7. Javier

Chapter 7

Javier

" H ow is it progressing?" I ask, entering Derek's basement office in Synco Tower, a chaotic sanctuary cluttered with computer parts and cables, the air filled with the musty scent of the boiler room next door.

He sighs, swiveling his chair to face me, his perpetual scowl deepening. That man is a certified genius—the kind who would probably make Einstein look like an idiot—but with all his tattoos and piercings, he looks more like a rock star than an intellectual.

When we grew up, we always said he would become a serial killer or an evil mastermind. He settled somewhere between the two and became the best hacker I've ever seen. It's still extremely weird that he demanded his office be in the basement near the boiler room and the cleaning closet. To most people, he looks like part of the janitorial team. Little do they know that this company, its success, and its billion-dollar turnover would not exist without him.

"Can't you just chill for a minute, man? We're almost there."

It's my turn to glare. "No, I will not chill." I can't. Every day with Ophelia makes things more complicated. Her innocence gnaws at my hardened shell, threatening to dismantle my revenge. I start questioning if Tiago might be right—this plan may cost too much.

"Ophelia's slipup about Little Island was quite helpful."

"You got something out of this?" He's a magician, but this seems almost impossible.

He nods. "Yep."

I raise an eyebrow when he doesn't move or do anything. "Are you waiting for a magic word or something?"

The corner of his pierced lip quirks up—a rare, almost imperceptible smile that says more than words ever could.

"There aren't that many boats coming this way, and in the next few months, only four are from unusual companies. Out of the four, only two are offshore companies, and only one was extremely hard to trace back to the Gambino family."

"Hard but not impossible."

"For me? No."

He's not even cocky, it's just a fact. There's nothing Derek can't hack into. His first offense was hacking into NASA at age eleven, just to show he could.

"And?"

"We used our Bahamas shell company to buy shares in the freighter and the port conditioning company."

"Impressive."

He snorts. "Hardly, I could do that in my sleep. So now we can send the conditioning and port authorities to the ship whenever we want. We can even get a signed authorization to the DEA without needing a warrant."

"Okay, you launched it already, right?"

"No, I'm just thinking that once I press that button and give you the stuff, there's no turning back."

I frown. Derek is not known for his empathy—it's not that he doesn't have any; he has some, at least for a select few—but this is out of character.

"Worrying about Bergotti now? Is there something I need to know?"

"Bergotti deserves his downfall, but using his daughter—can you bear that burden?"

"Ah…" I nod. "Tiago got to you? What a conniving church snake."

"No, not like that. I went to mass, and we got to talking. You know I care for her."

I keep forgetting Derek's peculiar faith, a miracle considering his scarred past—the cigarette burns from his drug-addict mother, hidden beneath layers of ink, each tattoo a painful reminder of survival.

Revenge is not the only answer , I can hear Tiago say. No, it's not, I concede, but it's the right one.

"She's not in danger. She doesn't know anything."

Derek turns to face me, his piercing gaze intense. "Is that true?" He fiddles with the titanium band on his thumb; his tell when deep in thought.

"Are you convincing me or yourself? All the info she's given you by accident. About the consigliere's animosity, Little Island." He gestures to his screen. "It sped things up."

I pace the room. Her presence is becoming a distraction, making me question my motives. I'm not an idiot—I know why I want out. Each day with her complicates things, making it harder to remember why I started this. I see the way she looks at me, the flush on her neck when our hands touch. I should play this card, but I can't—not when I spend too long looking at her lips, distracted by her smile. Seeing that ten-cent Romeo eyeing her irritates me more than it should.

I need out because soon, I'll cross that line, and there's no going back—unless I take her with me.

I sigh. "Just press the button, Derek."

He looks at me for a few seconds, then turns to his screen. He types, throws me one last look, and when I nod, he presses enter.

I know it's impossible, but the air around us seems to thicken, charged with the impending chaos Derek has just set into motion. How long will it take Bergotti to understand that he lost three companies in this hostile takeover? How long will it take to reach the Gambino's head and for him to figure out that he's lost a few strategic businesses and come for Bergotti?

A lead weight settles in my gut at the thought of Ophelia being in the house when the havoc erupts, a cold dread that refuses to fade.

"And what about what I asked?"

Derek sighs, shakes his head, and turns toward his screen. "In the black bag by the door," he adds, effectively dismissing me.

I stand up, grab the bag, and stop just before opening the door.

"She'll be fine."

He doesn't reply, and instead of leaving it at that, I insist.

"I know what I'm doing, Derek. I've been planning this for a while."

"You have," he concedes, keeping his back to me. "I don't really care. I'm not the one who will have to live with that on his conscience."

I can't help but argue. "In the art of war, we must accept collateral damage as an inevitable outcome. As Sun Tzu said, ‘All warfare is based on deception,' and often, the cost of victory includes unforeseen sacrifices." I throw my hands up in exasperation, even if he can't see me. "And just add another black mark to my soul. I have far too many anyway." I open the door. "I'll see you later," I say, turning to leave, fully aware that he wouldn't respond.

I take the elevator down two levels to the parking garage, and as I walk to my car, I slow my steps.

A prickle of unease crawls up my spine, the oppressive silence of the garage broken only by the distant drip of water, making me acutely aware of the unseen eyes tracking my every move.

I stop a foot from my car and turn around briskly. Gino, Bergotti's hulking enforcer, lurks in the shadows, his presence menacing.

I'm surprised he's here, but know how he found me. He probably put a tracker on my car—something I would have done too.

The bag now feels like it weighs a ton—too important to be this close to Bergotti. I keep my face impassive, put the bag in the trunk, and lock the door before walking leisurely toward the guard.

"Boss wants to talk to you."

Yeah, I figured , I think, but I nod and follow Gino to the black sedan, getting in as he opens the back door.

"Mr. Vargas," Bergotti says solemnly, staring at me from across his seat.

"Mr. Bergotti," I reply in a similar tone.

He clears his throat. "I didn't know you were still working there."

"You said the job was temporary—a year at most. I'm not burning all my bridges for this, no matter how good the money is." I'm prepared for all his questions.

"Are you romantically involved with my daughter?"

My heart skips a beat. "Excuse me?" I force my voice steady, but inside, panic swirls.

"You heard me."

"Yes, I did. I just think the question is so absurd I'm convinced I misheard."

His nostrils flare, and his mouth twitches in obvious irritation. "You see, I went to dinner at my sister's yesterday, and her husband had a lot of questions about you. It seems that Sophia had a lot to say about your visit to the mall."

That little… I try to keep my face as expressionless as possible, thankful for all my years of experience entering boardrooms driven by my desire to rise to the top to exact my revenge.

"Did he also tell you the amount of abuse she's thrown at your daughter? All she saw was someone standing up to a bully. I am hired to protect here; there's nothing more. "

"Sophia is a member of the Gambino family. She's not just anyone's daughter. You are merely a bodyguard. Know your place."

I'll show you my place soon enough , I think, grinding my teeth.

"Ophelia needs to learn to stand up to people if she wants to. I hired you to keep her alive, not to babysit her. It's not your job to defend her from her own family."

No, it's yours . I feel an almost overwhelming need to defend her, and it unnerves me. I'm so close to breaking character and coming to her rescue—to tell him that she's all that's right with the world when he and his people are not. This realization takes me by surprise, and I hate it. I need out… now! This almost visceral reaction is terribly wrong for me and what I'm trying to accomplish. I need to put distance back. It's getting far too muddied and messy between us.

"This won't be a problem." And I mean that. I'll take a step back after today; after the present I have to give her, I'll go back to being professional.

"Make sure that you do. It would be a shame if you quit like Jeremy did."

The threat is not even barely veiled, and despite knowing it's nothing more than a lie, I grieve for Phee, who once again got the short end of the stick.

Phee? Since when do I think of her as Phee? I shake my head. "A shame indeed."

"Good. One more thing," he says, grabbing the handle. "I would appreciate it if this conversation didn't reach her ears. "

No, there's not a chance—not when this meeting is playing exactly into my narrative. "Of course."

As I exit the car, my mind whirls. It's not Bergotti's threat that haunts me, but my need to shield Ophelia—from them and from herself. The irony isn't lost on me; I'm the biggest threat. Her pull makes me question everything I've worked toward.

I need to steady myself, keep my focus. There's too much at stake, and getting too close to Ophelia will only complicate things further. She's becoming a distraction, a dangerous one, and I can't afford to lose sight of my objectives now. I've worked too hard, sacrificed too much. I have to go on; everything else be damned.

I go to my car, and despite my previous promise to myself, I stop at the bakery on the way to Bergotti's place to grab a few of the Danishes that Ophelia enjoys. I don't have to do it, even if I'm convincing myself I'm doing it to soften her into revealing secrets. Truth be told, my chest just feels a little lighter when I see her eyes light up with joy for little things. It makes me feel less of the monster I am when I see myself through her eyes.

When I get to the house, she's already waiting on the steps, almost bouncing with excitement. I've never met someone as eager as she is to go feed people at the homeless shelter. My lips curve into a side smile when I see her almost jump from the steps and run toward me in her baggy jeans and long-sleeved shirt.

It would be so much easier if she were like her cousin. Why does she have to be that endearing?

"You're late," she says breathlessly, throwing herself into the passenger seat.

"I am, but I come with a forgive-me present." I point at the small box on the dashboard, and she lets out a little squeal as she reaches for it.

"You're forgiven!" she exclaims, fastening her seat belt. She eagerly bites into the pastry, and for a moment, the joy on her face makes everything else fade away. Her happiness is a drug, and I'm quickly becoming addicted.

"I had a visit from your father," I say, trying to keep my tone detached. "He told me not to tell you, but we need to trust each other, don't we?"

She flushes, and I'm not sure if it's with anger or in reaction to my gesture of trust. "What did he want?"

"To remind me of my place."

She grimaces and shakes her head. "He's really stressed these days. He has no patience. There's some problem with his business. Things keep falling apart. Since we are sharing, I'll tell you that, apparently, a few operations failed. He's frustrated with everyone." She shrugs. "Don't take it too personally."

I grunt, not letting her know that I'm the reason behind her father's sour mood. She just gave me something to bring her father down, and I feel a twinge of guilt. Not at destroying Angelo Bergotti—I'll never feel guilty for that—but for using her, unknowingly making her a weapon against her own father.

We drive in silence for a while, our unspoken truths lying between us. I glance at her occasionally, catching her savoring the Danish, and for a moment, the world outside our car fades. It's a simple pleasure, a brief respite from the chaos and deception that define my life. But I know it can't last.

We arrive at the shelter, and as she jumps out of the car, I force myself to focus on the task at hand. I need to remain vigilant and stay the course. There's no room for doubt, no space for remorse. This is war, and in war, collateral damage is inevitable.

I observe her moving through the crowd with effortless grace, her laughter lifting the spirits of everyone she touches. Her kindness stands in clear contrast to the harsh world she's part of. It became apparent early on that she's nothing like her father, but I can't let myself fully accept it.

I'm interrupted from my thoughts by a short elderly lady who was helping Ophelia serve the meals. She's blinking up at me, not talking.

"Yes?"

"Phee sent me. We need help carrying the delivery into the kitchen." She points in the general direction of Ophelia. "She said, and I quote, ‘less staring, more helping.'"

I can't help but bark out a laugh and look back at Ophelia immediately. She's not looking at me—she's serving a plate to an older man, but I see the smile on the side of her face, and I'm not even mad at being caught.

"Of course. Lead the way."

I follow the elderly lady to the kitchen, where boxes of supplies are stacked by the door. As I carry them inside, I steal glances at Ophelia through the doorway. She moves with grace and kindness, completely in her element. It's hard to reconcile this gentle soul with the violent world around her .

"Thank you," the lady says as I set down the last box. "Phee's always been a bright light here. We're lucky to have her."

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Yes, she is something special."

As I return to the main room, I see Ophelia now helping a young mother with her two children. She kneels down to talk to the kids at eye level, making them giggle. The sight tugs at something deep inside me, something I've tried to bury for years.

I walk over to her, and she looks up. Her eyes sparkle with an infectious joy, a light that seems undimmed by the darkness of her surroundings. "Thank you for the help," she says, standing up.

"Anytime," I reply, my voice softer than I intended.

She tilts her head slightly, studying me. "You're not just a bodyguard, Javier. There's more to you, isn't there?"

I open my mouth to deflect, to brush off her question with a practiced answer, but the words die on my lips. For a moment, I consider telling her the truth, about the real reason I'm here, about the revenge I'm seeking. But I can't. Not yet.

"Everyone has layers, Phee," I finally say, using her nickname deliberately, savoring the familiarity of it. "Even you."

She smiles, a knowing glint in her eyes. "I suppose we all do."

We spend the rest of the afternoon at the shelter, and for a few precious hours, I allow myself to forget the mission, the deception, and the impending storm. I let myself enjoy her company, the warmth of her presence, even though I know it's fleeting.

As we drive back, the sun setting behind us, I make a silent vow. I will see this through to the end. I will destroy Angelo Bergotti, but I will protect Ophelia from the fallout. She deserves that much, even if it means keeping my distance once the dust settles.

"I have something for you," I say as we stop the car in front of the house steps.

"Another present?"

The way her face lights up at that moment is addictive. It's the kind of expression that makes you want to do reckless things just to see it again.

I reach into the back seat and grab the sports bag. Despite my previous resolve to see everything to the end, I can't help but feel that gnawing guilt burning low. It's something I haven't felt in many years, and it's exhausting.

I extend the little square box to her, and she takes a shallow breath as she accepts it. "Thank you."

"You didn't even open it. It's nothing fancy."

She shrugs, still not opening the box. "It doesn't matter what it is or its value. It's the intention that matters, and you wanted to make me happy, so thank you."

Fuck, her words slay me. I have to stop myself from reaching for the box and telling her I made a mistake and it wasn't a gift for her after all.

She opens it and keeps her head down. I frown; it's just a silly bee charm on a chain, nothing frivolous or overly expensive. Maybe that's the problem; maybe it looks too cheap. No, that's not Ophelia—there's no way she's that shallow—I know her better than that now.

"Ophelia?"

She looks up, her green eyes brighter, almost like gems filled with unshed tears. "This is so nice." She gives me the most unsophisticated sniffle, and I would laugh if I couldn't read the array of emotions on her face that make my heart ache with both guilt and desire. "I love it."

"It's not much." I rub at my neck. "It's just a trinket. I saw it and thought of you."

"It's precious. I truly love it." She takes it out of the box and puts it on her neck immediately, and I'm a little unsettled at the feeling forming in the pit of my stomach at seeing my present on her skin.

She rests her hand on it. "I will always wear it."

I smile, the lump in my throat preventing me from talking.

"Okay, I'll see you tom— Wait," my voice breaks, and I clear my throat. "I saw something at the antique shop, and you said your father was in a bad mood. Maybe that could cheer him up. He loves boats, right?"

"How do you know?"

"You told me."

"Did I?" She cocks her head to the side, and I hold my breath. I'm not sure now that she mentions it.

She waves her hand dismissively. "Ah, yeah, I must have mentioned it."

I get the replica of The Golden Hinde from behind the seat, knowing that he would not resist putting such a stunning piece right in the middle of his office where I need it to be .

"Oh lord, it's beautiful! He's going to love it. How much was it? I must repay you for it."

Far more than you might think, but it needs to be on his desk. "Okay, it wasn't much though. Only two hundred dollars."

She frowns. "That's it?"

I chuckle. "Right? I had to get it for that price."

She twists her mouth to the side. "That antique person must not be very good at his job."

"No, it seems like it, but…" I shrug. "I would have been foolish not to do it."

She gets her wallet out, pulls out two hundred dollars, and puts it on the console. "Please take the money. Maybe he will love it so much that he will allow me to skip Francesca's birthday."

"One can hope!" I say, but I don't mean it. Actually, I need her to go. I'm counting on it, and once again, guilt tries to rear its ugly head. I'm using her, and I hate it.

And yet you keep on doing it , Tiago's voice pipes in my head.

She takes the ship carefully, and before I can react, she kisses me on the cheek. I jerk back, my skin tingling.

"Don't do that!" My voice cuts through the air, sharper than I intended. Her face falls, and regret coils around my heart.

Her face starts burning. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to say thank you. I—" She shakes her head, and this time, the tears in her eyes are of embarrassment and rejection instead of joy. "I won't do that again. I'm sorry. See you tomorrow."

She exits the car so fast she almost drops the ship, but she recovers quickly and goes into the house.

I grip the steering wheel, knuckles white as I struggle to control the turmoil inside me. She had no idea that I didn't pull away because I didn't want her but because my feelings were too strong. If she had stayed a moment longer, I might have turned and kissed her. I wanted to claim her, to lose myself in her.

I let out a shuddering breath and lean back in my seat, staring up at the darkening sky. I can't afford to lose control. Not now, not ever. But the lines are blurring, and my resolve is wavering. For Ophelia's sake and the sake of my mission, I have to remember who I am and why I'm here.

With a final glance at the house, I start the car and drive away, determined to bury my feelings and focus on the plan. The war is far from over, and I can't let my heart become another casualty.