Page 30 of Of Vows and Betrayal

“This won’t be a problem.” And I mean that. I’ll take a step back after today; after the present I have to give her, I’ll go back to being professional.

“Make sure that you do. It would be a shame if you quit like Jeremy did.”

The threat is not even barely veiled, and despite knowing it’s nothing more than a lie, I grieve for Phee, who once again got the short end of the stick.

Phee? Since when do I think of her as Phee?I shake my head. “A shame indeed.”

“Good. One more thing,” he says, grabbing the handle. “I would appreciate it if this conversation didn’t reach her ears.”

No, there’s not a chance—not when this meeting is playing exactly into my narrative. “Of course.”

As I exit the car, my mind whirls. It’s not Bergotti’s threat that haunts me, but my need to shield Ophelia—from them and from herself. The irony isn’t lost on me; I’m the biggest threat. Her pull makes me question everything I’ve worked toward.

I need to steady myself, keep my focus. There’s too much at stake, and getting too close to Ophelia will only complicate things further. She’s becoming a distraction, a dangerous one, and I can’t afford to lose sight of my objectives now. I’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much. I have to go on; everything else be damned.

I go to my car, and despite my previous promise to myself, I stop at the bakery on the way to Bergotti’s place to grab a few of the Danishes that Ophelia enjoys. I don’t have to do it, even if I’m convincing myself I’m doing it to soften her into revealing secrets. Truth be told, my chest just feels a little lighter when I see her eyes light up with joy for little things. It makes me feel less of the monster I am when I see myself through her eyes.

When I get to the house, she’s already waiting on the steps, almost bouncing with excitement. I’ve never met someone as eager as she is to go feed people at the homeless shelter. My lips curve into a side smile when I see her almost jump from the steps and run toward me in her baggy jeans and long-sleeved shirt.

It would be so much easier if she were like her cousin. Why does she have to be that endearing?

“You’re late,” she says breathlessly, throwing herselfinto the passenger seat.

“I am, but I come with a forgive-me present.” I point at the small box on the dashboard, and she lets out a little squeal as she reaches for it.

“You’re forgiven!” she exclaims, fastening her seat belt. She eagerly bites into the pastry, and for a moment, the joy on her face makes everything else fade away. Her happiness is a drug, and I’m quickly becoming addicted.

“I had a visit from your father,” I say, trying to keep my tone detached. “He told me not to tell you, but we need to trust each other, don’t we?”

She flushes, and I’m not sure if it’s with anger or in reaction to my gesture of trust. “What did he want?”

“To remind me of my place.”

She grimaces and shakes her head. “He’s really stressed these days. He has no patience. There’s some problem with his business. Things keep falling apart. Since we are sharing, I’ll tell you that, apparently, a few operations failed. He’s frustrated with everyone.” She shrugs. “Don’t take it too personally.”

I grunt, not letting her know that I’m the reason behind her father’s sour mood. She just gave me something to bring her father down, and I feel a twinge of guilt. Not at destroying Angelo Bergotti—I’ll never feel guilty for that—but for using her, unknowingly making her a weapon against her own father.

We drive in silence for a while, our unspoken truths lying between us. I glance at her occasionally, catching her savoring the Danish, and for a moment, the world outside our car fades. It’s a simple pleasure, a brief respite from thechaos and deception that define my life. But I know it can’t last.

We arrive at the shelter, and as she jumps out of the car, I force myself to focus on the task at hand. I need to remain vigilant and stay the course. There’s no room for doubt, no space for remorse. This is war, and in war, collateral damage is inevitable.

I observe her moving through the crowd with effortless grace, her laughter lifting the spirits of everyone she touches. Her kindness stands in clear contrast to the harsh world she’s part of. It became apparent early on that she’s nothing like her father, but I can’t let myself fully accept it.

I’m interrupted from my thoughts by a short elderly lady who was helping Ophelia serve the meals. She’s blinking up at me, not talking.

“Yes?”

“Phee sent me. We need help carrying the delivery into the kitchen.” She points in the general direction of Ophelia. “She said, and I quote, ‘less staring, more helping.’”

I can’t help but bark out a laugh and look back at Ophelia immediately. She’s not looking at me—she’s serving a plate to an older man, but I see the smile on the side of her face, and I’m not even mad at being caught.

“Of course. Lead the way.”

I follow the elderly lady to the kitchen, where boxes of supplies are stacked by the door. As I carry them inside, I steal glances at Ophelia through the doorway. She moves with grace and kindness, completely in her element. It’s hard to reconcile this gentle soul with the violent world around her.

“Thank you,” the lady says as I set down the last box. “Phee’s always been a bright light here. We’re lucky to have her.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yes, she is something special.”

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