support I had is also gone. All I have is me.

"I'm sorry." He cocks his head to the side. "I… I would have expected this news to wreak havoc, not to have you here, mellow and creating bunches of flowers."

I frown at the accusation in his voice. "I think it's time to let go, stop fighting the inevitable."

"What happened yesterday, Ophelia? What—" He runs his hand through his hair. "What happened? Things don't change that much that fast. You can't go from being the brightest star in a dark night to…" He points at me. "To this."

I flinch. The insult is more hurtful than anything because I am considering becoming this. Laying down my arms and stopping the fight. I am putting myself at risk, my father, and my friends, but how can I explain that to him? I am sure he will always see wrong in my actions. It's so obvious that Javier is all fire, the first one to lead the assault and whatever will be, will be.

I clear my throat. "People change, Javier, and sometimes they end up becoming exactly who they swore they'd never be."

"Oph—"

"Tell me, are you exactly the person you planned to be? Can you genuinely say you are the man you wanted to be?"

"No, it was stolen from me."

"Stolen?"

"Stolen," he repeats, his voice hoarse. "Taken by circumstances beyond my control, by choices I had to make to survive."

"Just like I'm making choices now," I retort, the anger simmering beneath my skin. "Choices to survive in this world that I was forced into."

He steps closer, his eyes fierce and unyielding. "Survival doesn't mean giving up who you are. You're more than a pawn in their game."

His words from the fair resonate again in my head. Nothing more than a kid . "Maybe that's what I want. Maybe I'm adult enough to make my decisions," I snap, frustration boiling over .

"And you think Romero is the answer?" he asks, his voice dripping with disbelief.

"What does it have to do with you anyway? You made it abundantly clear what place you have in my life, and I agree."

"Maybe it would be best if I left then. You will have Romero's guards to protect you."

It stings, but I have pride. "Yes, maybe you should. It was always supposed to be temporary, wasn't it?"

His eyes widen, and for a moment, I see a glimpse of pain. But then his expression hardens, and he takes a step back, nodding slowly. "Yes, it was. I suppose it's time."

A hollow feeling settles in my chest as I watch him turn away. "Goodbye, Javier."

He pauses, his back still to me. "Goodbye, Ophelia." His voice is thick with unspoken words, and for a moment, I almost call him back, almost reaching out to bridge the chasm growing between us. But I don't. I can't.

As he walks away, the finality sinks in. The garden feels colder, emptier. The vibrant colors of the flowers dull, and the scent of roses turns bittersweet. I force myself to breathe. The choice is made, and the path is set. It was too risky anyway; I am poison to those around me.

Butterflies rest when it rains to protect their wings—I must rest now, too, preserving the little inner peace I have left. If I stayed close to Javier, the storm brewing inside me would become a hurricane.