Page 12 of Of Vows and Betrayal

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 businesstransaction, 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 ofhaving 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 andcheerful, much moremethan 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.

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