4. Ophelia

Chapter 4

Ophelia

I 'm really shaken as Javier leaves my garden. His name alone—Javier Vargas—commands a certain authority. And his presence… Jesus. I thought perhaps I had exaggerated his impressiveness in my mind because he saved me, but I was wrong. He's even more striking than I remembered. Tall and broad, he's a mountain of a man, and his dark hair, coupled with those penetrating hazel eyes, seem to see right into my soul.

His physique makes him the ideal bodyguard, but every time I see him, butterflies flutter in my stomach. How can I focus on anything when he's always so close? Worse, I'm uneasy about the possibility that my father might have coerced my Good Samaritan into working for us. The thought is disturbing and makes me question everything.

I sigh, deciding to confront my father. I know he thinks he's helping by finding me a new bodyguard so I'm not confined to the house, but the idea of imposing on someone else's life feels even more unbearable.

I head toward his office, the weight of my decision pressing down on me. As I walk, the hallways of our large house seem to close in, reflecting my growing apprehension.

Approaching the heavy oak door, I pause, gathering my thoughts. My hand hesitates at the handle. I can hear the low rumble of my father's voice on the other side, no doubt conducting yet another one of his business calls that seem to dictate the rhythm of our lives.

Taking a deep breath, I push the door open. My father looks up, a mix of surprise and irritation crossing his features. "Ophelia, what is it now?"

"Dad, we need to talk about Javier Vargas," I begin, trying to keep my voice steady.

He waves his hand, gesturing for me to close the door and sit. "What about him? He's highly qualified, and you need protection."

"But did you force him into it?" I ask, my voice firm despite the tremor I feel. "Did you use some sort of leverage against him?"

My father's expression hardens, the lines of his face drawing tight. "No, I offered him money, and he took it. But this isn't about your expectations, Ophelia. It's about keeping you safe, whether you like it or not." His voice drops, the authoritative tone sending a shiver down my spine. "And you will respect that."

"You didn't have to rush. I could have waited for another bodyguard."

"Is that right?" He crosses his arms on his chest. "What about your threat yesterday? Taking your chances outside? Or was that your way of escaping your cousin's birthday?"

I hadn't considered that, but it's a valid point .

"No, Ophelia. You're twenty-one, and you need to start?—"

"Prospecting for a husband, I know." The words are bitter in my mouth, the concept ridiculous and one I'll fight until the end. Yet I know confrontation gets me nowhere. By simply being myself, I've managed to drive away any potential suitors. I don't fit the perfect Mafia wife profile.

He narrows his eyes in suspicion. "Aren't you objecting?"

"Would it change anything?"

"No," he concedes, his voice flat.

"Are we done, or do you have more grievances to air about your new bodyguard?"

"Does this mean I can go back to doing everything as I did with Jeremy?"

He purses his lips, clearly displeased with the direction of our conversation. "I suppose so, as long as you are reasonable." His gaze shifts to the bandage on my neck. "How is it going?"

I touch the bandage almost absentmindedly. "Oh, that. I'm okay. The doctor is coming this afternoon."

"Good." He takes a deep breath. "I would like it if you could stay on the other side of the house this afternoon. I have visitors."

I nod, understanding the implication all too well. There's a Mafia meeting at our house, and some attendees are the type who would relish the chance to coerce me into marriage and "break me in," as they crudely put it.

My father often shields me from these men. Despite his views on marriage as nothing more than a business transaction, he doesn't want me to be miserable in mine. And I guess that's about as much as I can hope for from him.

"Yes, no problem. Thank you for everything."

His expression softens, a hint of genuine concern passing across his features. "I want the best for you, Ophelia. I promise I do. It may not always seem like it, but I do."

"I know that." His intentions don't always make things easier, but I keep that thought to myself. "I'll see you later."

I hurry back to my room and flick on my computer, a pang of disappointment hitting me when I see Jenna is still offline. A twinge of guilt pinches my chest—had she seen me earlier, surrounded by my father's men, and decided I was too much trouble? Shaking the thought away, I lean back in my chair. It's time to focus on the freedom I have just reclaimed, however fleeting it might be.

Tomorrow, I'll go to Mom's store, and then I'll return to the old people's home, where I can lose myself in the stories of lives well lived. Monday will find me at the homeless shelter, and with any luck, I haven't forfeited my place for next month's fundraiser for the underprivileged kids of East Harlem. Each thought is a step forward, a way to reclaim parts of myself that feel smothered by my father's world.

Javier Vargas. Just the thought of him shadowing my every move sends a thrill through me. Each time I imagine us together at these events, my heart skips a beat. How am I to focus on anything—or anyone—else when his towering presence looms so close, his faint cologne mixing with the evening air? I doubt my father has considered this; it somewhat defeats his purpose.

I toss and turn that night, troubled by the thought of having someone new in my life, especially someone who might not even want his new job. By the time of Javier's arrival, I've changed my clothes about five times, though I know it's foolish.

He's an employee, not a suitor. He's probably ten years older than me and sees me as just a child he needs to protect. I can only imagine the kind of women men like him date—tall, stunning blondes, educated, not a college-skipping short girl like me.

But as I finally settle on an outfit, I remind myself to maintain a professional demeanor. Javier Vargas is here to protect me, not to join my social circle. And yet, I can't shake the unsettling thought of just how close he'll be.

I don't overdo it, though. This isn't really about me trying to impress anyone, least of all Javier Vargas. Still, I find myself lingering a bit too long over the Bergotti side of my wardrobe—where the dresses are chic, pricey, and uncomfortable. These are the clothes my reluctant aunts chose for me, appropriate for a Gambino representative but utterly not me. They're what I'm forced to wear at family events I can't avoid, each piece a reminder of the role I'm expected to play.

But today, I resist that side of the closet. Instead, I choose from the James side, which feels far more authentic to who I am. The clothes here are cheaper, brighter, and much simpler—attributes that reflect my true self far better than any Bergotti ensemble could.

After a moment of hesitation, I pull out a dress that feels right. It's a simple milkmaid-style dress, white with blue flowers, stopping just below the knees. It's casual and cheerful, much more me than anything from the Bergotti selections. I pair it with royal-blue Converse sneakers and a thick royal-blue cardigan, perfect for the early May chill.

Dressed now, I look in the mirror and take a deep breath, trying to steady the flutter of nerves that Javier's impending presence brings. It's ridiculous, really. He's here to guard me, not to date me, and I need to remember that. Yet there's something undeniably compelling about him that makes it difficult to remain indifferent.

My phone beeps—an alert from the front door announcing the arrival of my savior. Despite the pep talk I just gave myself, my stomach flips as I rush down the hall to the main entrance. Today, I don't have to stick to my side of the house—I can just go out. It's liberating.

As I enter the foyer, my steps falter when I spot him—Javier, leaning casually against the doorframe, his gaze intense and unwavering. The moment our eyes meet, a jolt of electricity shoots through me. He scans me from head to toe, his eyes lingering on my Converse shoes, an unreadable expression crossing his face. A wave of self-consciousness washes over me. Maybe wearing my Converse was a bad idea… It probably makes me look younger, more immature.

Stop it, Phee! Literally, no one cares! I chide myself internally.

I straighten up as I approach him. He looks very intimidating in his dark suit and crisp white shirt, a few strands of his brown hair falling carelessly onto his forehead. Javier is extremely tall, easily towering over most people and definitely over my five-foot-two frame. His build not only suggests strength but also a rare gracefulness that is uncommon for a man his size. He doesn't have to make a conscious effort to appear formidable like my father's guards often do.

But it's his face that captures my attention the most, bearing a remarkable resemblance to the actor álex González, though his eyes tell their own unique story. Instead of dark, intense eyes, his are a vivid hazel, swirling with greens and browns. They light up his well-defined face, softening the chiseled jawline and prominent cheekbones. Each feature of his face seems sculpted, deliberate, from the straight line of his nose to the full, expressive lips that part slightly as he notices me staring. Caught in his gaze, the world around us blurs into insignificance, and I feel my cheeks start to burn from being caught.

"Ophelia," he greets, bowing his head slightly. "I'm sorry if I took you by surprise. I'm not familiar with this bodyguard thing." He looks down at his clothes. "Is this okay?"

"No, yes, sure." My words tumble out in a rush. Please, God, kill me now. "You're fine," I finish, sounding rather lame.

The moment hangs between us, charged and awkward.

"Good. Where are we going?" Javier shifts seamlessly into his professional role, and I'm grateful for his straightforwardness—it makes things easier.

"I need to ask the guard station to send us a car, and then?—"

"I took my car, it's fine."

I cock my head, hesitant. "My father doesn't like it when I get in the car with someone outside of the… family. "

"Ah, I see." He adjusts his jacket, a hint of defiance in his eyes. "Well, your father better get used to it. If he wants me to protect you, we'll do it my way."

His assertiveness is refreshing, and I can't help but smile, relieved to have someone on my side for once, not just looking to please my father.

"It works for me," I say, a little too eagerly.

He seems taken aback by my enthusiasm, sizing me up with a prolonged gaze before nodding as if resolving an internal debate. "Okay then, let's go. You can tell me where you want to go from the car."

Too happy to agree, I half worry that my father might change his mind and come stop us at any moment. I open the door, step out, and freeze as I see Romero and his father—the all-powerful consigliere of the Gambino family—ascending the stairs.

Fuck, I curse internally but force a smile.

Romero pauses on the stairs, giving me a taunting look. "Ophelia, who knew you could dress like a woman?"

His father casts me an appreciative glance that makes my skin crawl. Romero might be a tolerable annoyance, being the twenty-six-year-old favorite on my father's list for my hand in marriage, but his twice-married sixty-something father is another matter entirely.

I tense up and unexpectedly feel something solid against my back—Javier's chest. It's much too close, inappropriate even for a bodyguard, but I know it's his instinct to protect.

I take a step forward, but I don't miss the frown on Romero's face. He hasn't missed this closeness either.

"Can I help you?" Javier's deep voice cuts through the tension, no longer touching me but still resonating.

"Oh, it's okay, Javier. They work with my dad." I quickly descend the stairs and turn to introduce him, catching Javier's glare fixed on the two men. "This is Javier Vargas, my new bodyguard."

"I see…" Romero says, eyeing Javier. "You take good care of her, alright? She's precious cargo." He throws me a flirty smile and a wink.

"I don't need the reminder." Javier's voice drops to a husky whisper, his scowl deepening as he steps closer, the air between us charged with his protectiveness. "I know what my job entails," he adds, his breath faintly touching the side of my face, making me acutely aware of how close he actually is.

I need to defuse this situation quickly before he gets killed on his first day. "Okay, we're going now. I'll see you at Francesca's party, Romero. Mr. Carmine, my father is already waiting for you, I believe."

Romero beams. "You're actually coming? For real this time? No bellyache, nausea? Fainting spells?"

I blush, embarrassed—he knows my usual excuses well. "No, nothing at all. I'm looking forward to it."

His father orders him in Italian to move along, and Romero throws one last heavy look at my chest and legs before following his father into the house.

"I don't like him," Javier grumbles as he opens the passenger door for me.

"Who?" I ask just before he closes the door behind me.

He rounds the car and slides into the driver's seat. "Romeo. "

"Romero?" I correct, though I can't suppress a smile as he starts the car.

He snorts. "Maybe, but he's acting like a ten-cent Romeo."

I grimace, acknowledging the uncomfortable truth in his joke. "He's not that bad, at least compared to the other options."

Javier throws me a sideways glance as he pulls away from the curb. "Where to?"

"East Harlem."

He turns to me, a hint of concern edging his voice. "Why?"

"Don't worry, I know the area well. I'm from there."

"You are from East Harlem?" His emphasis on you doesn't escape me, but I leave it unanswered; he'll see for himself soon enough.

"So, who's that guy anyway? Someone I should keep an eye on?" he asks after a few moments of tense silence.

I turn to look at him, noting the hard set of his jaw. "The cheap Romeo—should I worry about him? You seemed pretty tense."

"Oh, I—no, he's okay. But they don't like being questioned, and you got right in there."

"I see… Who are they, though? Why are they coming to your house?"

It makes me uncomfortable, this questioning; it's not something I'm used to. My father taught me early on that the less you know, the better, to act as if you see nothing and never ask about things that don't concern you.

"Can we stop on 116th first? "

"Sure."

As Javier drives, I gaze out the window, my heart filling with a familiar, bittersweet nostalgia. "Here. Stop here." I direct him to an empty storefront.

He parks by the curb, and I don't wait for him to speak before exiting the car. But before I take two steps, he catches my arm, stopping me.

"Hey! Don't do that," he says sharply. "You don't just exit the car like that. It's my life on the line too. I made a commitment."

I blush, both embarrassed and annoyed. I pull out a set of keys from my pocket and dangle them in front of him. "And this is my home."

I unlock the rolling curtain and pull it up before unlocking the glass door beneath the fading green sign that reads "Midsummer Petals."

"This was my mom's flower shop," I explain as I enter the empty locale, ensuring all windows and doors are secure and that the place hasn't been used for anything illicit. It's a ritual I maintained when Jeremy was around, and though it pains me each time I cross the threshold, I feel better afterward—it was our happy place.

"Midsummer Petals?" Javier's deep voice echoes in the empty space.

I glance back at him as he stands in the doorway, surveying the emptiness. "My mom had quite an obsession with Shakespeare."

"You don't say… Ophelia."

I shrug with a small smile. "Well, it was either that or Desdemona. So I guess I got the better of the two. "

"Both have quite a tragic fate."

"Well, my story is not quite a fairy tale," I reply, my voice dropping a bit.

His expression softens, and I inwardly curse myself for letting that slip. "My father owns the deed, actually. He owned it for years, long before Mom died. The business didn't do very well, but it was ours. I don't think Mom knew he bought it, but when she passed, he wanted to sell it. I had to beg him not to."

Javier listens silently, and I feel compelled to justify myself, aware of his thoughts. Why bother? It's just an empty shop.

"I know it's silly and completely unnecessary. There's nothing left here but?—"

"The memories remain like a film imprinted on the wall, and once you're in the middle of it, it feels far more real," he finishes for me, his voice deepening with a raw pain of loss that resonates deeply with my own.

"It's hard to lose your person. My mom was mine."

He nods, clearing his throat. "Yes, a mother is irreplaceable."

"When did she pass?"

"I lost her many years ago."

"I lost my mom five years ago, and some days, it feels like yesterday. Does it ever get better?"

He rocks on his heels, hands buried in his pockets. "I'm not completely sure. The guilt of failing the ones you need to protect makes it far harder."

That hits hard, cooling my initial excitement for the day. His previous protectiveness makes more sense now.

As if he can read my thoughts, his gaze settles on my neck again. "This isn't your fault."

He frowns, displeased that I can read him so easily. "It is. I should have been faster, helped earlier."

"You saved my life. You're protecting me now."

"If you let me do it, yes."

I sigh. "The men you saw are not a danger—not the kind you think anyway. They…" I pause, biting my lip. "You know who my father is, don't you?"

He nods. "The man you saw is the consigliere, Dario Carmine. But even if my father is below him in the organization, he's still high enough to be safe—and me too. They came to talk about work; it has nothing to do with me. I don't know anything about the business, and it's best like that."

"Are you ever going to do something with this place?" Javier asks, changing the subject.

"I can't, even if I want to. My father will never—" I shake my head. "Being a flower shop owner is not really in the cards for me."

"Why d?—"

"Okay, now that I know everything is fine in here, I promised to stop at the bakery across the street. Is that okay?"

"I'm at your service," he says, bowing slightly in a way that seems mocking, but I ignore it.

Entering the bakery, I'm greeted by the enticing aroma of vanilla and cinnamon from my childhood. My stomach grumbles at the memory.

I stop thinking about the sarcastic bodyguard when Julia exits the back, her face lighting up at the sight of me. "You came!"

"I told you I would, didn't I?"

"Yes, but with that bio dad of yours…" She trails off as she notices Javier standing behind me.

Seeing her today makes me more emotional than usual—maybe because I haven't seen her in three weeks, or maybe because of all the memories it brings back.

"This is Javier, my security, but don't worry, he's not a problem."

"Oh, wait!" She disappears into the back again, and I feel the disapproval radiating from Javier, but I keep my back to him.

"When you said you were coming today, I had to make your favorite," she says, extending a white cardboard box toward me.

I don't need to open it to know it's filled with vanilla and cinnamon Danish pastries, my lifelong addiction.

"You didn't have to do that," I say, clutching the box to my chest.

She gives me a half smile, knowing full well that I don't truly mean that.

"The organization committee of Hope and Harmony Day asked if you were still on the list. I said yes, but with the change of… personnel, I'm wondering."

Jeremy allowed me to do many things my father would never approve of. I don't know Javier yet, but based on his reaction this morning, I'm confident he won't interfere or tell my father.

"No, it's fine. We have the same understanding. I wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll be there."

She throws another look at Javier's grim face, clearly unconvinced, but sighs.

"Are you coming back this week?"

"Yes, probably on Saturday."

"I—" She glances uncomfortably around the store and then at Javier. "I don't know—I'm not sure, but I saw a few people looking at the store."

I frown. "Like to vandalize?"

She shakes her head, worry etched on her face. "No, people in suits. I wonder if your father is reconsidering selling."

"No, he wouldn't. He promised," I say with more conviction than I feel. Would he? Would he break my heart like that?

"No, of course, if he promised?—"

I clear my throat. "I have to go. I'll see you Saturday."

She seems frazzled by my quick exit, and I can't blame her. Her words shattered some of my confidence for the day, and I feel an urge to confront my father. But at the same time, I don't want to reveal where I've been.

I walk back to the car and jump in as soon as Javier opens the door. He follows me silently and just sits there, not starting the engine.

After a minute of tense silence, I turn to him. "Is everything okay?"

He turns to me. "I don't know—you tell me."

"I'm fine."

He keeps looking at me. "What's this Hope and Harmony Day? "

"It's for the underprivileged kids in the area, and it's important to me. It helped me sometimes. But you can't tell my father," I add quickly.

He arches an eyebrow. "Why would it be a problem?"

"He just thinks these kinds of events are too busy, and there's not enough security." I shrug, even though the excuse sounds lame to my own ears.

"Not enough security or not enough control over you?"

His hostility takes me aback. Does he dislike my father that much? If he does, why is he even here?

I'm about to ask when he leans back in his seat. "What are you ready to give me to keep your secret?"

Blackmail… Part of me is disappointed. I imagined this man having a higher moral ground, probably because he jumped into danger to save me. Yet here he is, proving himself no better than any other crook.

"What do you want? Money?" I ask, and my voice sounds as desperate as I feel.

"Money? No, I've got enough." He looks at the box and jerks his head. "One of whatever is in that box and you have a deal."

The relief I feel is almost unparalleled as I relax in my seat and open the box, revealing four Danish pastries.

"You drive a hard bargain, but you've got yourself a deal. Plus, I need to have them gone before we get home anyway."

"Do I want to know why?" he asks, reaching for a flimsy paper towel in the box and grabbing a Danish.

I know instinctively that my answer will frustrate him, but I answer anyway. "Looks are important in this world, and excess curves are frowned upon." I pick up my own Danish and take a big bite to show him how much I truly don't care about it.

"Uh," is all he says before he mimics me, taking half the Danish in one bite. "Where to now?" he asks.

I can't help but smile when I see cream at the corner of his lips. Before I think, I reach over with my napkin and realize my mistake as I wipe at his mouth. He catches my wrist.

"I'm sorry. Truly." I try to pull away, but his grip tightens slightly. "Please let go. I didn't think."

He releases my wrist slowly, putting the rest of the Danish on the napkin. He seems as eager as I am to end the awkwardness of the moment.

"Can you drive me home, please? I'm done for today."

He nods, surprisingly compliant, and I'm too grateful to leave this car to question it further.

We drive in tense silence. I half expect him to tell me he quits when he stops in the driveway, but he simply waits for me to exit the car. As soon as I open the door, he speaks.

"What time tomorrow?"

"You're coming back?"

He lets out a startled chuckle. "I thought it was a recurring gig."

"Oh, yes. It's just—" I shake my head. "Tomorrow, same time would be great."

I don't give him an opportunity to add anything and quickly exit the car, removing my cardigan to sneak in my Danish pastries. The tension from earlier lingers, but I feel a small flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, things will work out with Javier as my bodyguard.

As I close the door behind me, I can't shake the feeling that something significant has shifted. Javier's presence is not just a professional necessity; it's a spark that could ignite a fire in my carefully controlled world. I look back at the driveway one last time, seeing his car pull away, and I know this is just the beginning.

Tomorrow will bring new challenges but also new possibilities. And with Javier by my side, I can't help but feel a thrilling mix of anticipation and fear. What lies ahead is uncertain, but one thing is clear: my life will never be the same.