1. Ophelia

Chapter 1

Ophelia

D oomed.

That's the word that best describes today, contrary to my desk calendar's proclamation of "Resplendent," a term suggesting something dazzling or splendid. Try fitting that into daily chatter! No, "doomed" is far more fitting, especially now.

It all began three weeks ago when Jeremy, the bodyguard my father assigned to me two years ago, quit without notice. Jeremy is different; he lacks the overbearing nature of the typical Italian guards my father preferred, and we had a plan—he and I—a plan I fear played a part in his resigning. Something my father, Angelo Bergotti, seems to dismiss far too easily. A man whose presence was unknown to me until five years ago, he now orchestrates my life with the precision of a maestro. Stepping into his golden cage, I didn't know at the time that there would be no escape.

My eyes drift to a photograph on my dresser: Mom and I in front of the Colosseum, grinning over ice cream cones. That trip to Rome was our only real journey together, our last surge of unbridled joy, captured just weeks before she revealed her illness. It shattered my childhood illusion of her immortality, leaving in its wake the stark reality of her mortality. The void she left is a raw, unhealed wound, throbbing with every memory and every missed moment.

I press a hand to my chest, hoping to ease the ache. The brief affair between my vibrant, youthful mother and my older, austere father is one thing I'll never understand. I didn't meet him until after she passed, and he has not been forthcoming about his past. His entrance into my life silently confirmed his infidelity to his late wife—a common enough tale in the Mafia, but an illegitimate child is another matter. The only thing he shared is that my mother didn't know who he really was or that he was married until it was far too late—until I was already on the way.

I check the time, push away thoughts of Mom, and stride toward my father's office. I need to ask him for the freedom to leave without a bodyguard. Even after years under his roof, the absurdity of this life strikes me—at twenty-one, I shouldn't need to seek permission to step outside. I should have cherished my freedom when it was still mine.

"Mario," I greet the guard stationed by my father's office door.

"Miss Bergotti." He bows his head slightly, and I wince at the formality. I've tried to get them to call me Ophelia, but they refuse, which only served to offend my father. You are not just anyone, Ophelia; you are my daughter, he had scolded with a frown.

"Is my father here?" I ask, already knowing the answer—Mario shadows my father's every move. Yet, I have to play along, ask the questions as expected.

"He is, and he's alone."

I knock sharply. A moment later, his deep baritone beckons me inside. Stepping into his office, I find it slightly less intimidating now, yet the air—thick with cigar smoke and weighed down by dark, ornate furniture—still makes it hard to breathe. The room's dark wood paneling and imposing brown leather chairs exude an oppressive atmosphere, reinforcing my father's iron grip on our lives.

My father sits behind his massive desk, his graying hair contrasting starkly against his dark mustache. He exudes a somber aura, and as I look at him, I find it hard to see what my mother found appealing in this stern figure.

"Ophelia," he starts, reaching for his cup of espresso. "What can I do for you?"

I clear my throat and flash him my brightest smile, the one I know unnerves him. He immediately frowns, his intuition telling him he won't like what I'm about to propose.

"I need to meet a friend at the mall. I was planning to take a taxi—just thought I should let you know."

His eyes dart to the clock on his desk. "I don't think that's a good idea. We haven't found a replacement for Jeremy yet. I'd prefer you stayed home."

Here we go again. I cross my arms, bracing for the familiar battle. "No, I have to meet a friend from Mossbury." Mossbury—where I lived with my mom, the neighborhood I was born and raised in.

His eyes narrow, detecting the edge in my voice.

"It's a girl I really want to see, Father. I can't stay cooped up here." I pause, letting my next words hang heavy in the air. "I might leave for good if you keep me locked up here. Take my chances with your enemies."

His face darkens, a clear sign he hates having his tactics used against him. Since I entered his world, he's been relentless about my safety, claiming how eager his rivals would be to use me as leverage. I'm not convinced it's all true. Perhaps it's just his way to maintain control. But with my limited knowledge of this shadowy world—one I was not born into and kept distant from as a woman—I can't be certain.

"Ophelia," he says, his voice low and tinged with a warning.

"Father," I reply, meeting his stern gaze with my own resolve.

He shakes his head, the lines on his face hardening before he finally exhales a heavy sigh. "Fine, but you take two of the guards. No discussion." He cuts off any protest as he sees my mouth open to argue.

I nod quickly, masking my relief that he hasn't seen through the partial truth. True, I'm meeting a friend, but not one from Mossbury. Instead, I'm seeing a girl I met in an online grief counseling group—a lifeline for me on many occasions.

He taps his fingers on the desk, sizing me up, and I divert my attention to the book titles on his shelves to avoid his probing gaze.

Finally, he sighs and picks up the phone. "Gino? Send Tony and Enrico to the house. Ophelia needs to go out. "

I struggle to keep my face neutral as he chooses my escorts. Tony and Enrico could hardly be more conspicuous if they tried; they're walking, talking stereotypes of Mafia muscle.

I wonder how Jenna will react when she sees these two looming figures trailing me.

He raises an eyebrow. "Anything to add?" His tone makes it clear he's seen my frown.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

"Oh, before you leave, there are a few things I need to remind you of." He gestures to the chair across his desk, and I brace myself for another lecture. I sit with my hands crossed in my lap, already dreading what would come next.

He opens his leather agenda. "Just to make sure you're not ‘feeling unwell' on these days," he says, casting me a pointed look that confirms he's never been fooled by my excuses.

I grimace internally as he continues. "Your cousin Aurelia mentioned you haven't RSVP'd to her birthday party. Why is that?"

I have a litany of reasons: I don't see her as family, I detest nightclubs, her friends are insufferable, she's utterly superficial, and none of my "cousins" genuinely accept me—they only pretend. I silently count off the reasons but keep my mouth shut to avoid reigniting the endless debate about fitting in with the family.

"It's not quite my scene," I reply, choosing my words carefully.

"Then you need to make it your scene," he says, leaning back with a finality that brooks no argument. "There will be many suitable young men there—good for you to meet them. How do you expect to become fully part of this family if you don't try, Ophelia?"

I'm not angry with him for failing to understand; I don't expect him to. He's my father but not really a dad. He didn't watch me grow up, had no other children, and suddenly found himself responsible for a grieving, angry sixteen-year-old. I know he's doing his best with what he knows, but sometimes, it just isn't enough.

"Fine, I'll email her later," I concede.

He rewards me with a rare, small smile—a radiant beam from my typically stern father. "Good, good. You know I'm only trying to get the best for you, right?"

"I know. I'd better go now. See you later." I stand, ready to leave.

"Wait!" He fishes a thick money clip from his pocket, flipping it open to reveal the hundred-dollar bills.

He peels off five and lays them on the desk. "Here, buy yourself something nice," he says, pushing the money toward me.

Accepting the money feels almost sordid, given I'm acutely aware of the murky origins of his wealth. He insists that most of his business is legitimate, and I choose to believe him—because considering the alternative would be hard to swallow.

I pocket the five hundred dollars, a sum that would have seemed a fortune to my mother and me back when we struggled to make ends meet. Now, to my father, it's merely pocket change.

I rush back to my room, grab my bag, and take a moment to check my outfit in the mirror one last time. Despite the opulent lifestyle, my tastes haven't changed; I'm still the girl who prefers jeans and sneakers, much to my father's chagrin. He has reluctantly ceased his efforts to refine my wardrobe, only insisting on designer outfits for the occasional mandatory event.

Stepping outside, I wince at the sight of the two hulking guards, their dark aviator sunglasses nearly as imposing as their tightly fitted suit jackets, which do little to conceal the outlines of their guns.

They nod silently, Enrico opening the car door with a gesture that's almost too polite for his burly form. Their habitual silence is perhaps their only redeeming feature.

A wave of relief washes over me as we drive past the iron gates of the estate, my breath finally coming easier. The sensation of freedom is exhilarating; I've ventured out so infrequently since finishing school. Between vague threats my father won't detail and Jeremy's departure, my life feels increasingly isolated and monitored.

I idly swipe at my phone, thinking of Jeremy. I had come to see him less as a bodyguard and more as a friend. His sudden absence left a void, not just for security but for companionship.

"We're here," Enrico announces gruffly, pulling up near the mall entrance.

"You don't need to come with me—at least not both of you. I'm just meeting a friend for coffee," I argue, hoping for a semblance of normalcy in my heavily watched life.

"Boss said we had to follow you. We're following you," Enrico states flatly before stepping out to open my door.

Men of few words, indeed.

As I navigate the mall, flanked closely by my two looming shadows, I can't help but feel conspicuous. Their presence is so overtly menacing that I shrink toward the walls, mortified. Part of me wonders if this is my father's intention—to make my outings so unbearable that I'd let go of any desire to leave the house.

In a desperate bid for a moment of respite, I duck into a flower shop. Ms. Mayer, the owner, greets me with a warm smile, her apron dusted with yellow pistil and the scent of fresh flowers lingering in the air. In a bustling metropolis like ours, the community of independent florists is surprisingly small. We all recognize each other from early morning visits to the flower district. After my mother passed, Ms. Mayer, like many others, showed extraordinary kindness. She even offered to take care of me when my mother was dying—a gesture that touched me deeply, though my mother assured her everything was already arranged, hinting then at the existence of my father. I met him for the first time in the hospital, overwhelmed and unprepared, and just two days later, my mother was gone.

"Phee, sweetheart, it's been a hot minute!" Ms. Mayer circles the counter and envelops me in a bear hug. "Look at you, stunning as ever." She gently pushes my bangs from my forehead in a tender, motherly gesture, then pats my cheek. "You grow more and more like your mother every day."

A wave of sorrow constricts my chest, the pain sharp and suffocating. It's true—I have my mother's light-brown hair and her green eyes. The only differences are my shorter stature and more curvaceous figure, likely thanks to my Italian heritage.

Ms. Mayer glances behind me, her lips pursing in disapproval. The reality of who has taken over my guardianship isn't exactly a secret in town, and while everyone knows my father is tied to the Gambino crime family, they're unaware of his actual rank within the organization.

"Thank you," I manage, my voice slightly choked.

"Are you okay? Really?"

I muster a brighter smile. "Yes, he's taking care of me. He's decent."

She sighs, nostalgia clouding her eyes. "I always pictured you with a backpack, exploring the world. Remember how you used to talk about all the flowers at the market when you were little? You dreamed of visiting the places they came from."

I laugh, a sound more pained than I intended. "Childhood dreams, you know." I shrug. "They're never meant to really happen."

"Sometimes they do, and sometimes…" Her gaze shifts pointedly to the guards standing awkwardly near the shop's glass entrance. I realize then that I might be deterring customers.

"I better go," I say quickly. "Just wanted to say hi."

As I turn to leave, she catches my wrist. "Wait! I have some B -grade flowers in the alley—why don't you pick some out?" B grades were my mother's favorite; not flawless enough to sell at premium prices, but still vibrant and fragrant. She loved them for their imperfections, saying, "It's not the perfection that defines a flower's quality. Its aroma and resilience matter more, though often overlooked."

I nod, grateful for the gesture. "I'll take some and stop by to see her on my way back."

Ms. Mayer pulls me into another hug. "She would have loved that," she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion, the familiar scent of patchouli tickling my nose.

My father never restricted my visits to my mother's grave, perhaps sensing it was the one place where I could still feel a connection to her. In the days following her death, he often drove me himself, even in the middle of the night, negotiating with the keeper to let us in. He'd stand a few feet away, allowing me to grieve as long as needed.

A surge of tenderness washes over me for the stern, enigmatic man who is my father. In moments like these, I almost forgive the gilded cage I'm confined in.

"Come more often!" Ms. Mayer calls out just as I push open the side door to the alley.

"Will do!" I shout back, though I'm uncertain if the tightening grip of my father's security will allow it.

I step into the alley and pause by the metal tubes filled with water, pondering the bouquet I'll lay on my mother's grave. My contemplation is shattered by a commotion. Before I can react, I'm pinned against a solid body, and my heart plummets as the cold, sharp end of a knife presses against my neck.

"The Bergotti heir…" a voice hisses in my ear, the warm breath reeking of decay. The words, delivered in a chilling tone, make my stomach churn. "Your old man has on ly himself to blame for this."

The knife digs deeper, the sting of broken skin sending a shock of fear through me. I let out a stifled whimper.

Today is the day I'm going to die—just as my father feared. This world, he warned, was too dangerous.

Goodbye, world, I think, feeling the knife press farther into my flesh.