Page 1 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

RAFAEL

“They’re here.”

My gaze stays pinned to the window, to the city sprawled below— my city. Still asleep to the truth of what’s coming. Of how I’ll shape it to my will.

I let myself enjoy the view a few seconds longer, then glance sideways at Enzo—the one man I’ve come to trust through the chaos of the last few months.

“I’ll be right out.”

Not that I need the announcement. I know they’re here. I watched my guests arrive, one after the other, on the CCTV feed.

Without another word, Enzo spins around, leaving me alone again in this office space I’ve commandeered for my use—at least for now. Until I expand my reach. And expand, I will.

I breathe in deep and slow, letting the anticipation settle before I turn, grab my jacket draped over the back of my chair, and shrug it on as I head for the door .

It’s been years since I last saw them. I wonder how they’ll react. How much they’ve changed. Or how much they think I have.

Impatience rides me hard, but I keep my strides measured. Control. Always control. Even when no one is watching.

The elevator doors slide open, revealing one of my men standing at attention. His job is simple: ensure no unauthorized soul reaches the floors we occupy and sound the alarm should anyone try.

He gives me a short bow and wordlessly presses R—for rooftop.

Showtime.

As we begin to rise, the anticipation stirs again, coiling in my gut like a loaded spring. I steeple my fingers and watch the numbers tick upward, my mind already running ahead to what comes next.

This part is just a formality. I’m itching to get it over and done with and move on to the best part. I have no doubts about the outcome of this meeting.

The elevator slows to a stop, and the doors open to release me into the sharp, biting chill of December’s night air.

Three men stand at the railing. My brothers—not by blood but by choice. By pain and shared darkness. They turn as one at my entrance, and for a split second, I see them as they were when we were younger. Before everything. Before the world taught us its brutal lessons.

I’d kill for them without hesitation. Die for them if necessary. And deep down, past all the bullshit and years of separation, I know they’d do the same for me.

That’s why I’ve called them here.

“This is a beautiful spot you’ve got here, Rafael. Stunning.” Maximo is the first to speak, limping towards me with that shit-eating grin I remember so well .

My eyes narrow at his uneven gait. “Did you finally manage to break your leg then?” I ask my old best friend, stretching a hand out to him.

“Bastard,” he grouches good-naturedly, batting my hand away and pulling me into a crushing hug, clapping my back. “It’s good to see your ugly mug again,” he adds as he steps back.

I would smile—if I remembered how. The muscles refuse to obey after being unused for so long. Instead, I settle for a curt nod, the closest thing to affection I can muster these days. “You got yourself shot in the leg?”

“Because your fucking text came in at the worst possible time. I was deep in enemy territory when my phone chirped like a goddamn canary. Nearly got my ass blown to pieces.”

“Amateur,” Michael interjects, giving Maximo’s arm a punch. “Your phone should’ve been on silent. Hell, or better yet, not with you at all.”

“No shit, genius,” Maximo snorts, rubbing his arm. “The line was supposed to be secure—only a select few had access.” His eyes find mine, narrowing. “How did you even get hold of it?”

“Well, I have my ways,” I answer noncommittally as I shift my gaze to the silent figure hanging back from the others. He’s going to be the harder nut to crack. “Hello, Romero.”

“Rafael. A nice theme you’ve got going here.” He nods around the rooftop at the plants sprawling everywhere, each one clearly placed with intention.

The other two finally seem to catch on, their eyes sweeping over the space, slowly piecing together the theme I’ve laid out for them.

“Wait… is this what I think it is?” Maximo asks, lips parting slightly as he yanks up his sleeve to stare at the dark ink on his arm.

“It is.” I motion for them to follow and head towards the far end of the rooftop, where the first flowers were planted—and where the overzealous gardener I hired stuck an obnoxious signboard.

I would’ve had it removed, but I liked it. And because of that, I let him keep his head attached to his neck.

I stop in front of the wooden sign and move aside so they can read the inscription.

A mini garden of four of the most deadly nightshade species: Azaleas, Lily of the Valley, Tulips, and Blue Iris. Flowers that are as dangerous as they are beautiful. Proceed with caution.

“When did you start writing poetry, Rafael?” Maximo teases, and I roll my eyes in response.

Stepping back, I allow them space to explore, to admire in living color the flowers we have inked into our skin.

The gardener did a masterful job of blending flowers of different species, merging them into a deadly harmony. It reminds me of the four of us.

Maximo, with his dark hair, dark eyes, and even darker temper.

Romero, with those sharp green eyes that miss nothing and that smooth tongue that makes him one hell of a lawyer.

Then Michael, the stereotypical blonde-haired, blue-eyed American whose ‘pretty’ face belies his deep ambitions and ruthless streak—a bit unhinged, that one.

We’re like oil and water, but somehow, through the alchemy of shared darkness, we mix together and make it work. Or we did, once upon a time.

We will again, I promise silently. Under my command.

I trail behind them as they wander the length of the rooftop, each gravitating to the flower they chose years ago as symbols of our brotherhood.

My eyes drift to the Azaleas, and for a fleeting moment, an image of her tries to emerge from the depths of my memory, but I ruthlessly push it back down before it can take root.

Not now.

Even though she’s the genesis of us getting those tattoos, this isn’t the time to worry about how my private investigators still haven’t found a damn thing on her.

I could have them killed for wasting my time, but without them, I wouldn’t have my brothers here with me right now.

So I guess I can be patient for a little while longer.

I check my watch and clear my throat to draw their attention. “Why don’t we get right into it?” I call out. “You can gawk at the flowers when we’re done with our meeting.”

They abandon their inspection and move to the long table with its row of chairs centered on the rooftop. I inhale deeply as I take my seat. “You probably suspect why I've called you all here.”

“You haven’t exactly kept a low profile, Rafael,” Michael points out as he sinks into the chair opposite me. “The whole of New York is holding its breath in fear—and it’s all because of you.”

“Yeah, what’s that all about?” Maximo chimes in. “The media’s been having a field day with their headlines. ‘Son of an Ex-Mobster Takes Little Italy by Storm’. ‘Mobster Heir on Wild Killing Spree’. It’s nuts.”

So they’ve all heard about my exploits. Good . “I paid to have those articles written. Doesn’t mean they’re any less true.”

“Are you insane?” The quiet question comes from Romero. “You’re going to have law enforcement crawling up your ass very soon, and it will be six years ago all over again.”

A deafening, heavy silence falls over us as we seem to be transported back to the media frenzy that followed the events six years ago—the unnecessary deaths, the pain we had to suffer. I can see it reflected in their eyes; the memories still raw despite the years.

“It’s all calculated,” I assure him. I need this notoriety to earn the fear and respect, if not loyalty, of the old takers of the syndicate.

Otherwise, they could make things difficult for me and my plans.

“I’m putting a stop to all the attention this week—it has more than achieved what I wanted it to. ”

“And what’s that? Fear?” Michael asks with a raised brow, and I snap my fingers at him. Bingo.

Fear is currency in our world. Fear is power. And I’ve amassed enough to make my next move.

“Why did you call us here? Why are you telling us all this?” Romero presses, his green eyes turbulent with silent worry. He knows why. They all know.

But I don’t mind saying it out loud. Romero is probably worried about the backlash this might have on his shiny new career as a lawyer.

“I’ve managed to take control of Little Italy, fratellos . It’s ours now. But it’s not enough.” Not nearly enough. I want more. I want everything. I want the Big Apple to bow down to its king. Me . “I want to take over the entire city of New York.”

Maximo lets out a low whistle. “That’s a pretty hefty ambition. The people already in charge won’t let it go that easily. You’ve got a hell of a task ahead of you.”

“And that’s where you all come in.” I look at each of them in turn—so different in personality, yet so damn alike where it counts. Their ruthlessness is unparalleled in their respective fields.

Maximo, the mercenary who’ll kill a man without blinking. Romero, the hotshot criminal lawyer who can argue his way out of hell itself. And Michael—his brand of crazy might be less public, but I know all about his underhanded tactics in crushing his competitors in the tech field .

Best of all, I’ve witnessed firsthand what they’re capable of—six years ago proved that much.

Exactly what I need to pull this off.

“New York City is big. Too fucking big,” I continue.

“I could try to do it all alone, but I’m just one man.

If we come together, though? We’ll be an unstoppable force.

We’ll take over the city, borough by borough, until it knows exactly who its masters are.

You’ll be the dons of your own boroughs—with power, money, and the world at your feet.

Kings in your own rights. The only one you’ll ever have to answer to is me. ”

The rooftop goes quiet. The kind of quiet that follows a loaded promise.

Then Maximo chuckles.

“You know, I’m getting damn tired of this mercenary work of mine,” he starts, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’m in, Rafael. And I call dibs on Queens,” he adds, smirking.

My lips tilt up a little as satisfaction cuts through me. One down. “Then you have it. Queens is yours.” I glance at my other brothers in question.

“I’m in too,” Michael says with a lazy shrug. “But I’m working on a code—a prototype that I believe might just put my company on the map. So not sure if I’ll have time to govern a whole borough.”

“Easy fix. You can govern Manhattan with me. It’s too densely packed, too wide for one person to manage alone.

I’ll give you Midtown.” And since I know all about the codes he’s working on, I add, “I have no doubt you’ll make waves both in the tech world and ours, Michael.

” He’s a genius for a reason. A dangerous, unhinged genius who will fit perfectly into my plans.

“Cool with me.” Michael leans back, crossing his ankle over his thigh. “You’ve been hogging all the fun for yourself. About time we get a piece of it.”

Two down. I nod, then finally turn to Romero, who’s watching us with a little furrow between his brows, green eyes stormy. “Are you in, Rome?”

His middle finger traces an absent circle on the table’s surface. “I went to law school with thoughts of upholding the law, Rafael. Not to go back to our old ways.”

As if you ever truly left them , I think but don’t say. The blood we’ve spilled together can never be washed away, no matter how many degrees he hangs on his wall.

“This won’t be like before, Romero. This time, we’re not some underlings—we’re the ones calling the shots. That makes all the difference.”

His finger stills. “Can I have some time to think it over? It’s… a different path from what I envisioned for myself.”

“Of course,” I assure him, holding his gaze briefly to show him I respect his decision. But we both know what his answer will be in the end. The pull of brotherhood runs deeper than law or pride. He’ll come around.

I turn back to the other two, who’ve been watching our exchange with barely concealed interest. “Now that that's out of the way…” I raise my right hand and wave two fingers.

Almost immediately, the side door leading to the stairs opens, and a few of my men emerge, pushing a trolley loaded with chilled alcohol.

“A drink. To celebrate our union,” I say as the empty table quickly fills with bottles and glasses.

For a moment, no one moves. A heavy pause hangs among us.

“Our reunion isn’t exactly complete,” Maximo murmurs, picking up a bottle of bourbon and snapping the lid open. The others mumble in agreement.

Before I can respond, the door opens again, and Enzo steps out onto the rooftop.

Even from across the distance, I can see the excitement radiating from him as he hurries towards me.

He acknowledges my brothers with curt nods before leaning down to whisper in my ear—sweet, addictive words that make satisfaction curl in my chest.

“We found her, Rafael. We found Emilia.”

This reunion might be incomplete right now, but soon, very soon, we’ll all be together again. Just as we’re meant to be.