Page 2 of Of Vows and Betrayal

My father sits behind his massive desk, his graying hair contrasting starkly against his dark mustache. He exudes a somber aura, and as I look at him, I find it hard to see what my mother found appealing in this stern figure.

“Ophelia,” he starts, reaching for his cup of espresso. “What can I do for you?”

I clear my throat and flash him my brightest smile, the one I know unnerves him. He immediately frowns, his intuition telling him he won’t like what I’m about to propose.

“I need to meet a friend at the mall. I was planning to take a taxi—just thought I should let you know.”

His eyes dart to the clock on his desk. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We haven’t found a replacement for Jeremy yet. I’d prefer you stayed home.”

Here we go again. I cross my arms, bracing for the familiar battle. “No, I have to meet a friend from Mossbury.” Mossbury—where I lived with my mom, the neighborhood I was born and raised in.

His eyes narrow, detecting the edge in my voice.

“It’s agirl I really want to see, Father. I can’t stay cooped up here.” I pause, letting my next words hang heavy in the air. “I might leave for good if you keep me locked up here. Take my chances with your enemies.”

His face darkens, a clear sign he hates having his tactics used against him. Since I entered his world, he’s been relentless about my safety, claiming how eager his rivals would be to use me as leverage. I’m not convinced it’s all true. Perhaps it’s just his way to maintain control. But with my limited knowledge of this shadowy world—one I was not born into and kept distant from as a woman—I can’t be certain.

“Ophelia,” he says, his voice low and tinged with a warning.

“Father,” I reply, meeting his stern gaze with my own resolve.

He shakes his head, the lines on his face hardening before he finally exhales a heavy sigh. “Fine, but you take two of the guards. No discussion.” He cuts off any protest as he sees my mouth open to argue.

I nod quickly, masking my relief that he hasn’t seen through the partial truth. True, I’m meeting a friend, but not one from Mossbury. Instead, I’m seeing a girl I met in an online grief counseling group—a lifeline for me on many occasions.

He taps his fingers on the desk, sizing me up, and I divert my attention to the book titles on his shelves to avoid his probing gaze.

Finally, he sighs and picks up the phone. “Gino? Send Tony and Enrico to the house. Ophelia needs to go out.”

I struggle to keep my face neutral as he chooses my escorts. Tony and Enrico could hardly be more conspicuous if they tried; they’re walking, talking stereotypes of Mafia muscle.

I wonder how Jenna will react when she sees these two looming figures trailing me.

He raises an eyebrow. “Anything to add?” His tone makes it clear he’s seen my frown.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“Oh, before you leave, there are a few things I need to remind you of.” He gestures to the chair across his desk, and I brace myself for another lecture. I sit with my hands crossed in my lap, already dreading what would come next.

He opens his leather agenda. “Just to make sure you’re not ‘feeling unwell’ on these days,” he says, casting me a pointed look that confirms he’s never been fooled by my excuses.

I grimace internally as he continues. “Your cousin Aurelia mentioned you haven’t RSVP’d to her birthday party. Why is that?”

I have a litany of reasons: I don’t see her as family, I detest nightclubs, her friends are insufferable, she’s utterly superficial, and none of my “cousins” genuinely accept me—they only pretend. I silently count off the reasons but keep my mouth shut to avoid reigniting the endless debate about fitting in with the family.

“It’s not quite my scene,” I reply, choosing my words carefully.

“Then you need to make it your scene,” he says, leaning back with a finality that brooks no argument. “There willbe many suitable young men there—good for you to meet them. How do you expect to become fully part of this family if you don’t try, Ophelia?”

I’m not angry with him for failing to understand; I don’t expect him to. He’s my father but not really a dad. He didn’t watch me grow up, had no other children, and suddenly found himself responsible for a grieving, angry sixteen-year-old. I know he’s doing his best with what he knows, but sometimes, it just isn’t enough.

“Fine, I’ll email her later,” I concede.

He rewards me with a rare, small smile—a radiant beam from my typically stern father. “Good, good. You know I’m only trying to get the best for you, right?”

“I know. I’d better go now. See you later.” I stand, ready to leave.

“Wait!” He fishes a thick money clip from his pocket, flipping it open to reveal the hundred-dollar bills.

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