Page 17 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

RAFAEL

I study my reflection in the mirror, zeroed in on the brown band-aid slapped over my left arm.

Fortunately, it’s just a flesh wound—the bullet merely kissed my skin.

Nothing that won’t heal in a week. Still, a flicker of pride blooms in my chest as I remember the hard as flint look in Emilia’s eyes when she pulled the trigger.

My girl.

If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn she’d never seen me before in her life. But I caught it—that flash of guilt and worry when Romero pointed out to her that I was bleeding. She still cares, despite the bullet she put in me. The thought makes something dangerous stir in my veins.

Fuck me for being proud of her for standing her ground. Against me, no less.

I pull a grey shirt from its hanger and shrug it on, my arm throbbing a little at the movement. But it’s easy to ignore. As I button up, I move to my selection of ties, my hand hovering as I consider my options.

The navy blue one with polka dots feels right today. Professional. Understated. The kind of thing that says I’m a legitimate businessman right before I destroy someone’s life.

Standing before the mirror again, I execute a perfect Windsor knot, ensuring it sits flawlessly against my throat.

Then I slip on my suit jacket and head downstairs where Enzo’s waiting by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan.

He barely glances my way as I descend. “Have you sent it?” I ask him.

He doesn't need clarification. The judging look he gives me speaks volumes. “Yes, delivered about thirty minutes ago.” His tone carries his disapproval like a bitter aftertaste. He’s not thrilled about the flowers and the little surprise I sent Emilia.

He hasn’t exactly been subtle how he feels about that particular connection. He wants me to let her go .

But he doesn’t understand the impossibility of that request.

I want to let her go, to stop her image from haunting every corner of my mind. But she’s been my obsession for almost two decades, an addiction hardwired into my DNA. No matter the state of our relationship—or lack thereof—I can never let her go.

Letting her go would be like severing my left arm because it’s currently injured and hurting me. Impossible .

What I can do is send little reminders like the package I sent this morning after discovering her address last night. Subtly showing her I’m not someone to fuck with, even if I can’t bring myself to outright hurt her.

“Good.” I walk past Enzo towards the foyer, and he follows. We come to a stop in front of the elevator. “Jason Moore?”

“Just left his house. Based on the coordinates Donovan gave me, he’s heading towards Inferno.”

We enter the elevator, descending quickly to the basement level, where I take a key fob out of my pants pocket and thumb it. Somewhere in the long line of cars, my BMW 8 Series chirps in response .

Behind me, Enzo whistles appreciatively. “Finally. I’ve been dying to give this baby another spin.”

I smirk as I make my way towards my car. “Tough luck, Enzo. I’m driving today.”

I slide into the driver’s seat, inhaling the rich scent of new leather that envelopes me. Enzo gets in next to me, muttering darkly under his breath as he yanks his seatbelt on.

Amusement ignites inside me. He’s sulking like a toddler who was just denied a cookie. I press the ignition button, and the car comes to life with a low rumble that vibrates up my spine, loosening the knots of tension I’ve been carrying since last night’s encounter.

Grinning, I peel out of the lot with a satisfying squeal of tires. “Yesss, baby,” Enzo exclaims, his earlier sullenness forgotten as he rubs his palms together in anticipation, matching my grin with one of his own. I respond by pressing my foot harder on the accelerator, feeding his enthusiasm.

We race through the smooth Manhattan streets, and I expertly maneuver past traffic, sticking to back roads to avoid the morning rush. The car is absolutely flawless, responding to my commands almost immediately without a hitch.

God, I’ve missed driving.

“We lost your guards,” Enzo chuckles, checking the rearview mirror as I pull into the reserved spot in front of my club.

“Good thing I can protect myself,” I answer as I reluctantly turn off the ignition, running my palm over the steering wheel in silent appreciation.

“Come on,” Enzo says, already reaching for his door. “I just received word that the councilor will arrive in a few sec—” He stops abruptly as a dark SUV pulls up right next to my BMW. Thanks to the blackout tints on my windows, we can see out without being seen.

A spry young man hops out of the driver’s seat and jogs around the hood to open the back door. Jason Moore emerges, glancing furtively as if expecting paparazzi to swarm him.

What sort of club does he think this is?

He says something to his driver, then hurries into the club. The driver gets back into the SUV and pulls away, likely instructed to loop the block so the car wouldn’t be recognized by anyone passing by.

Smart of Jason. Too bad he wasn’t smart enough to take out his dashboard camera. And storing the footage on his laptop? The man is practically begging to be blackmailed.

“Let’s do this,” I murmur, opening my car door.

I’m stepping into the club’s entrance when the sound of another car pulling up draws my attention. My guards’ SUV has finally caught up. I shake my head at their incompetence and continue inside. I’ll deal with them later.

Though the club won’t open until evening, my staff are out and about, preparing for the night ahead. The lights are dimmed, but it’s easy to make out the silhouette of the man sitting at the far end booth.

I nod at Enzo, who wordlessly peels off towards the bar, leaving me to approach Jason alone.

“You’re early,” I comment as I slip into the seat across from the councilor.

“And you’re late,” he fires back. I narrow my eyes, and he clears his throat quickly. “What gives, Rafael? We saw each other last night. If you had something to say, you could have said it then. No need for cryptic threats about me meeting with some Russian. What Russian?”

So that’s how he wants to play it? “You insult my intelligence, Jason. For me to even mention your meeting with Sergey’s man, you must know I already possess irrefutable proof.”

He pauses, sizing me up with wary eyes, but disappointingly persists with his innocent facade.

“Well, why don’t you enlighten me with this proof of yours, Rafael?

Because unless you’re referring to one of the many Russian patrons I exchanged a few words with last night, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. ”

Arguing with him is pointless, so I take out my ball pen. I hadn’t planned to bring out the big guns right away, but since he’s so dead set on playing dumb, then so be it. Big guns it is.

I press the ball point at the top, and the recording starts to play.

I’ve trimmed out the parts with Emilia—our conversations, our more intimate moments—so the audio starts at the knock on Jason’s office door, just minutes after he murdered that waiter while I was busy distracting Emilia from her guilt.

“Nothing. It’s probably our friend at the door.

Go check it out. And if it’s not… well, you know what to do.

” Jason’s voice rings out with crystal clarity.

He flinches, eyes darting to the pen. Then he quickly scans the room, checking to see if anyone is listening.

But my staff are professionals. No one is paying us any attention.

The recording continues.

A brief silence follows as the door opens, then Jason’s voice returns: “Yes, Viktor. What does Sergey have to say for himself?”

“My pakhan would like you to join him. Leave the Nightshades behind. They’re about to become a thing of the past, ” says the new voice, thick with a Russian accent. Viktor.

I press the pen’s ball point again, cutting the recording short, and watch Jason closely.

He has gone pale. Sickly pale. And looks like he might throw up all over my table. “Do you remember now?” I ask calmly. “Or do you want to hear more?”

“Rafael, I–”

Enzo chooses that exact moment to reappear with my laptop, setting it down in front of me. “Ha, perfect timing. Thank you, Enzo.” My second-in-command winks as he retreats, his mission accomplished.

“You’ll really want to see this,” I inform Jason conversationally as I boot up my laptop, fingers flying over the keys. The video I’ve prepared loads, and I spin the screen to face him.

It’s a highlight reel of his worst decisions: clips of him cheating, getting into Nico Marino’s car, and that glorious moment the briefcase popped open as he fell.

I didn’t think it was possible for him to go even paler, but he manages it—his face turning ghostly, sweat beading along his brows. “H–how did you get this? Which one of my staff gave you this footage?”

Ah, so he knows it’s from his own car. Good. I click my tongue in disappointment. “You’re asking the wrong question, Jason. You shouldn’t be asking how I got it. That’s irrelevant now. What matters is that I have it and what I might do with it.”

He swallows audibly. “Wh–why are you showing me this? What do you want from me?”

A slight smile curves my lips. Now we’re getting somewhere. “I don’t need to spell out what happens if an overzealous reporter gets their hands on this footage, do I?” Goodbye, senate dreams. Hello, public disgrace.

“Just put me out of my misery and tell me what you want,” he pleads, voice trembling a little.

“I want you to become my eyes and ears in Volkov’s camp. You’ll accept his proposition, text me the address and time of your meetings with him, and tell me everything you learn about him—and who’s backing him.”

“That’s… that’s dangerous, Rafael,” he stammers, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his face with a shaky hand. “If they find out—if they even suspect —I could lose my li–”

“—And what gives you the assurance that you can’t lose your life right now ?” I raise a brow and slightly tuck my jacket back, showing him the butt of my 9MM. “You tried to betray me, Jason. You know what I do with traitors.”

Hs throat works furiously as he nods. “You’re right, you’re right. I’ll reach out to Sergey tonight and tell him I’m in.”

“Good. And if I were you, I wouldn’t try anything stupid. You have a lot to lose,” I remind him as I get to my feet. “Would be a shame to see that shiny future of yours go up in smoke. Or end behind bars.”

Jason scrambles up after me. “Of course. I’m fully aware of what’s at stake. I won’t disappoint you, Rafael.”

“Make sure you don’t.” I give him a short, dismissive nod before walking away.

Enzo meets me halfway across the bar floor. “Your next meeting arrived a couple of minutes ago. I directed him to the VIP lounge,” he says.

I check my watch. He’s punctual. I like that.

I head for the VIP steps, brushing aside the red velvet rope that separates the exclusive area from the rest of the club. Then I turn left and climb a few more steps until I’m passing through the sliding glass doors leading into the lounge.

The VIP section is set on a slightly elevated platform above the main floor.

From up here, guests can watch everything below without ever having to leave the comfort of their plush seats.

The thick tinted glass ensures their privacy—anyone looking up from the main floor only sees their own reflection.

Right now, there’s only one person inside, and I make my way towards him. “Sorry for the delay. My last meeting ran over a little,” I say as I reach his table.

Roan Permeti looks up with sharp green eyes and rises from his seat to shake my hand.

His red hair is cropped close at the sides, a cut similar to Michael’s—but unlike Michael, he’s not fully bald, just clipped down to a rust-colored shadow.

And even though he must have shaved earlier today, his jaw is already lined with five-o’clock stubble .

“No problem. Thanks for meeting with me,” he answers, sinking back into his seat.

I slide in across from him and get straight to business. “So, Maximo tells me you can supply arms to us? How many are we talking about?”

His face turns serious as he explains his uncle’s operation in Kosovo—how they can move serious quantities, hundreds of weapons, into the U.S. within a couple of months.

The delivery is faster than the Russians’, though the service comes at a higher price. Normally, I’d be more cautious about entering into business with someone I hardly know, but he’s Maximo’s brother-in-law and essentially family now.

Plus, SP’s dossier on Roan paints him as exactly the kind of ruthless bastard I can work with. The kind of man I know will rule with the same iron hand I do when he takes over leadership of the Albanian syndicate from his father.

“Let’s do this, then,” I say as the meeting wraps up, and we shake hands to seal the deal.