5. Javier

Chapter 5

Javier

I park my car in front of Midsummer Petals, trying to blend into the bustling neighborhood of East Harlem. The streets here are alive, a stark contrast to the cold, calculated world I've been blending in for the past decade. These streets were once my world, filled with familiar faces and memories. But that was before my heart hardened, and I sold my soul for vengeance.

As I walk toward the shop, I can see Ophelia in my mind's eye. Her laughter yesterday seemed so genuine, her eyes bright, and it hits me that she's not acting like the spoiled Mafia princess I expected.

Acting being the key word, but truthfully, it doesn't matter. What I need is to get more information about her to gain her trust, to use the in that I have with her, and it seems that her past and her mother's legacy could be the easiest way to gain her as an unsuspecting ally.

Her father texted me this morning, telling me I was not needed, and I couldn't help but worry something tipped him off. I need this access for the time being.

I lean against my car and text Derek, my tech genius and confidant, a brother in everything but blood.

Me: So? Is there something wrong with her?

His response is almost immediate. No surprise, though—he's always hyperconnected. So much so that I wonder if he sometimes remembers how real life is.

Derek: I don't like doing that.

I roll my eyes.

Me: And I didn't like watching Paloma die.

I see the three dots appear and disappear.

I'm about to remind him who he owes his loyalty to when his next message appears.

Derek: What you are making me do is cruel.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath.

Derek: She's fine, nothing is amiss. She's just on lockdown for some reason.

Me: Was that so hard? Why do you always have to make me work so hard for it?

The dots appear and disappear again.

Derek: You used to have a heart.

I won't lie—that hurts because I still do. It's just in tattered pieces.

I put my phone away and walk toward the shop, which now stands closed and empty. The windows are covered with a layer of dust, the once bright and cheerful sign now faded and weatherworn. I get the key out of my pocket, the estate agent was far too eager to get rid of it, and I push open the door, the creak echoing in the silence. Inside, the shop feels like a ghost of its former self, with dust dancing in the sunlight and the faint scent of dried petals still in the air.

I walk over to a corkboard covered in old photos. There's one of Ophelia as a child, dirt-smudged and grinning, holding a bouquet of wildflowers. Next to it, she's with her mother, both of them smiling brightly. The images are faded, but the love and warmth in them are still clear.

I hear a soft noise behind me and turn to see an elderly woman entering the shop. Her eyes are wary but kind.

"Can I help you?" she asks, her voice soft.

"Just looking around," I say, my voice steady. "This place… it's nice."

"I saw you yesterday with Ophelia."

I curse internally; coming here this early on is stupid, but I want to know more about her, and I need a way in.

I nod. "Yes, ma'am, I work for her father."

"Oh." She takes a step back, tightening her woolen cardigan around herself.

"It's not like that," I add quickly. "I was hired to be her bodyguard."

She relaxes a little but remains close to the door. "Is she with you?"

I shake my head. "No, she's at home, but she seemed so affected by the visit yesterday."

"You wanted to see why?" she asks, coming closer again.

"Exactly."

She nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It was Ophelia's mother's shop. They both loved it here."

"I can tell," I say, looking around. "Seems like a lot of love went into this place."

"It did," she says, her voice softening. "Diana was a wonderful woman."

I turn back to the photos. "She must miss her a lot." This feeling I can relate to—losing someone you loved deeply—and I think it's an angle I can use to gain her trust.

"Every day," the woman replies, her eyes glistening. "Every single day." She shakes her head. "When Diana got sick, Phee really tried to hold down the fort. We tried to help—all of us, but it was so difficult."

I nod absentmindedly. "Do you mind if I look around a bit?" I ask, wanting to soak in more of the atmosphere.

"Of course, take your time," she says, stepping back to give me space. "I'll be at Purl and Curl next door."

I wander through the shop, examining the old ledger book lying open on the counter. The entries are written in a neat, flowing script detailing sales and purchases, with little notes about the flowers and their care. It's clear this shop was more than just a business; it was a passion.

It couldn't have been that important if she's in the life she is now.

Out of the shop after locking it behind me, I sit in the car and call Derek.

"Jenna is out of Ophelia's life," he says as soon as he picks up.

I grit my teeth. "That's fine. I don't need you to play this part anymore. I've got a bonding topic. Dead mothers."

"Jav…" He sighs. "Your mother is not dead."

I shrug, even if he can't see me.

"She's a nice girl caught up in a toxic environment. You're just too lost in yourself to see it."

"Father Hernandez? Is that you?" I mock.

"Jav— "

"Tell me something, D. When you are in a hard situation, you get out. You don't wallow in it."

"Sometimes you don't, sometimes you stay… I did."

I purse my lips, the irritation reaching its peak. "You were seven, she's twenty-one. If she were opposed to who her father is and what he represents, she should leave. But no, the luxury and the money make it all okay."

"I—"

"I have to go," I tell him as I see the woman from the bakery, Julia, if I remember correctly, approaching my car with a fierce look on her face. I have to give her that, despite thinking I'm a goddamn mafioso, she still glares.

She taps at my window, and I let it down.

"Can I help you?" she asks, her glare still firmly in place.

"You're the one coming to me."

"And you're the one here without Phee."

People are so defensive of her, but I can't blame them; she's quite good at the charming game. If I didn't know who she was, I, too, might have been wrapped around her little finger.

"I didn't know it was a crime."

She keeps looking at me silently. She doesn't trust me; she's smart.

"Ophelia enjoys this area, and she's coming here a lot. I just wanted to scout the place to make sure I can protect her effectively."

Her frown deepens. "You're playing into this narrative as well?"

"What narr?—"

"Where is Jeremy?"

"I don't know. Apparently, he quit."

She shakes her head with a sigh. "No, he wouldn't have, not after—" She shakes her head again as I straighten in my seat. "Ophelia thinks so, but she's much harder to leave behind than she thinks."

I have a million questions now, and I realize the girl has far more secrets than I thought. Yes, I was right—she's not as innocent as she appears.

She's a Bergotti, my brain reminds me once more.

I nod, giving Julia a polite smile. "Thanks for the information."

She narrows her eyes at me. "Just make sure you keep her safe. If anything happens to Phee, there will be hell to pay."

"I understand," I say, rolling up my window and starting the car.

As I drive away, I can't shake the feeling that there's much more to Ophelia than meets the eye.

I head toward the office, my mind buzzing with questions and plans. Ophelia is becoming a more complex puzzle, and I'm determined to piece it together, no matter the cost.

By the next day, I feel a little calmer driving to the Bergotti's estate. A plan is forming in my mind, and it gives me a sense of control. It's clear that Ophelia shared something far deeper with her former bodyguard than she led everyone to believe—something that I suspect her father saw and wanted him to disappear for .

The estate looms ahead, an imposing structure surrounded by high walls and heavy gates. I'm waved through by the guards, who recognize me now, and I drive up the long, winding driveway to the main house. It's a symbol of power, wealth, and fear, everything the Bergotti name represents.

I park the car and step out, taking a moment to compose myself. I need to play this carefully. My mission is to make Ophelia my ally, willingly or not, and if I can figure out all her secrets along the way and use them as leverage? All the better.

As I walk to the entrance, the heavy front door opens, and I'm greeted by the housekeeper. "Good morning," she says, moving from the door and inviting me in. "Ms. Bergotti is in the library. Would you like me to take you there?"

"I'll find my way," I say, wanting a moment to look at the house, maybe see where I could put listening devices.

Derek said the lockdown of the house yesterday was a full house raking to find any listening devices. Now that it's done, I should be good for a few months, but I need to play it smart.

She nods and steps aside. I make my way down the long hall, the silence of the house almost as oppressive and intimidating as the exterior. Marble floors, high ceilings, and expensive artwork everywhere you look. I reach the library door and pause for a moment before pushing it open.

Ophelia is sitting by the window, a book in her hands. She looks up as I enter, her expression unreadable. She glances down at her watch and startles .

"Javier, hi!" she says, jumping from her seat and resting her book on the console. "I lost track of time."

I take a couple of steps into the library and glance at the title of the book she's so absorbed in. " Frankenstein ?" I can't help but say aloud. "That's not something I expected anyone to get lost in."

She grimaces, her cheeks turning pink. "Ah, you'll think I'm weird, but I like it. Victor's journey resonates with me somehow. The feelings of loneliness and the impact of losing loved ones." She waves her hand dismissively. "It's nothing."

I don't believe her. It's not nothing. She keeps challenging my perception of her, and despite it all, I don't think she's lying—the loneliness is etched deep in her eyes. Fuck, I wish it were a lie. It needs to be a lie.

I detail her, dressed in her blue jeans and hoodie; she once again doesn't fit the bill. I don't like when the puzzle pieces don't fit the way they should.

"Are you okay?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Yes, everything is fine." She forces a smile.

"Talk to me," I insist. It's too early to push; the calculator in me knows that—the Javier who's hunting for leads knows that—but somehow, my concern right now is driven more by curiosity than by my revenge scheme.

"Every time I go to the flower shop, it just gets me down at the same time as it makes me feel good. It's complicated even for me to understand, and I had an online friend, Jenna—she was the girl I was supposed to meet the day of—" She touches her neck, which now only has a very thin pink scar, but yet again it makes me feel really uncomfortable. " Anyway, I think she witnessed everything because she told me my life seemed a little too messy for us to be friends." She shrugs, but I see the way her shoulders slump a little, and I am irritated at Derek. Not only because he cut one of my direct lines to her but for the genuine sadness it seemed to cause her.

"She's not wrong though; this life is messy, and that, topped with the visit to the store…" She picks up the book and puts it back on the shelf.

"Well, if you dislike it so much, just walk away." I don't mean for my voice to sound as hard as it does, and I curse myself at the hurt that flashes in her eyes. I was making progress, and I fear that one word may destroy it all.

She looks at me, not saying anything, and there's a weariness in her green eyes. I'm about to apologize when she turns around.

"I don't want to be late. Let me go tell my father I'm leaving."

I follow her wordlessly to his office, and she nods at the guard, who winks at her. I frown, not really liking the familiarity.

Unless I throw her a quick glance, is she the type to flirt her way around?

She knocks, and her father tells her to come in. I follow her in, concentrating more on the decor now. The man does have a passion for boats, I can't help but notice as I look at all the models in the glass showcase.

"We're going now," she tells him.

He takes in her clothes and purses his lips, visibly annoyed at the way she's dressed. "Where are you going? "

"Oh, you know, the usual." She shrugs. "I'll go get a manicure, coffee, lunch, maybe the hairdresser, shoe shopping… all nice."

He smiles and nods. "Good, good." He reaches into his pocket, takes out a thick stack of bills and gives it to her. "Have fun." He looks at me. "Keep her safe."

"Just like you would," I reply, and I can't help but be a little disappointed by her taking the money. I guess this is enough for her to stop being sad. I'd assumed she was shallow, being a Bergotti and all, but I never expected it to run that deep.

We head out of the office, and I follow her to the car. The ride is mostly silent, the tension between us palpable. She stares out of the window, lost in thought, and I wonder what's going through her mind.

"Where to?" I finally ask as we reach the interstate. "Burberry Mall?"

She turns toward me, scrunching her nose. "Why would I go there?"

"Manicure, pedicure…" I trail off.

"Oh no, lord, no. I never intended to do that." She looks at her watch again. "Take me to Pathway Home."

"Pathway Home?"

"The homeless shelter on 110th."

I navigate the streets with ease, heading toward Pathway Home. As we approach, I notice the change in scenery from luxury to poverty. The shelter is a simple building, bustling with activity. Ophelia directs me to park nearby.

As soon as we get out, Ophelia heads straight to the entrance, where a middle-aged man is organizing volunteers. She hands him the thick stack of bills her father gave her.

"Mr. Thompson, please use this for food and supplies," she says, her voice filled with genuine concern.

The man looks at the money, his eyes widening. "Ophelia, this is… thank you. This will help so much."

She smiles warmly. "It's the least I can do."

I watch, awestruck, as she moves through the shelter, greeting people by name, asking about their families, and offering words of encouragement. She's not just throwing money at a problem; she's actively involved and genuinely caring.

One of the shelter's residents, a frail-looking woman, approaches Ophelia with tears in her eyes. " Merci , Phee. You always come through for us."

Ophelia hugs her gently. " De rien , Fatou. How's your daughter doing?"

"She's better, thanks to the medicine you got us," Fatou replies, her voice trembling with gratitude.

I follow her, feeling my hardened exterior begin to crack. She's nothing like I expected. Her kindness, her selflessness, it's all real. It makes my mission feel… tainted.

She catches me watching her and walks over. "I won't be long."

"It's okay, take your time." I look around at all the people smiling at her.

"Why are you doing that?"

She lets out a startled laugh. "How could I not?"

I tilt my head, genuinely curious. "Most people in your position wouldn't even think to help."

She sighs, her gaze distant. "I guess I'm not like most people in my position. These people… they need someone to care about them. To see them."

I watch her, seeing the sincerity in her eyes. "It's rare. It's admirable."

She shrugs, a hint of sadness in her smile. "It's what my mother would have done. We didn't have much, but whatever she could spare, she would share."

I nod, understanding more about her with every word she speaks. "You really loved her, didn't you?"

"More than anything," she says softly. "She was my best friend."

Her resilience in the face of everything is striking.

"You speak French?" I ask, wanting to change the subject from such a painful reminder to her. I fail again as her face takes a certain bittersweet hue I know quite well.

"I don't, not really." She grimaces. "Mom and I discussed it. It was a dream, really, to go visit Europe. We were making plans, and we had a map… It was so much fun, you know?" She shrugs. "I think it was her way to keep me dreaming. I learned a few words in some of the languages they speak in Europe."

"It may come to use someday. You might go."

"We did. We went to Rome, actually, for one week—the best and worst time of my life." She clears her throat and blinks a few times, probably clearing tears. "I… I suspect my father paid for that trip, one last hurrah—last fun time. That was when she announced to me she was sick and that it was bad. One year later, she was gone." She takes a shaky breath. "Anyway, I better go finish what I'm doing. I'll see you later. "

As she finishes her rounds, I watch her interact with the residents, feeling a growing respect. But my mission is clear, and I need to stay focused. Yet, seeing her now, the weight of what I must do begins to press heavily on my conscience. She's used to hardness; she'll be okay even when her father's world crumbles. But for the first time, doubt creeps in. Am I really doing the right thing? My plan feels like a betrayal of everything she stands for. As I watch her, a knot forms in my stomach, and I realize I'm no longer certain. This is just another step in my plan, I remind myself, but my heart isn't so sure anymore.

We get back in the car and start the drive back to the estate. I glance at her short, blunt nails. "Your father will know you didn't go to the nail salon."

She chuckles, shaking her head. "He always does. I pretend I play the game, and he pretends he believes me. Much less drama and fights that way."

I raise an eyebrow. "You're good at it. The pretending."

"Survival skill," she replies, looking out the window. "You do what you have to, right?"

I nod, understanding that sentiment all too well. "So you do this often? Helping at the shelters?"

She nods. "Yes. This one and a few others. Jeremy and I had our habits."

The mention of Jeremy piques my interest. "Jeremy, your former bodyguard?"

She smiles faintly. "Yes. He was more than just a bodyguard. He was a friend. He understood why I needed to do this."

"And your father?" I ask, steering the car onto the interstate.

"He disapproved," she says simply. "But he tolerated it because it kept me occupied and out of trouble."

I shake my head, still trying to reconcile the image of the spoiled Mafia princess with the kindhearted woman sitting beside me. "You're different from what I expected."

She glances at me, a small smile playing on her lips. "Good different or bad different?"

"Good," I admit, surprising myself. "Very good."

The rest of the drive is filled with more conversation. She talks about her mother, the shelters, and the people she's met along the way. Her passion for helping others is evident, and it's hard not to be impressed.

As we pull up to the estate, she turns to me. "Thank you for today, Javier. It means a lot that you came with me."

I nod, maintaining my resolve. "Anytime, Ophelia. Anytime."

She gives me a small smile and heads inside. I watch her go, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and strategies. This mission is more complicated than I ever imagined, but my focus remains sharp. I start the car and drive away, knowing that I'll need to stay vigilant. For better or worse, Ophelia is part of the plan, and I won't let anything derail my objective.