Page 41 of Of Vows and Betrayal

And once again, I feel nothing, not even a tremorat his flirtatious attitude.

“You asked me if I wanted to go for dinner.”

“No, I asked you for an official date.”

“Ah well, same thing,” I reply, feeling my father’s eyes on the side of my face, knowing it’s not quite the same. Accepting an official date with Romero is almost accepting the marriage proposal that would most likely ensue.

“Saturday night, seven p.m. I’ll come pick you up.”

It feels like an order, not a request. It’s too fast, too soon, and my heart hammers in my chest. The suffocating expectations press down on me, and all I can do is nod, the burden of duty stifling my voice.

“See you Saturday,” he adds, kissing my hand once more before leaving with his father. As usual, his father glares at me, but today, he also glares at my father—a new and unsettling development.

We both stare at the door after they leave, half expecting them to return in a rush as the tension remains in the room.

“Romero Carmine, huh?”

I shrug and turn to look at my father, who is scrutinizing my face as if he’s looking for the answer I’m not giving him.

“Where’s Javier? Will he go with you tomorrow?” he asks, and I’m not sure where this came from.

“He’s sick. There’s no need. Carmine guards can keep me safe.”

He keeps on looking at me silently, and I feel really self-conscious. “What?”

“I didn’t know you liked Romero.”

“Does it matter? Isn’t that what you want?”

“I…” He sighs. “It’s for the best, trust me. Romero’s not abad choice, Ophelia. Love, as romantic as it sounds, often leads to complications and heartbreak. Practical alliances are what hold value in our world.”

I arch my eyebrows. “I didn’t peg you for a poet.”

“Come, let’s have some coffee.”

I follow him into the kitchen, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filling the air. I take a seat on the cool marble island, watching him skillfully operate the moka pot. I wince, remembering how many times I burned myself touching that thing when I first got here and tried to assimilate.

“Did I ever tell you how I met your mama?” His words catch me off guard. My body goes rigid as I watch him, his gaze fixed on the coffee maker, the past unfolding in his eyes.

Mom first mentioned him two days before she passed. Since then, he’s refused to utter her name, always calling her “your mama.” I sometimes wonder if it’s simply too painful for him to say her name aloud—a name that holds too many memories, too much grief.

“No, you never said.” My heart races with a mix of curiosity and longing. For a moment, I forget all about my day, eager to learn about the mother I lost too soon and the father I’m still trying to understand.

He hands me a steaming cup of coffee, the rich aroma mingling with the faint scent of flowers from the memory he’s recounting. He leans against the counter on the other side, his eyes distant as he slips into the past.

“Your mama didn’t know who I was when I met her.” He shakes his head, a wistful smile playing on his lips. “Ifell in love the moment I saw her in her flower shop. It was quite ironic, really. My wife was going on and on about me forgetting our anniversary, so I stopped in a random shop, and I saw her.” His face lights up, and for a moment, he looks so far from the Mafia boss I know. It’s jarring to see this softer side of him, and it makes me question everything I thought I knew about my parents’ relationship.

“She knew you were married?”

He shakes his head. “No, I removed my band, and I told her the flowers were for my ailing mother.” His eyes glisten with the memory, and I can see the weight of past choices etched in the lines of his face.

I know he lied, he cheated, and yet I can’t help but feel bad for him. His story resonates with me more than I’d like to admit. I know all about making poor choices—I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. His confession feels like a mirror to my own life, reflecting back all the missteps and regrets.

“It was not something I expected or wanted to find; it was more a curse than anything, to be fair. Tasting the sunshine only to retreat back into the darkness.” He looks away, the dim kitchen light casting shadows on his face, and I realize how human this man can be at the longing in his eyes. “It didn’t last long; passion like that never does. Just the time of a fleeting dream.” He lets out a long exhale. “She left me the moment she found out the truth, and I can’t blame her. It was a nightmare waiting to happen.”

“But it created me,” I interject softly, the words of his story settling over me.

He smiles. “That it did.” His forlorn look is nowsettled on me. “Despite what it seems, you’re my greatest achievement, Ophelia. Everything I do, the choices I push you to make, are for your own good. Love never brought anything but heartbreak and pain in the Mafia. Having a union based on mutual agreement and respect will take you much further, and in the long run, it will also make you happier. Trust me.”

---