12. Ophelia

Chapter 12

Ophelia

A s the hours tick by and the date looms closer, my mind remains a battlefield. Rationally, I know my father is right—this is the best outcome possible. But another part of me mourns the life I'll never have because no matter how okay Romero might be, he's still his father's son. He's still born and raised in a world where a wife belongs in the house and has children.

I pick up the outfit for the part I'll play—a simple but overpriced dark-purple knee-length dress. I put my hair in a high, strict bun and apply the same subdued makeup I saw my cousin wear at a formal family event. As I look at myself in the mirror, I see not just my reflection but the mask I'm donning for the evening, the facade of compliance and duty.

As seven approaches, I make my way downstairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. I see my father on the phone, his back to me. He's whispering, but despite that, I don't miss the urgency in his tone. It takes my anxiety up a notch, but I know better than to ask him about it. He wouldn't tell me even if I did.

He turns to face me as I reach the bottom of the stairs, his eyes scanning my outfit with a critical but approving gaze. He covers the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand and whispers hurriedly, "You look lovely."

I manage a small smile, but it feels brittle, ready to crack under the pressure. My father nods and returns to his conversation, moving away with a sense of purpose that leaves me feeling even more isolated. I wait in the foyer—the silence and loneliness make me long for Javier.

He has not texted me since our fight in the greenhouse, and I'm not surprised. I gave him an out, and he took it. I need him here. I need his support, his unwavering presence. It feels messed up to long for one man while going on a date with another, but that seems to be the essence of this Mafia life.

The conflict between us is still on my mind. I replay our last conversation over and over: the harsh words, the hurt, and the unresolved tension. His anger, his coldness—it felt like a knife to my heart. How can I miss someone so much who seems determined to push me away?

The sound of a car pulling up outside gets me out of my thoughts. I straighten my dress and take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. The doorbell rings, echoing through the house like a herald of fate.

Mira, my father's housekeeper, opens the door and Romero steps in, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, a single red rose in his hand. His polished exterior and confident stance exude a menacing charm. He smiles, but there's an edge to his demeanor that I can't ignore.

"Good evening, bella Ophelia," he says smoothly, stepping inside and offering me the rose.

"Good evening, Romero," I reply, accepting the rose and forcing a smile. "Thank you, it's beautiful."

He captures my hand in his, his grip firm and possessive. As his lips brush my skin, his eyes lock onto mine, a silent assertion of control. "Shall we?"

I nod, glancing back at my father, who is watching us with a look of pride and something else I can't quite decipher. I turn back to Romero, allowing him to lead me out the door and into the night.

As we walk to the car, the cool evening air wraps around me, contrasting with the heat of my conflicting emotions. I slide into the passenger seat, feeling the expectations pressing down on me. Romero gets in beside me, starting the engine with a confident ease.

We drive in silence for a while, the city lights blurring into a mosaic of colors through the window. I steal a glance at Romero, wondering what lies beneath his polished exterior. Can I find some semblance of happiness in this arranged future, or will I always be haunted by the what-ifs of a different life?

"Where are we going?"

"La Trattoria. Is that okay with you?"

I nod. This is a famiglia restaurant, one of the most popular in the city. I know that people must book months in advance, but not when you are a Gambino.

When we arrive, Romero exits first. I sit stiffly, waiting for him to open my door. His hand rests too low on my back as he guides me out, his fingers brushing possessively over my ass, sending a shiver of unease down my spine .

As soon as the hostess sees us, she leaves the guests she was talking to and rushes over.

"Mr. Carmine, what a pleasure to have you here. Please follow me; the back room is ready."

My pace falters as his grip on the swell of my ass tightens, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Why the back room? There are plenty of tables in the main room."

Romero lets out a small chuckle as if I were just a silly girl and pushes me forward. "I'm not anyone, Ophelia—for safety reasons, the back room is always best. Plus, I'm keen on keeping you away from prying eyes." He leans down and brushes his lips on the apple of my cheek, and I have to use all my willpower not to recoil.

We walk past the kitchen until we reach the back room. I've never been here, but I know a lot of famiglia meetings happen in this room. Being in here all by ourselves feels far more suffocating than being in the main room with everyone else. There's a table set for two in a corner, and once again, Romero tightens his hold on me.

"Come on, Ophelia, let's move. I won't bite."

I force a smile despite my mind screaming to run away at the tone of his voice that seems to contradict his words. We sit at the table, and if the waitress is conscious of my discomfort, she probably doesn't care.

You're the one who agreed to go out, Phee. Nobody forced you, the voice in my head reminds me.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"I will take an old-fashioned, and the lady will take a tall glass of pinot grigio," Romero orders without looking at me for approval.

"Actually, can I get sparkling water with lime? I'm not feeling like drinking tonight." I try to keep my tone light, knowing that with all the alarm bells going off in my head, I would rather not cloud myself with alcohol.

"So tell me, what changed your mind about this date?" he asks as soon as the waitress exits the room. "I have to say I was pleasantly surprised. Is it because of your father's troubles? I won't lie to you, having me on your side will help the situation."

I feel an uncomfortable chill as lead weights settle in my stomach. I know something is wrong, but having some responsibility resting on my shoulders is not easy.

"No, why do you say that? What's wrong with my father?"

"He's been fucking missions up far more than usual, and people are starting to talk." I want to ask more, but before I can, he reaches for my hand. "You didn't seem interested, which honestly was ludicrous." He lets out a little laugh. "I'm glad you came to your senses."

The waitress comes back with the drinks. "Are you ready to order?"

I'm about to tell her that I didn't yet have a chance to look at the menu, but Romero nods.

"Yes, the lady will have the caprese salad and the orecchiette con cime di rapa , and I'll have the arancini and bistecca alla pizzaiola . As for dessert, we'll see if we have any room left," he says, winking at me, and I can't help but frown.

I take a sip of my sparkling water, trying to calm the storm brewing inside me. "Romero, I appreciate your gesture, but I'd prefer to make my own choices. Starting with my meal."

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not used to being challenged. "Of course, bella. I just thought I'd make it easier for you."

"I understand, but I'd still like to have a say."

He nods, but his lips press into a thin line. "You've been with us for over five years now, Ophelia. It's time you accept your place. I find your fire endearing but remember, there are limits to what your beauty can get you." His words sting, a harsh reminder of the tightrope I walk.

I'm too stunned to even say anything. The mask is finally coming off.

He leans back in his chair and shakes his head. "It came out wrong."

"No, no, I don't think it did. I believe that's exactly what you think."

He shrugs. "Yes, of course, that's what I think. That's what everyone thinks… except you, it seems." He leans forward and grabs my hand again. I try to pull it away, but he tightens his hold. "Ophelia," his tone carries a warning. "I'm not that little bodyguard of yours who you can order around like a lovesick puppy."

The chill in his voice sends a shiver down my spine, and I realize just how dangerous this game has become. I force myself to remain calm, to keep my expression neutral.

"I don't order anyone around," I reply evenly, meeting his gaze. "I just know what I want."

He smirks, his grip on my hand relaxing slightly but still firm. "And what is it that you want, Ophelia?"

"I want respect," I say, my voice unwavering. "To be treated as an equal, not just another pawn in this endless game."

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, I see a glimpse of something—annoyance? It's hard to tell. He lets go of my hand and leans back again, studying me.

"You will be treated as the wife of the future consigliere. Do you know how many women would like to be you right now?"

I have to purse my lips to stop myself from telling him to go find one of those women, that nobody was stopping him.

"I can give you a comfortable life. You could even be happy if you finally accept your place."

"What if I want more?"

He laughs, and that laugh makes my hand sting with the desire to slap him. "What more is there? Once you're married with children, have a house to take care of, and a husband to keep satisfied—trust me, you'll have no time or energy for more."

His eyes darken again. "Try to keep the disgust out of your face," he barks, and I smooth my expression.

His smile turns menacing as he leans forward. "What is it? You want to slum it with your bodyguard first? I hope you didn't let him soil what's mine. You better be a fucking virgin when I have you. Maybe I should check right now."

My cheeks flame at the implication, and I stand up.

"Sit your ass down, Ophelia, or I swear to God, I'll unleash my father on yours. "

Right now, it doesn't matter as nausea hits the back of my throat. I shake my head and move toward the private bathroom.

I hiss as he grabs my upper arm so tightly that I feel the pain reverberating through my whole body.

"I just need the restroom," I whisper, and he studies my face before finally letting go of my arm.

"Be quick; the food will be here any minute." He grabs my bag that is on my shoulder. "You don't need that."

I stumble into the windowless bathroom, my body trembling the moment I lock the door. Panic bubbles up, threatening to choke me as I reach into my dress pocket for my phone. Thank heaven that I put my phone there instead of in my bag. My hand is really shaking now, and my eyes are blurry with unshed tears. I'm not sure who I can call. My father might help, but I'll cause more trouble for him, and if what Romero is alleging is true, he is already in the deep end.

Javier. He's the only person I can think of, the only person I want to save me, but would he want to?

I shake my head but text him anyway.

Me: I'm on a date with Romero. This was a mistake. I'm scared.

Please save me. The last words echo in my mind, a silent prayer for rescue.

I wait, my heart pounding in my chest, each second stretching into an eternity. The silence is suffocating, and I wonder if help will come in time.