17. Javier

Chapter 17

Javier

W hen I said things couldn't get worse, I didn't think the universe would take it as a challenge. The church, once a place of solace, now feels like a battlefield as I watch her father's body hit the floor. I know we've reached the point of no return.

She won't forgive me for this. Frozen for a second, I watch as she kneels by his side, soaking her ugly white dress in blood. It feels like a replay of my sins, except this time, I'm the one holding the metaphorical gun.

I expected to just take her with me and work things out between us. I never anticipated leaving this church with her unconscious in my arms, covered in her father's blood, under the glare of the Gambinos.

I follow closely behind Lucchese, knowing it's the safest way. My mind races as we step outside, the church's ominous silence trailing us. A bodyguard waits by the car and opens the back door of Rafaele's SUV.

"You said you would help." I seethe as we settle in the back of the car.

Lucchese takes the seat across from me, arching an eyebrow as he looks from Ophelia's limp form to me. "You're breathing, and so is she. I consider that a successful mission."

"Do you?" I look down at Ophelia. "Her father is dead, and she's unconscious."

"She was hysterical; it needed fixing. You're welcome."

The man is a fucking sociopath.

"What did you inject her with?" My voice trembles with barely controlled rage.

"It's just pentobarbital. She should be out for about twelve hours," he replies, tilting his head as if discussing the weather. "Maybe a little more? The dose was meant for a man." His lips twist into a mocking grimace. "Oops."

"Oops?" My grip tightens around Ophelia, my knuckles white with the effort not to lash out. I want nothing more than to wipe that smug look off his face, but her unconscious form anchors me. "Why do you even carry around pentobarbital?"

He leans back in his seat with a shrug. "I like to be prepared."

I shake my head and look down at Ophelia, moving a strand of hair from her face. I wince at the sight of small blood specks on her beautiful skin and try to wipe them away with my shirtsleeve.

"She'll never forgive me for this. She loved her father," I say, more to myself than to him. Then I look up. "You could have kept him safe."

He shakes his head. "No, Angelo Bergotti was never part of the deal. Do you even know how much power I had to exert just for us to walk out of that church alive?" Anger flashes in his eyes. "Try to be fucking grateful. Instead of whining like a little boy, try acting like a man!"

I tighten my hold on Ophelia, suddenly aware that I've metaphorically poked the bear by angering a sociopathic Mafia boss in an enclosed space.

"I'm powerful, but I'm not God, Javier. I can't meddle in Mafia affairs. It's an open secret that Angelo Bergotti was a dead man walking. Dario Carmine hates being undermined, and Bergotti did it far too often for his own good. I got you and the girl out and safe."

I brush her cheek again. "I know."

"Buy her some jewelry, designer clothes—whatever—it'll help smooth things over."

I snort, the absurdity of the suggestion almost making me laugh. "No, that's not how she works. She'd see right through it."

"I see you had to pick a difficult one. Well, good luck with that." He looks at his watch and sighs. "I'll leave you at your building. Do you need someone to bring your car back? I can have one of my men drop it off when he brings you the papers."

"What papers?"

"The marriage certificate."

Am I having a stroke? "Whose?"

"Yours!" He cocks his head to the side and sighs as if I'm the stupidest person he's ever met. "You can't trust a Gambino, especially not Carmine—he's a snake. The moment he thinks the girl is no longer under my protection, he'll take her out. It's a matter of pride. Nobody leaves Dario Carmine hanging dry at the altar. The only way to protect her"—he taps his ring finger—"is marriage. This is the only way to make sure she's safe. Well, maybe marrying me would be more efficient, but it would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?"

I glare at him before looking down at her. As absurd as it is, I can't help but feel a thrill at calling her my wife, at having her belong to me officially.

I almost smile, but the sight of the blood on her dress sobers me up quickly. Except she's not yours. She didn't choose you and would never choose you again . This marriage is all smoke and mirrors.

"It's not real," I repeat out loud.

"As far as the documents are concerned? It's all real. Judge Johnson signed the papers—real judge, real certificate, real registration with the state. The rest is irrelevant."

I shake my head, trying to smother the voice telling me to enjoy it. "She'll never go for it."

"Don't tell her," he says slowly, as if I'm dense.

"We've had enough lies."

He gives me an amused smile. "Okay, Mr. Morals, let's see if you still think like that when she wakes up," he says as the car enters my building's parking lot.

"Thank you," I say as I open the door, knowing I paid him with my soul for this.

"Oh, by the way, when my man stops by tomorrow, he'll bring you a list of names. They need to get tapped."

And so it starts.

"No problem." I don't want to argue. I need to get her out of this dress, properly clean the blood from her skin, and hope for redemption.

I carry her to the elevator, each step a heavy reminder of the reality she'll wake up to—a reality I've created with my own hands.

The reality that you caused. My conscience gnaws at me, whispering bitter truths.

When I step into my apartment, Tiago and Derek are already waiting. Tiago's face pales as he takes in Ophelia's blood-streaked form. I don't ask why he's here; the look on his face tells me he's reliving a nightmare from fifteen years ago.

"She's okay," I mutter, though the words feel hollow. Ophelia is a lot of things right now, but okay isn't one of them, and it won't be for a while.

I carry her into the bedroom, my heart aching at the sight of the blood on her dress. This dress, this day—it was supposed to be her wedding, a new beginning, not this nightmare. I lay her gently on the bed, grimacing at the sight of the dress she's wearing. It's so unlike her—nothing about the way she looks right now is her.

I hate this dress. I hate the blood on it and what it represents. I reach for the knife in my nightstand, carefully cutting the flimsy material away from her body. Despite the horror of the day, I can't help but smile at her choice of underwear. Cotton granny panties with bees on them—her big fuck you to Dario Carmine, no doubt.

"I'll be right back," I whisper, brushing my lips across her forehead. The touch is bittersweet, likely the last time I can pretend she belongs to me .

In the bathroom, I wet a towel with warm water. On my way back, I grab a T-shirt from my drawer, ready to clean her up. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I gently clean the blood from her skin, each stroke a silent plea for forgiveness.

"I'm going to take care of you, love," I murmur, the words a promise and a prayer. "Please let me take care of you."

I slide the T-shirt over her head and pull the covers up to her chin. "Please let me love you." I sigh.

I sit beside her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, each breath a painful reminder of the fragility of our situation.

My fingers trace the line of her jaw, a touch so light it's almost a ghost of a caress. "You didn't choose this," I whisper, my voice breaking. "You didn't choose me." The guilt presses down on me, almost suffocating. "But I chose you, Ophelia. I chose you from the moment I saw you in your apron, in your quirky garden. I just didn't know then."

If only I realized at that moment, if only…

The room is silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of the city outside. I lean down, pressing my forehead against hers. "I'm sorry," I breathe, the words barely audible. "For everything."

Her eyelids flutter, but she remains unconscious, lost in whatever dreams the pentobarbital has spun for her. I want to believe that in those dreams, she's happy, far away from the blood and violence that have marked our reality.

"I wish things were different," I say softly, my voice cracking. "I wish I could give you the life you deserve. Safe, happy, free from all of these memories." My thumb brushes over her cheek, wiping away a speck of dried blood. "But I can't. All I wanted was to keep you as safe as possible, even if it meant doing things you'll now hate me for."

I stay by her side for a few more minutes, feeling like I'm in the eye of the storm and trying to soak in the fleeting moments of quiet I'm getting in her presence. I dread the moment she wakes up and faces the new reality. A reality that I've shaped with my own hands, for better or worse.

It's crazy how things can really hit you. I've always thought I was a smart man; I built a multimillion-dollar empire, yet right now, I don't feel smarter than a prepubescent teenager. How did I not see it from the moment I looked into her eyes? Her bravery, her kindness—her whole personality brought life back into mine.

I look at my watch. I can't keep sulking here. I need to face the new reality and smooth things over as best as I can before she wakes up.

I rest my hand on top of hers, lingering a moment longer, then force myself to stand. With one last look at her peaceful, albeit fragile, form, I walk back into the living room, feeling heavy and tired but knowing I can't pause now. Derek and Tiago are sitting there with mixed degrees of curiosity and disappointment on their faces.

"Please, make yourself at home," I snap, eyeing Derek's beer.

He shrugs nonchalantly. "I am, thanks."

"So, how much did you fuck up?" Tiago asks, his voice dripping with concern and frustration.

"Father Hernandez, are you supposed to swear like that?" I sigh, shaking my head when he simply glares at me. "Don' t you have a mass to entertain?"

"Celebrate," he corrects me. "And I said I was sick—Father Dean is taking care of it."

"So, you lied and left your flock to a baby priest. How unlike you."

"I didn't lie. I'm sick with worry, and my flock is fine. Plus, it's not the worst vow I'll break this week."

His words somehow dim my irritation. I know what Tiago did for me, how hard it must have been. I sigh and flop onto the couch, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on me.

"I'm sorry," I say, the words heavy with regret.

Tiago's expression softens, and he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "What happened?"

"He's dead." I don't need to say who.

Derek looks down as if grieving.

"Did you—" Tiago begins, his voice trailing off.

I shake my head. "No, I wouldn't have."

Derek looks back at me, a pierced eyebrow raised. "Not anymore. Not after her."

"How did you even pull that one off without getting killed?"

"I—uh—I had help."

Both of them stare at me intently. "Who would be powerful enough to—" Tiago stops talking as it clicks.

"Lucchese…" Derek whispers in awe and horror. "You put her in Lucchese's crosshairs? Are you mad?"

"It's not that easy?—"

"Lucchese is a fucking madman! Have you seen what he did to Theo?" Derek's voice rises with anger and fear .

I won't go into it once again. Theo was one of Derek's best friends, and they grew up together in foster care. His death, while not completely unwarranted, was a brutal reminder of Lucchese's ruthlessness. Derek has always been blind to Theo's faults, seeing only the good in his friend.

"I know what he did to Theo," I say quietly. "But I didn't have a choice. It was the only way to get Ophelia out alive."

Tiago runs a hand through his hair, looking torn. "You've put her in even more danger. Lucchese doesn't help people out of kindness."

"I'm aware of that," I snap, my frustration bubbling over. "Lucchese is getting his share."

Derek shakes his head, still looking disbelieving. "You shouldn't have done that."

As if I had the choice. "Ophelia is not your problem."

"She's my friend," he snaps.

"Is she? Does she even know that… Jenna ?" I'm being cruel, but right now, I just need to let out some steam. "She's the woman I love, Derek. The love of my fucking life."

The words shock us both, but they ring true. Silence falls between us, filled with the weight of my admission.

Derek's eyes widen, his anger momentarily replaced by surprise. "Javier, I…"

"I know," I interrupt, standing up. "I'm dealing with it." I want to tell them more. I want to tell them everything, but right now, I don't think I'm in the proper headspace to do it.

I grab a beer from the fridge and stay in the kitchen for a while, drinking it slowly. I need some time for me—to unwind. I've not stopped since Tiago told me about her marrying Dario, and even if it was a few hours ago, the exhaustion feels like it's days old.

"Derek left."

I nod, keeping my back to him. I knew he would—he won't be able to stop himself from trying to fix things, trying to mitigate the damages my impulsivity caused, and no matter how angry he is with me, I know that he will always have my back. Just as Tiago will.

"It's going to be okay."

I finally turn toward him as he stands in the kitchen doorway. I take a sip, keeping my eyes on him. "Is it?"

He nods confidently.

"How do you know?"

"I have faith. I know you don't, but I have enough for both of us."

I don't feel like mocking him this time; I don't want to taunt God or the universe or whatever. For once, I want to have faith in him. For once, I truly want to believe that things will work out. I need them to work out.

"I'm in love with her."

"I know."

I lean against the counter and sigh, running my hand through my hair.

"What is it? Talk to me."

"It's—" I stop, taking a drink.

"It's what?" He gives me a self-deprecating smile. "I'll listen. It's kind of my job."

"I know, but I'm angry and guilty and in pain. But in love, it's everything and nothing at the same time. I love you, Tiago, but I am so angry at you at the same time. I understand why you kept this truth, but I can't help but wonder how different things would have been if I had known."

Tiago's eyes are filled with regret as he speaks. "I made a promise to her, a promise I couldn't break. And you were so lost in your hate, in your revenge. At first, I was misguided. I was so scared to lose you, too, that I thought I'd rather you be lost in your hate as long as it meant you kept on breathing. Then time passed, I went to seminary, and it was too late, Javier—far too late."

"Far too late…" I nod. It may be far too late for that, but it's not far too late for Ophelia and me. I won't give up without fighting.

"You made poor choices, yes, but you deserve to be happy and loved."

"We both know life doesn't always give you what you deserve."

"No, you're right," Tiago agrees. "But it usually gives you exactly what you need."

I let his words sink in, feeling a glimmer of hope despite the overwhelming guilt and anger. Maybe Tiago is right. Maybe, despite all the mistakes and the chaos, I can still find a way to make things right. To protect Ophelia and build something real with her.

I finish my beer and set the empty bottle on the counter. "Thank you, Tiago. For everything."

He nods, giving me a small, encouraging smile. "We'll get through this. We always do."

I take a deep breath and straighten up, feeling a renewed sense of determination. "I need to check on Ophelia."

Tiago nods and steps aside, allowing me to pass. "I should get back anyway. You know where to find me if you need anything."

I head back to the bedroom, my heart heavy but resolute. As I approach the bed, I see Ophelia lying peacefully, her chest rising and falling with each breath. The sight of her calms me, grounding me in the moment. I sit on the edge of the bed and gently brush a strand of hair from her face.

"I'm here," I whisper, my voice soft and filled with emotion. "You're safe."

She doesn't stir, still lost in the depths of her drug-induced sleep. I take her hand in mine, feeling the warmth of her skin, and it reassures me. This is what I'm fighting for—this moment, this person, this love.

"I'm so sorry for everything," I say quietly, knowing she can't hear me but needing to say it anyway. "But I'm going to protect you. I'll do whatever it takes."

I watch her sleep, my thoughts a tumultuous mix of guilt, love, and determination. I remember the way she looked at me the first time we met, the fire in her eyes and the strength in her spirit. She deserves a life free from this chaos, and I'm determined to give it to her, even if it means making sacrifices I never imagined.

"I love you," I whisper, my heart aching. "I've loved you from the moment I saw you, and I'll keep loving you, no matter what."

I gently release her hand and rest it on her stomach. I lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead.

"I'll make this right, Ophelia. I swear it." With that vow, I settle into a chair beside the bed, keeping watch over the woman I love, ready to face the storm together.