Page 21 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

EMILIA

“Let me guess—judging from the way you just walked, you’re bringing me bad news, aren’t you?” Greg asks as I close his office door behind me.

I pause, caught off guard by the immediate jab, though I really shouldn’t be. “Rafael Moretti got to the councilor before I had my chance to strike.” I keep my voice steady as I approach his desk, though every instinct screams at me to defend myself.

He leans back in his chair, swiveling left and right, left and right as he watches me. “What is it with you and the Nightshades? You’ve had zero success with them. Are you getting rusty as you get older?”

My spine goes rigid at the ridiculous accusation. Rusty? As I get older? At thirty, I’m in my absolute prime, the best shape of my life—and still two decades younger than this bastard. The savage reply builds in my throat like acid, but I force it down. Don’t give him ammunition . “No, sir.”

“I gave you the Nightshades case as well as the councilor’s because you’re one of my top agents and came highly recommended by the director.” His chair stops swiveling. “But you’re starting to give me reasons to doubt you, Emily. ”

“With all due respect sir, it’s only been a handful of days.

Less than a week,” I point out. “Cases like this usually take months—sometimes longer. The Nightshades have had over a decade to root themselves in this city. It’s going to take more than a few weeks to crack them.

” They didn’t survive this long by being careless.

And Rafael didn’t climb to the top by being predictable .

Greg doesn’t say anything for several excruciating minutes, and I fear I might have said too much, pushed too far. Challenging a superior’s assessment is career suicide in our line of work. But I’ll be damned if I let him write me off as some aging operative past her expiration date.

Finally, he gives me a curt nod. Then, without acknowledging my spiel, he says, “I’ve got something that might lead to a break in the case.” He pulls open his desk drawer and takes out a single document. I eye it warily.

“My attention has recently been drawn to a problem that’s becoming more rampant in the city. And like everything else here, I believe it’s linked to the Nightshades.” He slides the document across his desk.

It’s a briefing on pharmaceutical drug smuggling. Apparently, there’s an illegal unknown supplier in town, redistributing usually expensive, hard-to-access medications like Ozempic and morphine at dirt-cheap prices.

A classic Robin Hood scenario—stealing from the rich to give to the poor.

Normally, the agency doesn’t waste time and resources on operations that aren’t actively harming civilians.

But I’m guessing one of the big pharma companies got pissed and filed a complaint, and now that it might tie into the Nightshades, it’s officially our mess to clean up.

“I want you to find out who this supplier is, how they’re getting their drugs, how they’re bringing them into the city, how they’re moving them—everything. Then shut it all down. ”

“Yes sir,” I nod, the paper crumpling in my tight grip as I turn to escape his office.

As I pass through the hallway of closed doors leading to private offices, one suddenly swings open just as I walk by. Instinctively, I reach for my gun?—

—but relax when Matt’s head pops out.

He wiggles a brow at me, smirking. “You remember you can’t draw your weapons in here, right?”

I roll my eyes, letting go of my holster. “Don’t open doors so suddenly. You startled me.”

“I didn’t want to miss you this time. Last time you were in, you left so fast I barely caught a glimpse of that fine ass and missed my chance to see your pretty face.” He winks, stepping aside, silently inviting me into his office.

Oh, hell no.

Katie’s teasing words echo in my head, and I hesitate. Now his flirtatious demeanor feels glaringly obvious, and I’m not equipped to handle workplace romance right now. Or ever. “I’m not so sure I can stay to chat, Matt. Greg isn’t very happy with me right now, so I need to get back to work ASAP.”

His smirk dims for half a second, then bounces back. “Too much of a hotshot to spare a minute for us lowly agents, huh?”

I breathe out a little relief. Thank God he’s not turning this into a thing .

Maybe Katie read him wrong. Maybe he’s just naturally charming with everyone.

Either way, I should gracefully exit the interaction before I complicate things further.

“Maybe you need to solve a couple of big cases before I can deem you fit to be seen in my presence,” I tease back, then immediately second-guess myself.

Was that flirty? Or just friendly? Shit. I’m so out of practice with this kind of banter.

An awkward silence descends between us, and I find myself falling into an old habit—staring anywhere but his eyes .

Then, mercifully, he lets out a low chuckle. “So that’s how it is. Fine. I’ll be back—bigger and better, Agent Rossi.” Another wink before he slips back into his office, shutting the door behind him.

Whew . Thank goodness. Crisis averted.

I make a beeline for the elevators, walking briskly past the rest of the offices and the maze of cubicles between me and my escape route. Nobody else better fucking stop me. I throw on what Katie calls my don’t–you–fucking–dare–talk–to–me resting bitch face, hoping it sends a clear enough message.

It does.

I slip into the elevator without another soul daring to approach me.

Since I’m on top of the Nightshades case and have it mostly under control, Katie got assigned another mission in New Jersey and left in the early hours of this morning. That means I’m handling this new case on my own.

My first step is obvious: hit the streets and gather intelligence, since this flimsy sheet of paper Greg handed me contains about as much useful information as a fortune cookie. I lift it to my face, squinting at it with a frown as the elevator doors slide open.

I fold it carefully and tuck it into the pocket of my leather jacket—which I never had the chance to take off while up there. My mind is already racing with possible strategies as I stride to my bike and pull my helmet on.

Oddly enough, I’m grateful Greg called this morning and yanked me out of bed. Worrying about what he wanted—and how pissed he’d be over my failure with Jason—kept my brain from circling back to the one thing I didn’t want to think about: Rafael.

Rafael, smiling like an idiot with a massive bouquet of roses in his arms.

Who were they for ?

Not me. That much was clear when his smile vanished and his brows drew together the second he saw me.

I shake my head hard as I kickstart the ignition. Focus. I don’t care who they were for. I don’t.

I have a mission, and it’s to find whoever’s running this illicit meds operation—not to obsess over Rafael’s love life. He’s nothing to me. I don’t care who he’s seeing. I really don’t.

I rev the engine with more aggression than necessary, the motorcycle growling beneath me like it shares my frustration. I need leads. I need info. If I want to avoid another failure, I have to get moving now . The faster I immerse myself in work, the better.

The most effective way to extract information from street sources is to blend in. These people are fiercely loyal to their circles, and if they even sniff law enforcement, they clam up.

So I head home first to change into something more appropriate.

I strip off my agency clothes and pull on a pair of dark jeans and a grey sweatshirt, keeping it super casual with my hair in a messy bun.

Then I take off all my jewelry and conceal my knives in my boots.

No gun this time—word on the street is, they can somehow detect firearms from a mile away.

Bringing one to their turf without backup would be suicidal.

Still, I need leads, and that means hitting the old spots.

It’s been years since I lived in NYC, but I didn’t expect things to have changed this much.

I visit the usual haunts where people used to sell or hoard information, but the areas have all been refurbished into townhouses, which means my old contacts are long gone—assuming they're even still alive. It’s been a decade, after all. A lot can happen in ten years.

That should have been my first warning that this wasn’t going to be as simple as I thought.

After nearly seven exhausting hours of combing Manhattan, casually questioning homeless folks, I’m finally pointed in a direction that might be worthwhile.

But I’m starving by then, so I swing by the nearest McDonald’s on my way to the club I was told to check out: The Echo.

Supposedly, the bartender there, Eric, is a wealth of knowledge and can lead me to who I need.

I linger over my meal, savoring the fries and doing a bit of people-watching to kill time until his shift starts.

Afterwards, I head out and take a leisurely one-mile stroll to The Echo. I left my bike at home, not wanting anything that could be traced back to me while on this mission. I could easily have taken a cab, sure, but I have the time to burn anyway.

I reach the club at 8:15 PM and smile with satisfaction. Perfect timing. Eric’s shift should have started by now. I hang back for a moment, studying the bouncers and the people they allow in—mostly young women with skimpy outfits. Of course.

I glance down at myself with a sigh. Not exactly club-ready.

I pull my hair out of its bun, finger-comb it until it falls down my back in some kind of passable wave, and tug the neckline of my sweatshirt to the side, exposing one shoulder. Then I strut towards the entrance like I belong.

The bouncers give me a once-over and exchange glances.

Shit. I didn’t think of a backup plan. If this doesn’t work, I’m back at square one with nothing to show for a day’s work but blistered feet.

But then— yesss —the rope lifts, and I’m waved in.

Dizzying relief washes over me. I flash one of the bouncers a saucy wink as I walk past him, and the tips of his ears turn bright red.

Inside, the club is loud and pulsing with music. I tug my sweatshirt back into place and scan the densely packed space. There are three bars, each manned by two bartenders. All of them are busy, and still, there are lines. It’s that crowded.

Which one is Eric? I frown, recalling the vague description I was given: tall, dark hair, very handsome. That doesn’t exactly narrow it down—there are four male bartenders, and at least two of them could fit that bill.

Of course this isn’t going to be easy. When has anything ever been easy for me? Fucking Eric.

I weave through the crowd and pick one bar at random, cutting past the line. “You Eric?!” I shout at the bartender over the thundering bass.

He spares me the briefest glance before jerking his chin towards the bar across the room. “Thank you,” I mutter, though I doubt he hears me. At the bar he pointed to, there’s a guy and a woman working, so bingo —Eric is the dude.

I raise my arms and start elbowing my way through the crowd. Yeah, it earns me a chorus of hey! ’s and watch it! ’s, but whatever, it’s quicker this way. Asking nicely in here is a waste of breath.

When I make it to the bar, I’m sweating. I fan myself with one hand. Now I get why every girl is in crop tops and halters. It’s a sauna in here, despite the early December chill outside.

There’s a short line of five people waiting for drinks in front of Eric.

Time for creative problem-solving. “Find another line to join!” I yell as I push past them.

“I need to talk to my brother! Go find another line! Move it!” I drop my elbow to the counter, catching Eric’s attention. “Hey, little brother.”

There’s some grumbling, but thankfully, the line disperses, moving to the other bars.

Eric narrows his eyes on me. “Oh don’t tell me—another bastard from my philandering father?”

I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but I chuckle anyway. “What can I say? Papa Bear took go forth and multiply a little too literally. You Eric?”

He smirks. “What kind of sister doesn’t recognize her own brother?”

“The kind that isn’t really his sister,” I deadpan .

He snorts. “Yeah, well, I’m an adopted only child, so wasn’t expecting any surprise siblings. What can I get ya?”

I start to decline—alcohol and fieldwork make for a dangerous mix—but I quickly change my mind. I don’t have to take more than a little sip, and it gives me a legitimate reason to stick around longer. More time means more chances to get what I need. “Give me the best cocktail you serve.”

“Coming right up, sis .” He winks and starts mixing a bunch of drinks.

“I heard shaking up delicious cocktails isn’t the only talent you have up your sleeves,” I start as he works, hoping he gets the hint.

He flicks a glance around the club, then leans in close. “Sorry, sweetie, I don’t deal weed. But I have a solid plug. I can hook you up.” He finishes my drink and slides it towards me. “That’ll be twenty-five bucks.”

“Pretty expensive cocktail,” I mutter, fishing some wrinkled bills from my pocket and handing them over.

“You chased away my paying customers. Gotta cover the loss somehow.”

“I am a paying customer,” I huff, then make a show of lifting the drink to my lips and faking a sip. “Mmm. Delicious. And no, I’m not here for weed. I’m looking for something else—something more important.”

He frowns. “I’m not following you, lady.”

Shit. Of course he’s going to make me spell it out.

I motion for him to lean in. He does, and I lower my voice. “I need some Ozempic. For my diabetic aunt. It’s been hell trying to get it on my own, and I heard you’re the guy who can.”

His gaze sharpens, and for a second he just watches me. “I could–” He stops mid-sentence, his gaze shifting to something behind me. A tingle rolls up my spine, prickling the back of my neck.

Then I see it in his eyes—pure fear. He pulls back instantly, putting distance between us as he suddenly busies himself behind the bar. I don’t have to look to know who he saw. I already know. Still, I sigh as I do anyway.

Fucking Rafael. He’s cutting through the crowd like a predator, barely restrained fury radiating from every line of his body.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” I mutter, more to myself than anything.

Eric answers anyway. “He owns this club.”

Of course he does. What doesn’t he own in this city?