3. Javier

Chapter 3

Javier

O stentatious.

I nearly roll my eyes as I stand in the overly luxurious office. From the plush burgundy carpet to the crystal chandelier overhead, everything screams of excess wealth.

I check my watch, annoyed. He wanted me here at three. Though I hesitated to step onto his territory, I knew exactly why I had to be here. He wouldn't allow me to see her otherwise. Ophelia.

Despite my distaste for the man keeping me waiting, my concern for her surged after seeing her bleed. It triggered something protective deep within me.

Glancing at my watch again—three thirty—I'm certain he's observing me right now through cameras, probably gauging my patience. Well, my patience has evaporated, and he'd better understand that I'm not at his mercy.

Shaking my head, I grab my coat from the back of the chair. I'm done. Just as I turn to leave, the door opens, and there he stands, phone in hand—probably just outside all along .

"Were you leaving?" He doesn't bother with an apology. It's a sign of weakness for men like him, even if it's just basic human decency.

"I value my time, and I'm not here to stand around like decoration."

His nostrils flare—the only sign of irritation—as he brushes past me to his desk.

"Is that right? Javier Vargas, head of security for Synco Securities," he states, as if expecting me to be surprised.

I anticipated this. "I've done my homework," he asserts.

"Me too."

He gestures to the seat across from his desk, but I remain standing.

"How is your daughter doing?" I ask, ignoring his invitation.

He leans back, dismissing my question. "How did you know my daughter was in danger? Why were you watching her?"

I let out a derisive snort. "I wasn't watching her. I was mocking your goons who couldn't have been more obvious if they tried." Honestly, they were so inept it was almost comical.

His face reddens slightly, clearly still vexed by his men's performance.

"They looked so stereotypical; they were busy playing tough and missed the actual threat. You should be thanking me for spotting it instead of questioning my motives."

He puts his fingers together and rests his chin on his fingertips, looking contemplative. "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" I point to myself in disbelief. "I'm here because you summoned me , not the other way around." I throw my hands up in resignation. "I think I'll leave now."

"Thank you," he says just as my hand touches the doorknob, and I freeze. Gratitude doesn't seem to come easily to him.

I turn back, one eyebrow arched in surprise.

"I want you to head my daughter's security."

Ah, there's his angle. I shake my head. "Not interested."

"I'll pay you double what Synco is paying you."

I scoff at the offer. "You can't be serious."

"I am."

"Still no."

He stands abruptly, his fists clenched on the desk. "Do you know who I am?"

"I do," I reply evenly. "I'd be a poor security lead if I didn't." I cock my head to the side. "And are you trying to threaten me? Because that might not get you the results you want."

We lock eyes for a few tense seconds. I'm not sure what he's searching for, but eventually, his shoulders slump. "No," he admits gruffly, though we both know he's lying. "What I mean is, you know who I am, but my daughter? She's the complete opposite. You seem like the type to fight for the innocent, the widows, and the orphans. She's just that."

I keep my expression neutral. I highly doubt anyone sharing this man's genes and house can truly be innocent, but I hold my tongue as we seem to be making progress.

"I'm not a glorified babysitter. I won't be anyone's servant," I state firmly .

"It's not forever. Being my daughter's security isn't a job for just anyone. She's the most precious asset I have."

His words briefly stir my sympathy for the so-called Mafia princess. An asset … how loving.

"For how long?" I ask, taking the bait.

"A year, maybe less. Once I get her married off, she'll be her husband's responsibility, and the target will be off her back."

I frown. "She's engaged?" The question slips out, and I'm surprised by my own reaction, recalling the depth of her green eyes.

He shakes his head. "No, but I'm working on it."

I purse my lips, concealing my disapproval of how he treats her like a business transaction.

"When do I need to start?"

"The sooner the better. She is not allowed to leave the house until she has security."

Great, so he's making it my responsibility to keep her caged in this golden palace. I remind myself of my motivations, of what I'm trying to achieve.

"I need to speak with my boss and see if I can take a sabbatical."

"Do you need me to have a word with him?" Bergotti offers, half joking.

I almost laugh at the absurdity. "No, I'll handle it. I can start tomorrow."

Bergotti claps his meaty hands together, accustomed to getting his way. "Good. Now come, Ophelia wants to see you."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow? "

"No, I promised her she would see you today. It's the only reason she hasn't barged in here already."

Surprised but careful not to show it—I hadn't expected her to be confrontational—I nod.

"It won't take long. Just let her say thank you, and we can call it a day," he assures me as we exit his office.

As we approach a door at the end of the hall, his phone begins to ring. He mutters something in Italian and gestures toward the door. "She's in there; just walk in. Marco will walk you out when you're done."

Before I can say anything else, he's striding away, speaking rapidly into his phone.

I knock and wait, the silence stretching out. The man by the door chuckles, the sound grating on my nerves.

I grit my teeth, controlling my irritation, and face him. "What's so funny?"

"You can knock until next year. The girl won't answer. Boss said walk in, you walk in."

But I'm not some mindless brute like you. I question things . I shake my head and open the door.

I hesitate to cross the threshold as this is not at all what I would have guessed. Not in a million years. I feel like I'm stepping into… a botanical garden?

I glance at the guard by the door, who's half smiling, probably accustomed to people's reactions upon entering this unusual space. Stepping inside, I close the door behind me, looking up at what I suspect was once a sunroom's glass ceiling.

"Hello?" My voice echoes slightly as I step into the indoor garden, enveloped by humid air infused with the scent of jasmine and soil. The room is a lush mix of potted plants and hanging ferns, light filtering through the leaves, creating a tapestry of shadows and sunbeams on the floor.

"Hello?" I call again, turning left where I catch her crouched in front of a potted plant, humming softly to herself, wearing a large pair of headphones.

Pausing, I take a moment to observe her in the privacy of what I now suspect is her sanctuary. She surprises me—just as she did yesterday. I've encountered many so-called Mafia princesses through my years in security, but she doesn't fit their mold. Her fingers are dirty, her nails caked with soil, her long brown hair pulled into a crooked ponytail, and she's wearing jeans paired with garish, bright-yellow rubber slip-on shoes. It's almost disarming, but I remind myself not to be fooled.

She stands abruptly, causing me to step back. She slides her headphones down around her neck, revealing a bandage on her neck that stirs a pang of guilt in me—I should have acted sooner.

Her cheeks turn a beautiful pink as she sets her trowel down, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, hello. Sorry, I was listening to music and—" She scrunches her nose in an endearing manner.

My gaze drops to her apron, adorned with a cartoonish bee and the words "Bee Happy" in a cheerful script. I can't help but smile. "That's quite the apron for an afternoon of gardening," I tease, stepping closer amid the greenery.

"Oh, this?" She touches the bee, a tentative smile mixing with her embarrassment. "It's silly, I suppose. But it reminds me to stay cheerful. Plus, bees—" She halts, her eyes meeting mine. "They're essential for pollination. Without them, all this"—she gestures around the room— "wouldn't exist."

I nod, captivated by her shyness and the earnestness in her explanation. It's endearing how passionate she is about these plants, her role in their lives so vital, so tender.

"You're not just playing in the dirt then," I comment, moving past a fern to get a closer view of her face. "You're playing matchmaker for the flowers."

Her laughter rings out, clear and melodious, brightening the room even more. "Exactly! Someone has to help them along," she responds, her confidence returning as she picks up a watering can.

Watching her move among the plants, the sunbeams dance through the glass ceiling, illuminating her hair and revealing the vibrant green of her eyes. She's undeniably beautiful.

Beautiful and venomous, I remind myself because, despite appearances, she is Bergotti's blood, and I can't forget that.

"Your father said you wanted to see me."

"Oh! Yes, I'm sorry." She puts down the watering can and grabs a wet wipe from a pack on a wooden table, cleaning her hands. "What's your name?"

"You wanted to know my name?"

She smiles. "I presume it's good practice to ask the name of the man who saved your life."

I nod, accepting the shift. "That's fair. I'm Javier, Javier Vargas."

She extends her hand toward me. "It's nice to meet you, Javier Vargas. Thank you so much for saving me."

"No problem, Ophelia… James ." I use the name she initially gave me, watching her reaction closely. My mind is already calculating—she could be playing an angle.

Her cheeks flush a deeper shade, making her eyes appear even greener. "Oh… I," she stammers, "that was my name for so long. It's my mother's name. I didn't mean to trick you or anything."

I nod, somewhat distractedly, and take her hand. My gaze drops to where my hand completely envelops her smaller, paler one. I'm unsettled by the warmth spreading up my arm. I know I should let go; I need to let it go, but I hold on, and she doesn't pull away. There's a moment of connection, one I need to sever immediately.

Finally, she extracts her hand, and I release her, disliking the lingering sensation of pins and needles.

"I'm sorry if I caused you any trouble. My father?—"

"Hired me as your new bodyguard," I interject, cutting her off. I need to reassert control, keep the upper hand.

She steps back, her expression one of genuine surprise. She clasps her hand over her mouth. "I—did he force you?" She glances anxiously toward the door, then back at me. "I'm so sorry about this. I can talk to him—he usually doesn't listen, but I can try."

Her concern seems sincere, but I have to wonder—is she really this naive, or is it an act? The idea of anyone forcing me to do anything is laughable.

"The job pays very well," I respond with a shrug, keeping it simple.

A flicker of hurt crosses her eyes, but it vanishes almost instantly. "Oh," she murmurs, "well, if it works for you, then I'm glad. I know you will be required to call me Miss Bergotti, but if you could call me Ophelia or Phee, please do. I still have quite a hard time with being the person I am."

Before I can delve deeper into what she means, she turns away, dismissing the conversation and refocusing on her flowers.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Javier."

I watch her back for a few seconds, trying to pinpoint where the conversation veered off. I remind myself why I'm here, why I can't afford to get distracted by her innocence—real or feigned.

"See you tomorrow, Ophelia," I reply, my voice firm, before turning and leaving the room.

I arrive at San Miguel Church just as the evening service ends. Watching Father Hernandez converse briefly with the last parishioner before he enters the confessional and signals it is occupied, I prepare myself for a different kind of confession.

The door creaks open, and I slip inside. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

I hear a sigh tinged with irritation. "This is how we're going to do it?" Father Hernandez asks, barely masking his annoyance.

My smile widens. "Is that how a priest should answer a poor lost soul?"

There's a pause. "Welcome, my child. May God be with you as you confess your sins. Begin whenever you're ready. "

I lean back on the uncomfortable bench. "Much better! Where do I start? I've lied, deceived, stolen, and plotted, but I'm in."

Silence hangs for a moment until the door swings open, and Father Hernandez stands before me, his eyes narrowed. He might not look menacing in his clerical habit, but appearances can be deceptive. Matching my height at six-five and packed with muscle beneath his black garb, I know he's capable of lethal force—his past life wasn't always so holy.

"You're in? As in Bergotti's fold?" His voice carries a mix of doubt and concern; knowing Bergotti's notoriety and Gambino's legendary paranoia, I can't blame him.

I stand and adjust my suit jacket. "Yep." I step out of the confessional and head toward the side door leading to his quarters.

"Javier!" he hisses, trailing close behind. "You can't just leave it at ‘yep.'"

Entering his modest living area, I take a seat at the banged-up table. "I'll have a coffee, thanks."

He flips me the middle finger, and I burst out laughing.

"Not very clerical of you, Tiago," I taunt.

I sigh, watching him work in the cramped kitchenette. His living space is sparse, a far cry from the affluent lifestyle he once knew before joining the seminary, yet it's a significant upgrade from the slum we both crawled out of.

"The daughter." I finally break the silence.

He raises a scarred eyebrow, a mark I gave him during a knife fight I instigated years ago, his gaze filling with both wariness and curiosity. "The daughter? "

"That's my way in. I'm her bodyguard now."

"Her bodyguard?" His voice is laced with disbelief.

I can't suppress a smirk. "Yeah, I know. The irony isn't lost on me."

He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. "What did you do to that poor girl to land such a position?"

I roll my eyes. "I didn't do anything to her. I simply seized an opportunity. I didn't hurt her if that's what you're implying. And please, spare me the ‘poor girl' bit. She's a Gambino, born with Bergotti blood."

He sighs, the lines of weariness etched deeply into his face, a look he reserves almost exclusively for me. "Javier, don't sacrifice an innocent to serve your vendetta. Remember Ezekiel 18:20—‘The soul who sins shall die. The son shall not suffer for the iniquity of the father, nor the father suffer for the iniquity of the son.'"

"Ah, but what about ‘an eye for an eye' from Exodus?" I retort.

Tiago sets his cup down. "You know your Bible well for someone who claims atheism."

I dismiss his comment with a wave of my hand. "We went to Sunday school together, Tiago. I may question faith, but I don't forget." I feel a twinge of guilt at the image of Ophelia's smiling face. "I'm just keeping my promise to update you. Why are you so passive about all this? Don't you crave justice too?"

"I've learned from my mistakes," he replies softly.

"That's not what I asked!" I snap, frustrated by his calm.

"And I gave you my answer. If you don't understand, it's because you're not ready. "

"Why do I even come here?" I mutter, more to myself than him.

"Because we're family."

"Are we?" I challenge, fueled by his lack of anger.

"You know we are."

"I'll update you on my progress."

"Just don't be blinded by vengeance, Javier. Give the girl the benefit of the doubt."

I nod noncommittally.

"God is with you."

"I don't need your God. He wasn't there when I needed Him most." I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "Thanks for the coffee and the sermon, Father. I'll see myself out."

As I leave, a frustrated rage burns inside me, surprising me with its intensity. I'm so consumed by it that I half expect the church to catch on fire as I make my way up the aisle to the exit.

Too angry to drive, I leave my car and walk down the quiet streets to my apartment. It's quite a trek, but I need to blow off steam. Something that I usually do with a boxing match or a quick fuck, but that's really the last thing on my mind.

By the time I reach my penthouse an hour later, I'm drenched in sweat and exhausted, but at least I'm not angry anymore.

I step into the shower, letting the hot water wash over me, trying to soothe the residual frustration. Ophelia Bergotti—barely into my life and already a thorn in my side.

"Just a couple of months, and it will all be done," I mutter to myself as the steam fills the room. "I'll see the Bergottis fall, and if the daughter falls with them, so be it."

Destruction is never clean, and it's something I made my peace with a long time ago.

But then Tiago's voice echoes in my mind, taunting me. Have you really made peace with it? Then why can't you stop thinking about her smile, about her eyes, and about how your skin felt when you touched her?

I slam my hand against the tiles of the shower. "Enough!" I roar, the sound echoing off the walls.

Vengeance is a consuming fire, devouring all in its path—guilty and innocent alike. But I'll gladly watch it burn, even if I stand alone in the ashes of collateral damage.