Page 14 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)
I wait for the traffic light to change, then cross the road towards the restaurant, spotting another delivery bike parked outside. Jackpot. The second I step inside, heat wraps around me like a hug from heaven. God, it’s delicious. My fingers and ears tingle as they thaw.
A bored-looking girl behind the counter barely glances up. “Hello, welcome to Bael’s Fried Chicken. Do you want to dine in or take out?”
I summon a sheepish smile and lean on the counter, lowering my voice. “How would you like to make an easy five hundred bucks?”
That gets her attention. She straightens, eyes narrowing. “Would I have to commit a crime?”
I chuckle. “No, nothing like that. Just a small favor.”
She gives me a long look, then tilts her head. “Go on.”
“I think my fiancé is cheating on me,” I say, layering my voice with just enough hurt. “I saw some woman go into his building with him, and now he won’t take my calls or buzz me up. I need to borrow your delivery bike and uniform. Just for a little while.”
Her face lights up with delight. “Ohhh, you want to pull the ol’ fake delivery trick and catch him red-handed? Brilliant .” She leans closer, grinning like we’re planning the heist of the century. “I’ve got you, sister,” she whispers with a wink.
Relief floods through me. Phase one: complete.
I dig out my wallet, count off five crisp hundreds, and slide them across the counter. Her grin stretches wide as she tucks the cash away.
“Wait here. I’ll get the bike keys and a spare uniform.” She turns to go, then glances back. “What size are you?”
“Eight. I wear a size eight.”
“Cool. Back in a flash.” And with that, she disappears through a door marked ‘ Staff Only ’.
I return my wallet to my pocket. That’s going on the agency’s tab. Definitely an operational expense .
While I wait, I glance around the restaurant. It’s mostly empty, save for a woman and her kid in the far corner. I quickly look away before we can make eye contact. The fewer witnesses to remember my face, the better.
The girl comes back carrying a bag with the restaurant’s logo. “Here’s your order, ma’am. Everything you need is inside,” she announces as she hands it over. “Just make sure you return the bike in an hour, or I’m toast.”
“I’ll be back before then,” I assure her.
“There’s a public restroom a few buildings down. You can, y’know, change—” she wiggles her brows suggestively “—among other things.”
I chuckle and thank her as I leave.
The restroom is exactly where she said, and in minutes, I’m changed into the delivery uniform.
It hangs a little loose, but nothing too suspicious.
I stuff my own clothes into the takeout bag, then head back to the restaurant, mount the bike like I’ve been doing this all day, and roll out. Here goes nothing.
When I reach Rafael’s building, the guard out front eyes me for several long seconds before directing me towards the gate that leads to the underground parking lot.
Perfect. My heart hammers as I approach the barricade where four guards stand watch, all of them looking like they bench-press cars for fun.
One steps up to me. “Nobody ordered anything. You’ve got the wrong building.”
I frown up at him, channeling my best confused delivery driver. “You sure? I got this delivery straight from the kitchen, and this was the address on the slip.”
“I’m sure. Nobody here ordered food,” he says, firmer this time. “ Leave. ”
Fuck. “Don’t you want to, I don’t know—call up? Just to check? I mean, come on, someone is going to be pissed if their food doesn’t show up. ”
He levels a colder glare at me. “Listen, lady, this building isn’t residential or commercial. If anybody here ordered something, I’d know. Now leave, before?—”
His threat dies mid-sentence as an expensive Mercedes pulls up next to me. The windows are so dark, all I see is my own reflection, but the guard must recognize the vehicle because his demeanor shifts instantly—from hostile to subservient.
My stomach drops as I study the Benz. It can’t be Rafael in there… can it?
The back window rolls down slowly, and I suck in a sharp breath as piercing green eyes meet mine. Romero .
Holy hell. This is the first time I’ve seen him up close in ten years.
Cold sweat breaks across my spine, and my mouth goes desert-dry as I try to think of something to say.
He moves his gaze to the guard behind me. “Is there a problem here?”
“The lady made a mistake with the address,” the guard explains, shooting me a glare. “I was just explaining to her that no order was made in this building.”
I sit up straighter on the bike, hands trembling slightly as I twist the ignition key.
Abort. Just leave. This was stupid. Insane.
I didn’t plan for Romero to be here. Are they all here?
Maximo? The mere thought sends panic clawing up my throat, squeezing the air from my lungs.
I can’t do this. I can’t face them all. I can’t.
I can’t. I can’t. It’s a good thing I won’t be allowed in.
“It’s okay. I made the order. Let her in.”
Romero’s words barely penetrate the deafening roar in my ears. When they finally register, I whip my head towards him. What?
His face is unreadable, eyes cool as he rolls his window back up .
“Yes sir.” The guard nods, and the partition is opened. He shoots me one last warning glare as Romero’s car passes through, then waves me in.
I swallow hard as I follow.
What’s Romero’s game? He has to know about everything I’ve done. Must despise me for my choices, for my mission. My palms slip on the handlebars, slick with nervous sweat as I enter the underground parking lot and park my bike next to his car.
His engine is still running when I cut mine. I hesitate, then slide off, tug off my helmet, and grab the small bag of chicken I ordered to complete my disguise. My heart is jackhammering in my throat, my stomach roiling as I walk up to his window and knock.
At first, nothing happens, so I raise my hand to knock again— but then the window suddenly rolls down. “I’m giving you ten minutes, Emily,” he says flatly. “If you want to kill Rafael, this is the only chance you’ll get. Just know you won’t make it out alive either.”
My jaw drops. “K–kill Rafael?” I whisper, scandalized despite everything.
“Isn’t that why you’re here?” He tilts his head at me, green eyes hard.
“Isn’t your entire purpose as an agent to kill him and bring us all down?
Well, I’d like to see you try.” But then, for just a heartbeat, something flickers in his eyes—a flash of vulnerability, of bone-deep weariness, almost like he wants this all to be over already.
But it’s gone so fast I think I might have imagined it.
“Go, Emily. Or leave. Either way, your clock is ticking. You only have eight minutes now.” His lips twist up in a cruel smile that punches me in the gut.
“Let’s see what will win in this war you’re determined to fight—your head, or your heart.
” And with that, his window rolls back up, and I can only blink for a moment .
He was my friend too.
It’s so fucking unfair that Rafael got to keep everyone’s loyalty while I was left with nothing. Nothing but this toxic brew of emotions: anger, regret, sadness, hatred… love . So many feelings with nowhere to go—except into my revenge.
I swallow hard, blinking back the stinging tears as I spin towards the elevator where four more men stand guard. They make no move to stop me as I approach, likely assuming I’m legit since I entered with Romero’s apparent blessing.
I get into the elevator, torn over why I’m even here. Is it really to get the flash drive? Or is it to end this rivalry between Rafael and me once and for all?
Should I just kill him and accept whatever fate his men deal me afterwards?
My heart constricts painfully at the thought of a lifeless Rafael, and I shake my head furiously. “Fucking get it together, Emily,” I mutter, jabbing the penthouse button.
I’m here for the flash drive. The information I worked for. Nothing more, nothing less. Remember Ryan Barlowe. Remember what this is all for.
Get the drive and get out.
I don’t expect Rafael to be waiting right by the elevator as the doors slide open, but there he stands—looking brooding and ridiculously handsome. And just like that, a fresh wave of anger smothers everything else in me. How dare he look so calm and collected when I’m in so much turmoil?
If not for the flicker of genuine surprise that crosses his face—so brief I nearly miss it—I would have assumed Romero warned him that I was coming up.
“Emilia.”
My name on his lips sounds like a claim, like ownership, like he still has the right to say it with such intimate familiarity. That single word is the match that lights the fuse.
Because fuck him. And fuck his stupid grey eyes .
I draw my gun from the small of my back and aim it squarely at his chest. At that heart I once thought beat only for me.
Whether I kill him or not is still up for debate. But one of us is not leaving here unscathed.