20. Javier

Chapter 20

Javier

" T hey are on their way back," I say, reading Derek's text again. When he told me she was in the house with her cousin, my heart stopped. I reluctantly called Tiago to come here, dressed in his clergy shirt.

He is, was, my plan B in case things went sideways. He's as safe as can be with them, the Italians and their God. It's pathetic, really, as if their souls had any chance at redemption. But Father Hernandez is a good asset when I need him.

Tiago keeps staring at me, as he has been for the past ten minutes since I dropped the marriage bombshell on him.

"You're married?" he finally asks, his voice tinged with disbelief.

I sigh. "Ah, we're still on that. I married her," I repeat, rubbing my temples. The weight of my actions feels heavier with each passing moment. "Well, I didn't exactly. Lucchese arranged it, but I agree with him now. It was the only way to keep her safe."

He shakes his head, processing the information. " And she doesn't know?"

"Not yet. She was not very receptive to revelations this morning," I say, looking out the window. "I sent the papers to her family to ensure they couldn't touch her. It's the only way she would survive. But she didn't consent to this. It was… necessary."

Tiago sighs, leaning back in his chair. "You've done some questionable things, but this… this is a new level."

I turn to face him, my expression hardening. "I had no choice, Tiago. She was in danger, and this was the only way to protect her. You know what they would do to her if she weren't under my protection."

He nods, but the concern in his eyes doesn't fade. "And what about her feelings? Her autonomy? She's not going to take it well."

I know he's right, but admitting it adds another weight to my already burdened shoulders. "I'll deal with the fallout. I'll explain everything to her. She has to understand."

"Understand? You think she'll understand ?" Tiago leans back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief. "And you say it's us, the men of God, who are delusional."

I narrow my eyes at him and flip him the bird.

I hear the beep announcing the elevator is on its way up, and with each passing floor, my heart races faster. By the time the elevator dings at my floor, I realize I've been holding my breath.

"Husband, I'm home," she says bitterly, letting her suitcase fall heavily on the floor.

I grunt. "Thanks, Tiago."

She turns toward him, her face softening slightly. "I'm sorry, Father. I didn't see you. I was too focused on my husband ."

"No worries. I am leaving anyway. I don't want to be a witness to your death," he mutters softly, only for me to hear.

She gives him a tight smile.

Tiago clears his throat and steps forward, his voice gentle as he addresses Ophelia directly. "Ophelia, I'm happy to see you safe. I'll see you again soon. I'll be praying for you."

"Thank you, Father," she says, her voice wavering slightly. "I appreciate it."

He nods, gives me one last look of warning, and exits the apartment. The door of the elevator closes behind him, leaving me alone with a seething Ophelia.

She turns to me, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger and hurt, their intensity searing into me. "So, are you going to explain this or just stand there?"

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. "I know this is a shock, but it was necessary to keep you safe."

Ophelia's hands tremble as she points at me, her eyes filled with anger. "You're no better than them, you know. The people you despise, the ones you condemn. You make all the decisions for me, just like they do. You're just as bad," she spits, her voice shaking with emotion.

I grind my teeth, swallowing the retort that rises in my throat. Her father, her family, had twisted me into this. But admitting it feels like another defeat.

"For fifteen years, all I wanted was revenge against the man who killed my wife," I confess, my voice breaking slightly.

She recoils a bit at my words, her facade cracking just enough for me to see the hurt behind it. "You already said that," she says, as if dismissing my words, but the hurt in her eyes betrays her act.

"No, but I don't think you understand," I insist, knowing perfectly well it's the wrong time. It's too much at once, but it's like I can't stop myself. I need her to stop looking at me like I'm the worst thing that ever walked into her life.

You might be just that, my conscience shouts, but I smother it.

"For all these years, the destruction of your father and his entire life was all that drove me. It took me from a small-time thug to the billionaire in front of you. This hatred… this…" I shake my head, searching for the right word. "It consumed me. You were never part of the equation, and it wasn't personal."

Her face contorts into a fury I've never witnessed before, her cheeks flushing red. She grabs the vase on the console and hurls it at me. I barely dodge it, and it smashes against the penthouse window.

I don't tell her that the vase she just broke cost over a hundred thousand dollars because I know it will only add fuel to the fire.

"Not personal?" she seethes, pointing at her chest. "It seemed quite personal to me when you fucked me!"

I wince, the truth of her words hitting me harder than I expected. It was no longer a game or a revenge mission; when I took her to the penthouse, it was as a man in love. Javier—Alejandro—didn't exist—I was just… hers .

I watch her as she speaks, the hurt in her eyes cutting deeper than any words. I want to reach out, to explain, but the weight of my actions holds me back. "I know," I whisper, more to myself than to her. "I wanted him to die."

"Mission accomplished."

"No." I take a step toward her, but she sends me a warning look, her small hands balling into fists. "I did, but not like that. I didn't want you to suffer." I point in the general direction of my office. "I collected a file on your father, one that would have been his death for sure. I was supposed to send it weeks ago… I wanted to send it."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because of you. Because none of my words to you were lies. Because you suddenly became more important than my vendetta, and because?—"

"Stop. It doesn't matter. The only reason I'm standing here right now is because I know they would not kill me first. No, they share your sadism. They would kill the people I care for and let me rot in my guilt before ending my misery." She looks down at the suitcase with a sigh before looking back up at me. "Whatever my father did, you got your revenge, and frankly, good for you for getting the thing you've wanted for years. How does it feel?"

"Like losing."

"Ah." She simply nods. "I'm sorry for you then—how anticlimactic." She grabs her suitcase. "Where am I supposed to stay?"

"Ideally? In my room, in my bed, in my arms," I say, my voice softening as I look at her, hoping to convey the depth of my feelings .

She starts to laugh, but it sounds pained, broken. "Oh no, Javier—Alejandro. I—What should I call you anyway? Who are you?" Her voice wavers, the anger giving way to confusion and hurt.

"You know who I am. My name is irrelevant, but if you need to know, Alejandro died on the steps of that church. I'm Javier now; I've been Javier for almost as long as I was Alejandro. But when it comes to you? I'd much rather you call me yours."

Instead of anger, it's pain that flashes in her eyes, and I'm not certain why.

She puts the suitcase back on the floor. "Let me be frank, okay? You know the reason why I'm here, and I will spend every minute I'm awake trying to figure out how I can get out of here, out of your life, and out of this pseudo marriage that is faker than your affection for me. Don't!" She raises her hand. "You're wasting your breath, and you're wasting my time. Your past with my father was yours. What you did to me, on the other hand, is not something I can forgive or get past. You used me before we even met, used my weaknesses, my need for—" She clenches her fist. "You lied, deceived, and made me a traitor. You turned me into something I despise. There's no turning back from this."

"There could be."

"Not if I don't want to. I'm naive, but I learn fast. You used me once. Hell will freeze over before I give you that opportunity again." She picks up her suitcase once more. "Now, can you please point me to my room?"

I sigh, my shoulders slumping with defeat. Patience was never my forte. I want to do something, anything that will lead to progress. I want to fix whatever this is by using any means necessary except giving it time or space that I don't know how to give.

"Follow me." I take her to the bedroom across from mine, hoping she will glance there—show me something, anything—but she keeps her back to it.

She doesn't comment on the room, and just as she's about to close the door, I impulsively stick my foot out, blocking it.

"What now?"

"Let me know the date of your father's funeral. I'll take you."

She looks at me impassively for a few seconds before arching an eyebrow. "Don't you think it would be bad taste to have you there after the mess you caused?"

I want to tell her that I did what was best, and if her father were still with us, he would agree, I'm sure. "I'll stay in the car. I can?—"

She cuts me off, slamming the door against my bare foot hard enough to make me step back. "Don't bother. I'm not welcome there," she adds before slamming the door shut, and I hear the lock ominously fall into place.

"Fuck!" I mutter under my breath. She's here, yes, but at the same time, she isn't. The light is gone, but at least there's fight left in her, even if it's directed at me.

I wait in front of the door for a few minutes in a futile hope that she will open it. The silence on the other side is deafening, a reminder of the mess I've created.

Eventually, I turn away, walking back to the living room. Tiago's words echo in my mind. I've got a lot of explaining to do, and I need to start by giving her space.

I slump onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. The weight of everything crashes down on me. I've made countless mistakes, but this one might be the costliest.

My phone buzzes with a message from Derek.

Derek: Are you okay?

I sigh, typing back a quick response.

Me: No, but thanks for asking.

I shake my head but text him again.

Me: What happened there? Did she tell you anything?

Derek: Not really. She just said they didn't want her in the famiglia anymore. It's what you wanted in the end, no?

I know he doesn't really mean it as a jab, but it feels like it all the same. Not like that , I think, but there's no point repeating it.

I hate the fact that she'll miss her father's funeral. It's important for closure, and I hate that it's being taken away from her. I look down at my phone, scroll through the list of names, and let my finger hover over the name of the devil himself. I close my eyes and let out a breath.

"You're doing it for her," I mutter, pressing the button.

"Vargas. To what do I owe the pleasure? I don't think I requested anything more from you yet."

"No, you have not." My eyes wander to the newspaper folded on the coffee table and the main headline announcing the "surprising" resignation of Senator Thomson. "But it seems that the listening device I set up for you worked even better than expected."

He lets out a rich, deep laugh, but there's no joy in it. "It worked even faster than I could have hoped. I'm sure the next senator will be a little more receptive to the expansion of my entertainment business."

I can't help but snort. It's quite a creative way to refer to his gambling ring.

"I need a favor," I say, my tone turning serious.

There's a pause on the other end. "Another one?"

"Yes. Ophelia needs to attend her father's funeral. She needs closure. You're going, aren't you?"

He's silent for a moment, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his head. "Well, the Luccheses are invited, of course, but I think it would be in bad taste for me to show. I'll send Leo. He knows how to charm a crowd. You're asking me for something I don't think I can grant you. This is not Lucchese business."

"I know," I reply, my voice steady. "But she needs this. I'll owe you one."

He laughs. "You're already in my debt, Vargas. But I'll see what I can do. I'll let you know."

"Thank you," I say, even though gratitude feels foreign in this context.

"I'll be in touch," he says before the line goes dead.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. It's a long shot, but it's all I have right now. I look toward the bedroom door where Ophelia is still shut away, and my resolve hardens. I will do whatever it takes to make things right, to give her even a small measure of peace.

The silence in the apartment is heavy, almost suffocating. I sit back on the couch, running a hand through my hair. My foot still throbbing from where the door hit it, I get up and start pacing, my mind racing with thoughts and regrets. I keep glancing at the bedroom door, hoping she'll come out, but knowing she needs time. More time than I can afford to give her, but I have no choice.

Eventually, the exhaustion catches up with me again, and I collapse back onto the couch. My eyes drift closed, the weight of the day pulling me into a restless sleep.