11. Javier

Chapter 11

Javier

I stand in front of the church, and she exits in a flowing white dress. This dream haunts me, but tonight, it's different. This time, it's not Paloma in the dress—it's Ophelia. Romero stands beside her, beaming, but Ophelia's mouth is taped shut, her emerald eyes filled with silent, desperate tears.

I want to save her, to rush forward and tear the tape away, but my feet are rooted to the ground. I try to call her name, but no sound escapes my throat. Panic rises as I struggle against the invisible chains holding me in place.

Suddenly, she jerks back violently, and I see the bullet's impact square in the middle of her chest. Her white dress blooms red as blood spreads across the fabric. My heart wrenches, and I try to scream, but the sound is trapped inside me. The unbearable pain of loss seizes my chest, making it impossible to breathe.

"No, not her! Please, god, not her!" My mind shouts in the prison of my body. As she falls, her eyes lock onto mine, filled with a mixture of sorrow and acceptance. When her body hits the ground, her final breath escapes with a haunting smile.

"Ophelia!" I shout, bolting upright in my bed, my body drenched in sweat, my heart pounding wildly. The remnants of the dream cling to me, leaving an ache deep in my soul. I blink rapidly, taking in my surroundings, the dark room slowly coming into focus.

I sit on the edge of the bed, resting my forearms on my legs, trying to catch my breath. Tiago's voice echoes in my mind: Focus on the present. Ground yourself. I look down at the burgundy carpet, concentrating on the feel of the fibers under my bare feet and the cool air on my clammy skin. I take a deep breath, focusing on the sensation of the air filling my lungs and the rhythmic rise and fall of my chest.

I run my fingers through my hair, feeling the dampness from sweat. I touch the smooth wooden edge of the nightstand beside me, tracing the grain with my fingertips. Gradually, my racing heart begins to slow, and the overwhelming panic starts to fade, replaced by a tenuous calm.

"That smile…" I mutter. I saw it before; I hadn't really connected the dots, but now I do. That day in the alley, she had it—the moment she thought she was going to die… she had it.

Fuck!

I look at the time on my phone, three a.m., but I don't care. I dial Derek's number.

"You okay?" he asks as soon as he answers.

"Are you sleeping?" I already know the answer. Derek barely sleeps. He hates the nightmares that sleep brings him, and after witnessing the screams he sometimes lets out, I empathize with him .

"No. What do you need?"

"Can I come down?"

He's silent for a minute. "Coffee or beer?"

"Bacardi."

He lets out a low whistle and hangs up.

I stand up but only bother with the pair of pants I left on the chair and a T-shirt I pick at random from my dark walk-in closet. I don't even bother with shoes—an advantage of my private elevator that takes me directly to Derek's place, only two floors down.

When I get there, the door of his apartment is already cracked open.

The apartment looks barely lived in. There's nothing more than what he needs, and he doesn't need much. No couch, no TV, no table. Only a desk with a computer, a reading chair with a lamp, and a bed in the bedroom. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, like a hospital room, and the only sound is the soft buzz of the refrigerator in the adjacent kitchenette.

I push the door open and step inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The sparse decor feels like a contrast to my own impersonal living space, which looks like a picture from a home decor magazine—all white and stainless steel. But his looks like a fortress of solitude.

Derek sits in the reading chair, a bottle of Bacardi and two glasses on the floor beside him. He looks up as I enter, his eyes heavy with the same kind of exhaustion I feel.

"Welcome to the Batcave," Derek says with a faint smile, gesturing for me to sit on the floor opposite him.

I turn his computer chair around and sit on it, wrinkling my nose at the sight of a Cheetos bag on his lap. "Cheetos and Bacardi?"

He shrugs, munching on one for good measure. "It all mixes in your stomach. So"—he makes a hand gesture toward me—"what's got your panties in a bunch?"

"I've quit."

"Your revenge?" Derek asks, extending me a glass filled fuller than it should be.

"No, my job. Because of her."

Derek takes a sip from his glass. "It's hard not to feel for her, isn't it?"

For a second, I fear he's in love with her. He knows her too well—even if she doesn't know that. Part of me is jealous that he got to experience this unadulterated version of her, the real Ophelia. Even if, in all honesty, I wouldn't have believed him if he'd told me or her if she'd shown me.

I hate asking the question and dread the response, yet I have to. "Are you in love with her, Derek?"

He gives me a slight smile, takes another sip, and I lean forward, hanging on his words. "It would be awkward, wouldn't it? Both of us being in love with the same woman." His tone is light, but there's a seriousness in his eyes that makes my heart sink.

"I'm not in love with her." I speak too fast, and he rolls his eyes, scratching his bare chest where a Latin tattoo reads, "In dolore resurgo "—In pain, I rise.

"I don't love her, not that way. I will nev—" Derek shakes his head. "I care for her, but not in the way you do."

He raises his hand when I'm about to deny it. "Don't. I love you like a brother, but you know my take on lies. If you want to lie to yourself, suit yourself, but don't you dare lie to me."

"I need to speak with him."

Derek frowns. "Who?"

"Jeremy."

He shakes his head. "No, we promised to leave him be. He told us everything he knew."

"He didn't do us a favor. We saved him."

"We did, and if half of Bergotti's assets are gone and we have him by his metaphorical balls, owning him with our businesses, it's a lot thanks to him."

"He lied to us."

Derek sighs and takes a sip. "No, it all checked out."

"About Ophelia," I say through gritted teeth. "He said she knew nothing, that he had nothing on her. That's not true."

"Probably," he says, filling his glass again.

"Probably? Probably ?" I ask incredulously.

Derek looks at me calmly. "Yeah, probably. But we have no proof. Jeremy gave us what he had, and it was enough to start dismantling Bergotti's operation. Going after him now would be a mistake."

"I'm not going after him; I have questions."

"Javi—"

I sigh, the lack of sleep really taking a toll on my anxiety. "Which side are you on, D? Because these days you don't seem to be on mine very much."

"Is that what you think?" He cocks his head to the side. "Fuck you, Javi!" He drinks his glass in one go and stands up. "If your head wasn't stuck so far up your fucking ass, maybe you'd see that I'm trying to prevent you from causing more damage. But you know what? I wash my hands." He moves a painting of the Joker from the wall, types the code of his safe, and takes out an unmarked cell phone.

"Here." He throws it into my lap. "Pick contact 74 69 82 69 77 89."

I scroll through the contacts, all just numbers. "How?"

"ASCII code," he says, his voice flat.

I try to translate the numbers in my head, but I'm not Derek's level of genius. "T-I-R-I-M-Y?" I mutter. It hits me: it spells out Jeremy.

Derek nods, his eyes cold. "Call him if you want, but remember, every action has consequences. Don't let your jealousy cloud your judgment. This is bigger than just you and Ophelia."

I know this, and I know that pursuing Jeremy might not lead to anything concrete. But the relationship they had, the secrets they seemed to share, gnaw at me. I need answers, even if it means risking more than I'm prepared for.

I do the video call. "There's a problem?" Jeremy's face appears on the screen, worry lines etched across his brows. It's daytime where he is—I can only assume Derek sent him to Europe.

"No problem. This is a secure line. I just need to talk to you."

"You said we're done," he growls, rubbing me the wrong way.

"And you said you told me everything."

"I did."

"Not your secret with Ophelia. "

"She has nothing to do with all of this. You promised to keep her safe."

"And I will, but to do that, I need to know whatever you two were planning."

He looks at me silently, and I'm glad there's a screen between us, or I'd strangle him. Suddenly, he smiles.

"Ah, you see her now, don't you?" He sighs and leans back in his chair. "Your hate for the Bergottis was—still is—so strong that you would have never believed me."

"Believe what?" I snap, frustration bubbling over.

He shakes his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "Ophelia and I… we weren't planning anything sinister. She was trying to escape. Escape from the life she was trapped in, the same life you're so entrenched in."

I frown, my mind racing. "Escape?"

"Yes," he continues. "She wanted out. Away from the Mafia, from what it represents. I was helping her find a way."

"She's an adult. She can just walk away."

Jeremy snorts, and I scowl. "Of course not. She didn't know what she was stepping into. She was grieving and grateful to have a family. She was just sixteen, and I offered to be a bodyguard. She wanted out fast, but she found out the hard way that once you're in, there's no out. Bergotti has enemies in and out of the family. I told you that. She was in danger, but it was not only her—they threatened the people she cared for, and she was too scared to put anyone in danger. But—he looks out a window, and I can only see his profile—"her bright light was dimming no matter how hard she fought it. I needed to get her out, but we needed to make sure everyone she cared for was safe too."

"This was a betrayal." I'm confused. I thought he was turning on the Bergottis and the Gambinos because they tried to kill him.

"It was." He clears his throat. "Why do you think I ended up with my feet in a block of concrete?"

I get it then, and I hate the truth. "You are in love with her."

"I am."

Fuck, that stings and the offense I feel at that statement is almost overwhelming. How dare he love her? A wave of possessiveness surges through me, but then a taunting voice in my mind whispers, How dare you? I smother it right away, pushing the thought down into the depths where my insecurities lie.

"So, you were willing to risk everything for her?"

"Yes," he replies without hesitation. "I knew the risks, and I was willing to take them. She deserves a chance at a real life, away from all of this."

I stare at him through the screen, grappling with a mix of emotions. Anger, jealousy, and a begrudging respect. He was willing to do what I couldn't… or wouldn't.

I have to ask the question I don't want to know the answer to, but I need to know. "Does she—" I swallow.

"Love me?"

I stay silent.

He shakes his head. "No, not in the way I would have liked."

I let out a huff of relief.

"You promised to protect her. To help her. "

I feel so guilty now. I left her behind. I let my stupid male ego get the best of me.

"I will protect her. I swear on my life," I say, the weight of my promise settling over me.

Jeremy nods, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Good. She needs someone she can trust."

The call ends, and I sit back, feeling the enormity of the commitment I've just made. Ophelia's safety, her future, depends on me now. I'll do whatever it takes to keep her safe, to give her the chance at the life she deserves.

It's time to let go of my pride, my jealousy, and focus on what really matters: my revenge and her freedom.