2. Ophelia

Chapter 2

Ophelia

N othing happens. No, that's not right—everything happens… simultaneously too fast to grasp and yet unbearably slow. It's a surreal blur of motion and time.

The grip on my shoulder tightens, and just as I brace for the worst, a shadow lunges from the darkness. The man behind me is yanked away with such force that the air shifts, leaving me momentarily weightless before I stumble backward, only to be caught by strong arms.

Blinking upward, I find myself staring into the eyes of the most beautiful man I've ever seen. His dark eyebrows knit together in concern, his gaze sweeping over my face with an intensity that makes my heart race.

"Resplendent," I whisper, despite the shock pulsing through me. It's absurd to focus on his features now, but I can't help but take in his tanned skin, hazel eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones.

"What?" he asks, his hold tightening around me. His voice is deep, and I feel its rumble as his face hovers close to mine.

I look at him silently, somehow subdued by his long, thick lashes.

"Are you alright?" He shifts his gaze to my neck, and upon seeing the mark left by the knife, he mutters a curse under his breath. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out what appears to be a handkerchief and presses it against the side of my neck.

I try to shift my position and wince. He curses under his breath again and presses down harder on the wound on my neck, almost to the point of discomfort.

"These men, my guards," I begin, attempting to turn my head toward them, only to wince again.

"Don't move," he commands, his tone allowing no argument, making me halt midmovement. "Your guards are unconscious but alive." His lips curl downward in disdain. "My friend has called the police. Let's get you to the hospital. Keep your hand on the wound, please."

"No, I?—"

With a surprising gentleness that belies his sturdy frame, he lifts me, his arms secure and steady, and as he does, I catch a glimpse of Enrico and the attacker, a ski-masked figure sprawled on top of him. My gaze drifts to the bloody knife, and my breathing quickens—my blood on the blade.

"Hey, look at me, not them. What's your name?" he insists.

"Ophelia… James," I reply instinctively, using the name I carried for sixteen years, the name that still feels like my true self, not Bergotti.

He stares down at me a moment too long, as if seeing through my half-truth, then shakes his head and strides toward a black SUV.

I blink up at him after he settles me on the back seat, lost in the haze of pain and shock. He probably asked me something, given his expectant look.

He sighs and grabs my bag. "Is there anyone I can call?" He reaches for my phone and holds it in front of me to unlock it.

"My father," I say, wincing both from the pain in my neck and the dread of informing my father about this incident.

He nods, closes the door after helping me in, and takes the seat behind the wheel. "We'll be at the hospital soon," he says, his voice a calming force in the middle of chaos.

His voice fades as he calls my father, and I retreat into my thoughts, the reality of my narrow escape enveloping me in a cold dread. I am confronting a terrible truth that's hard to admit even to myself: for a brief moment, as I believed death was imminent in that alley, I felt an overwhelming sense of… relief. And that scares me more than I'm ready to face.

From there, events blur into motion. As his car screeches to a halt at the hospital, the car door bursts open, the sharp scent of antiseptic rushing in as hands gently guide me onto the waiting stretcher.

"I'm fine," I say weakly as someone pries my hand from the wound.

Nausea overwhelms me when I see my fingers coated in blood.

"It looks worse than it is," a nurse consoles me with a soothing smile, probably noticing my panic. "Just breathe, you'll be okay."

"But—" I glance down the hall, looking for the man who saved me, a man whose name I don't even know.

"Your friend will be here when we're done," the nurse reassures me.

I'm quickly wheeled into a room where a harsh overhead light blinds me. The procedure is swift, and within forty-five minutes, I'm stitched up and transferred to a private room where my father awaits, his expression dark and stormy.

"Dad," I begin, but he raises his hand to silence me.

"I told you you needed to be careful."

"Dad, it wasn't our fault! Enrico and Tony?—"

"Are none of your concern. They've been dealt with." His tone leaves no room for further discussion.

I grimace, my imagination running wild with thoughts of what "dealt with" could mean in my father's world.

"What about that man?" I try to peer past him, half expecting the stranger to materialize behind my father.

"He's not your concern. We're tightening security—no more unsupervised outings," he states, his tone final. I feel a familiar knot of frustration and helplessness tighten in my chest.

His dismissal is harsh, his commands irrational.

No, absolutely not, I silently rebel. Despite the dizziness from the sedative and the sting of the topical anesthetic, I force myself to sit up, my resolve hardening with each movement.

"If this is how it's going to be, I'd rather walk out of this hospital and take my chances with whoever wants to kill me," I declare, standing up, though swaying slightly, ready to act on my threat.

My father is by my side in an instant. " Mio Dio, sei così testarda !" he growls, his hands guiding me firmly back onto the bed.

"I'm not being stubborn! I'm standing up for myself."

He glares at me, a hard, unyielding stare, but I meet his eyes without flinching. After a tense minute, he sighs, his shoulders drooping. "We'll discuss this tomorrow. For now, you rest. As for the man who helped you—he's coming to the house tomorrow. You can thank him then."

My heart races for several reasons. First, I pity this poor guy; he only wanted to help, and now he's about to walk into the home of a Mafia leader. Second, I can't deny the flutter in my stomach at the prospect of seeing him again. Was he really as mesmerizing as he seemed when he was my savior?

"Why is he coming to the house?" I ask, suspicion tingeing my voice. My father is notoriously paranoid—with good reason, as I discovered today. He's not the type to welcome strangers into our home casually.

"He saved my only child. That deserves a proper thank you," he states simply.

Just as I'm about to probe further, a doctor enters the room, cutting off any further questioning.

"Ms. Bergotti, hello. I see you are eager to leave," the doctor remarks, noticing me perched on the edge of the bed.

"Quite. I'm not fond of hospitals," I reply tersely.

My father's stern glare softens, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. The last weeks of my mother's life haunted these halls, and the sterile sting of antiseptic clung to me long after. Even at my father's house, I'd shower until I felt clean, chasing away the hospital's ghostly traces.

"Well, yes, of course," the doctor murmurs, clearing his throat as he opens his chart. "We've cleaned the wound, but it was a bit deeper than I would have liked in one spot, so I added three stitches, along with surgical strips, just to be safe. The stitches are self-dissolving and should be gone in a couple of weeks. However, please take it easy. It was a traumatic injury, and despite the wound not being overly long, you still lost a significant amount of blood."

"Don't worry. I've hired a nurse to watch over her for the next few days," my father interjects.

I turn to him, my mouth agape, and the doctor lets out a low chuckle.

"Sir, I don't think that is necessary, I?—"

"I decide what is necessary for my daughter," my father cuts in sharply.

The doctor pales a bit. "I—y-yes, of course. Better to err on the side of caution." He clears his throat again, visibly uncomfortable under my father's stern gaze, an intimidation I can hardly blame him for. "I would like to see you back in?—"

"There's no need. Our own doctors will take over from here," my father interjects firmly.

The doctor gives me a side glance, and I nod subtly, appreciating his concern. Facing a man like my father is daunting, and I'm grateful for his efforts on my behalf.

"Perfect," the doctor says, pulling a prescription pad from his pocket. "Let me just prescribe some painkillers and antibiotics to ensure there's no infection." He hands the prescription directly to me, and I'm relieved that my father doesn't attempt to intercept it.

"Am I free to go then?"

"Yes, here are your discharge paperwork." He hands me a green slip of paper, his tone earnest, almost warning. "Take care, okay?"

I nod, and as we exit the room, my eyes glance down the hallway, a part of me irrationally hoping to catch another glimpse of the man who saved me, seeking reassurance in his presence.

"What are you looking for?" my father asks sharply.

"I—the police," I stammer out quickly.

He slows his steps, his face tensing. "We don't involve the police. Why do you want to see them?"

"I don't. I just thought it was mandatory in cases of knife or gun wounds, and the stranger has?—"

"I've dealt with the police. You've got nothing to worry about."

"I'm not worried."

"Good," he replies as we reach his car parked across the street.

"No driver?" I observe, glancing around.

"No, I didn't think." He sighs. "I got a call you were at the hospital and just… acted."

I glance at him and see past the annoyed Mafia boss to my father—a man looking tired and genuinely concerned. "I just wanted some flowers for Mom's grave, Dad. I didn't think…" I sigh and shrug as he opens the passenger door for me .

It took over a year to start calling him Dad , and even now, the word sometimes feels foreign on my tongue.

He gets into the driver's seat without responding, and I wonder how deep his annoyance runs.

"Where are we going?" I ask as he drives in the opposite direction from our home.

"You wanted to see your mama, si? Let's go."

A smile breaks through my unease, but it's quickly tempered by a surge of emotion. He stops briefly along the way and returns with a bunch of wildflowers. "Here. Your mom loved it when I brought her wildflowers."

I nod, feeling the lump in my throat thicken painfully. I know that if I try to speak, I might start crying and never stop.

He drives me to the cemetery as dusk starts to fall. When we arrive, the main gate is already closed, but this hardly deters my father. He strides a few steps ahead to a side gate and rings the bell. Within a minute, the middle-aged gatekeeper emerges from his small stone house. Any initial sternness in his bearded face softens upon seeing my father, and he quickens his pace to the gate.

No one makes a high member of the Gambino Mafia wait, and that includes Angelo Bergotti.

"Mr. Bergotti, always a pleasure to see you," he says, swinging the side gate open.

My father merely nods at him and gestures for me to go ahead.

I take the familiar path to my mother's grave. I know many people find deserted cemeteries at night creepy, but I disagree; I find them strangely peaceful. The dead can't hurt you; only the living can. Their most painful act is leaving you behind, a wound that never fully heals.

I stop in front of my mother's grave: forty years old—mother, friend, gone too soon. It hits me every time, the stark injustice of it all, and despite trying to suppress it, the anger that dims but never fully fades flares up again.

I place the bouquet in the small vase and sit down beside the grave, leaning against the headstone.

From the corner of my eye, I see my father standing at the end of the path, his hands folded in front of him, his head bowed in what seems like penance. I'm not sure what he is doing or what he is trying to atone for, and I'm not sure I want to know.

I turn my head and rest it against the cool granite, closing my eyes. "I was so scared, Mom. I'm so scared. I—I need you here. I need you with me. I miss you so much." The pent-up emotions of the day break free, and I start sobbing, my cries echoing in the stillness of the cemetery. I cry until I have no more tears left, and by the time my sobs subside, night has fully fallen.