Page 9 of Of Vows and Betrayal

But I’m not some mindless brute like you. I question things. I shake my head and open the door.

I hesitate to cross the threshold as this is not at all what I would have guessed. Not in a million years. I feel like I’m stepping into… a botanical garden?

I glance at the guard by the door, who’s half smiling, probably accustomed to people’s reactions upon entering this unusual space. Stepping inside, I close the door behind me, looking up at what I suspect was once a sunroom’s glass ceiling.

“Hello?” My voice echoes slightly as I step into the indoor garden, enveloped by humid air infused with thescent of jasmine and soil. The room is a lush mix of potted plants and hanging ferns, light filtering through the leaves, creating a tapestry of shadows and sunbeams on the floor.

“Hello?” I call again, turning left where I catch her crouched in front of a potted plant, humming softly to herself, wearing a large pair of headphones.

Pausing, I take a moment to observe her in the privacy of what I now suspect is her sanctuary. She surprises me—just as she did yesterday. I’ve encountered many so-called Mafia princesses through my years in security, but she doesn’t fit their mold. Her fingers are dirty, her nails caked with soil, her long brown hair pulled into a crooked ponytail, and she’s wearing jeans paired with garish, bright-yellow rubber slip-on shoes. It’s almost disarming, but I remind myself not to be fooled.

She stands abruptly, causing me to step back. She slides her headphones down around her neck, revealing a bandage on her neck that stirs a pang of guilt in me—I should have acted sooner.

Her cheeks turn a beautiful pink as she sets her trowel down, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh, hello. Sorry, I was listening to music and—” She scrunches her nose in an endearing manner.

My gaze drops to her apron, adorned with a cartoonish bee and the words “Bee Happy” in a cheerful script. I can’t help but smile. “That’s quite the apron for an afternoon of gardening,” I tease, stepping closer amid the greenery.

“Oh, this?” She touches the bee, a tentative smile mixing with her embarrassment. “It’s silly, I suppose. But it reminds me to stay cheerful. Plus, bees—” She halts, hereyes meeting mine. “They’re essential for pollination. Without them, all this”—she gestures around the room— “wouldn’t exist.”

I nod, captivated by her shyness and the earnestness in her explanation. It’s endearing how passionate she is about these plants, her role in their lives so vital, so tender.

“You’re not just playing in the dirt then,” I comment, moving past a fern to get a closer view of her face. “You’re playing matchmaker for the flowers.”

Her laughter rings out, clear and melodious, brightening the room even more. “Exactly! Someone has to help them along,” she responds, her confidence returning as she picks up a watering can.

Watching her move among the plants, the sunbeams dance through the glass ceiling, illuminating her hair and revealing the vibrant green of her eyes. She’s undeniably beautiful.

Beautiful and venomous,I remind myself because, despite appearances, she is Bergotti’s blood, and I can’t forget that.

“Your father said you wanted to see me.”

“Oh! Yes, I’m sorry.” She puts down the watering can and grabs a wet wipe from a pack on a wooden table, cleaning her hands. “What’s your name?”

“You wanted to know my name?”

She smiles. “I presume it’s good practice to ask the name of the man who saved your life.”

I nod, accepting the shift. “That’s fair. I’m Javier, Javier Vargas.”

She extends her hand toward me. “It’s nice to meet you,Javier Vargas. Thank you so much for saving me.”

“No problem, Ophelia…James.” I use the name she initially gave me, watching her reaction closely. My mind is already calculating—she could be playing an angle.

Her cheeks flush a deeper shade, making her eyes appear even greener. “Oh… I,” she stammers, “that was my name for so long. It’s my mother’s name. I didn’t mean to trick you or anything.”

I nod, somewhat distractedly, and take her hand. My gaze drops to where my hand completely envelops her smaller, paler one. I’m unsettled by the warmth spreading up my arm. I know I should let go; I need to let it go, but I hold on, and she doesn’t pull away. There’s a moment of connection, one I need to sever immediately.

Finally, she extracts her hand, and I release her, disliking the lingering sensation of pins and needles.

“I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble. My father?—”

“Hired me as your new bodyguard,” I interject, cutting her off. I need to reassert control, keep the upper hand.

She steps back, her expression one of genuine surprise. She clasps her hand over her mouth. “I—did he force you?” She glances anxiously toward the door, then back at me. “I’m so sorry about this. I can talk to him—he usually doesn’t listen, but I can try.”

Her concern seems sincere, but I have to wonder—is she really this naive, or is it an act? The idea of anyone forcing me to do anything is laughable.

“The job pays very well,” I respond with a shrug, keeping it simple.

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