Page 3 of Of Vows and Betrayal

He peels off five and lays them on the desk. “Here, buy yourself something nice,” he says, pushing the money toward me.

Accepting the money feels almost sordid, given I’m acutely aware of the murky origins of his wealth. He insists that most of his business is legitimate, and I choose to believe him—because considering the alternative would be hard to swallow.

I pocket the five hundred dollars, a sum that would have seemed a fortune to my mother and me back when we struggled to make ends meet. Now, to my father, it’s merely pocket change.

I rush back to my room, grab my bag, and take amoment to check my outfit in the mirror one last time. Despite the opulent lifestyle, my tastes haven’t changed; I’m still the girl who prefers jeans and sneakers, much to my father’s chagrin. He has reluctantly ceased his efforts to refine my wardrobe, only insisting on designer outfits for the occasional mandatory event.

Stepping outside, I wince at the sight of the two hulking guards, their dark aviator sunglasses nearly as imposing as their tightly fitted suit jackets, which do little to conceal the outlines of their guns.

They nod silently, Enrico opening the car door with a gesture that’s almost too polite for his burly form. Their habitual silence is perhaps their only redeeming feature.

A wave of relief washes over me as we drive past the iron gates of the estate, my breath finally coming easier. The sensation of freedom is exhilarating; I’ve ventured out so infrequently since finishing school. Between vague threats my father won’t detail and Jeremy’s departure, my life feels increasingly isolated and monitored.

I idly swipe at my phone, thinking of Jeremy. I had come to see him less as a bodyguard and more as a friend. His sudden absence left a void, not just for security but for companionship.

“We’re here,” Enrico announces gruffly, pulling up near the mall entrance.

“You don’t need to come with me—at least not both of you. I’m just meeting a friend for coffee,” I argue, hoping for a semblance of normalcy in my heavily watched life.

“Boss said we had to follow you. We’re following you,” Enrico states flatly before stepping out to open my door.

Menof few words, indeed.

As I navigate the mall, flanked closely by my two looming shadows, I can’t help but feel conspicuous. Their presence is so overtly menacing that I shrink toward the walls, mortified. Part of me wonders if this is my father’s intention—to make my outings so unbearable that I’d let go of any desire to leave the house.

In a desperate bid for a moment of respite, I duck into a flower shop. Ms. Mayer, the owner, greets me with a warm smile, her apron dusted with yellow pistil and the scent of fresh flowers lingering in the air. In a bustling metropolis like ours, the community of independent florists is surprisingly small. We all recognize each other from early morning visits to the flower district. After my mother passed, Ms. Mayer, like many others, showed extraordinary kindness. She even offered to take care of me when my mother was dying—a gesture that touched me deeply, though my mother assured her everything was already arranged, hinting then at the existence of my father. I met him for the first time in the hospital, overwhelmed and unprepared, and just two days later, my mother was gone.

“Phee, sweetheart, it’s been a hot minute!” Ms. Mayer circles the counter and envelops me in a bear hug. “Look at you, stunning as ever.” She gently pushes my bangs from my forehead in a tender, motherly gesture, then pats my cheek. “You grow more and more like your mother every day.”

A wave of sorrow constricts my chest, the pain sharp and suffocating. It’s true—I have my mother’s light-brown hair and her green eyes. The only differences are my shorterstature and more curvaceous figure, likely thanks to my Italian heritage.

Ms. Mayer glances behind me, her lips pursing in disapproval. The reality of who has taken over my guardianship isn’t exactly a secret in town, and while everyone knows my father is tied to the Gambino crime family, they’re unaware of his actual rank within the organization.

“Thank you,” I manage, my voice slightly choked.

“Are you okay? Really?”

I muster a brighter smile. “Yes, he’s taking care of me. He’s decent.”

She sighs, nostalgia clouding her eyes. “I always pictured you with a backpack, exploring the world. Remember how you used to talk about all the flowers at the market when you were little? You dreamed of visiting the places they came from.”

I laugh, a sound more pained than I intended. “Childhood dreams, you know.” I shrug. “They’re never meant to really happen.”

“Sometimes they do, and sometimes…” Her gaze shifts pointedly to the guards standing awkwardly near the shop’s glass entrance. I realize then that I might be deterring customers.

“I better go,” I say quickly. “Just wanted to say hi.”

As I turn to leave, she catches my wrist. “Wait! I have someB-grade flowers in the alley—why don’t you pick some out?”Bgrades were my mother’s favorite; not flawless enough to sell at premium prices, but still vibrant and fragrant. She loved them for their imperfections,saying, “It’s not the perfection that defines a flower’s quality. Its aroma and resilience matter more, though often overlooked.”

I nod, grateful for the gesture. “I’ll take some and stop by to see her on my way back.”

Ms. Mayer pulls me into another hug. “She would have loved that,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion, the familiar scent of patchouli tickling my nose.

My father never restricted my visits to my mother’s grave, perhaps sensing it was the one place where I could still feel a connection to her. In the days following her death, he often drove me himself, even in the middle of the night, negotiating with the keeper to let us in. He’d stand a few feet away, allowing me to grieve as long as needed.

A surge of tenderness washes over me for the stern, enigmatic man who is my father. In moments like these, I almost forgive the gilded cage I’m confined in.

“Come more often!” Ms. Mayer calls out just as I push open the side door to the alley.

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