Page 27 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

RAFAEL

“You still remember the meeting with your brothers in an hour, right?” Enzo’s question is perfectly timed, because I had forgotten about it.

“Damn it,” I curse.

We got the request for a quick thirty-minute meeting from Roberto Ricci, one of the best capos we have. His territory borders both Romero’s and mine along the East River.

The man is a powerful don who rose fast through the ranks thanks to his swift decisiveness and ruthlessness, so his request carried serious weight. When Roberto calls a meeting citing ‘urgent observations’, you clear your fucking schedule.

“Do I have anything before the meeting?” I ask, already mentally rearranging my day.

“No, I made sure to move everything else around once the meeting with Ricci was confirmed.”

Good. Enzo’s efficiency never fails me. It’s why he’s still breathing.

The meeting is taking place at one of my downtown restaurants. Roberto insisted the matter was too sensitive to discuss in public, so I booked out the VIP section. It will give us more than enough privacy, and my staff know better than to interrupt my meetings unless strictly necessary.

I glance down at my computer’s screen. A few pages of reports still need my attention.

One thing I excel at is keeping the wheels of my empire running like clockwork, and that starts with reading the daily reports. My men answer to Enzo, who ensures I stay updated on what’s happening with every product we’re moving—in both my legal and less legal businesses.

At any given moment, I can tell how much product is moving through my territory and exactly how much money I’m making per hour. It’s a level of control that no other don—here or anywhere else—can match.

I also get detailed reports on every single man under my command, from the lowest soldier to the highest capo. I know who’s loyal, who’s skimming, who’s ambitious, who’s growing comfortable. Knowledge is power, and I hoard it like a fucking dragon.

That’s how I catch anyone stupid enough to try stealing from me. Though there haven’t been any incidents like that in years. Still, I like to keep on top of things—and keep them guessing. None of them know how I get the intel. Even Enzo isn’t fully aware.

“Alright. Give me a few minutes to sort through this, then we can leave.”

I skim through the reports quickly, my mood darkening as patterns emerge. Some of my operations are showing signs of complacency. Fucking idiots think they can relax now that we’re on top. Don’t they understand that the apex is where you’re most exposed?

The enemy always watches and strikes when the guards are down.

I make a mental note to schedule surprise appearances at the underperforming nightclubs.

Nothing motivates like seeing the boss materialize out of nowhere.

They need a reminder that my absence doesn’t mean my eyes aren’t everywhere.

A taste of fear should straighten their spines. And if that doesn’t work…

Well, they get exactly one chance to fix their mistakes. After that, they can explain their failures to Satan personally. I have zero patience for leeches fattening themselves on my empire.

I glance at my watch. Twenty minutes gone already? Fuck. I close the reports tab and shut down my laptop, returning it to its hiding spot before getting to my feet and shrugging on my jacket.

Now that we’re fully into December, it seems hellbent on snowing every fucking day, which is starting to grate on my nerves.

Perhaps I should look into investing in weather manipulation technology.

I hate unpredictable things beyond my control—even with meteorologists’ best efforts, Mother Nature remains stubbornly chaotic.

I stride out of my office and Enzo gets up from his seat, falling into step beside me as we head to the elevator. “My brothers?”

“All en route to the restaurant now,” he answers, checking his tablet. “Michael says he can’t stay long. He wants you to find a way to move the meeting along quickly once we get there.”

Of course. His wife and daughters are back home now, and he’s been reluctant to leave their sides. Understandable.

As we reach the basement garage, my eyes rake over my collection of cars.

For a moment, I linger on one of my luxurious sports cars, remembering the raw thrill of pushing the BMW to its limits a few days ago.

But I opt for practicality today—one of my SUVs.

Lower profile. Better security. I don’t want to stand out any more than necessary today.

“You’re driving,” I tell Enzo, moving towards the passenger seat.

“I would have loved to drive a few days ago,” he grumbles under his breath as we climb into the vehicle .

I give him a sharp look. “What was that?”

“With the snow on the road, driving the SUV is the best choice,” he says in a louder voice, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he turns the ignition. Two more SUVs follow as we pull out of the garage.

Now that I have a moment to myself, I find my thoughts drifting to Emilia. To the sweet, desperate noises she made into my throat two days ago. The memory is so vivid I can almost taste her warm breath, feel the way she melted into me before?—

Not now .

I snatch my phone from my pocket, forcing my focus elsewhere. I need to be sharp, ready for whatever it is Roberto wants to bring up in this meeting.

We arrive at the restaurant ten minutes before the scheduled meeting time. Enzo and I slip into my upscale establishment through the back entrance and weave through the secret passageways leading to the VIP room.

The exclusive section bathes in dim, atmospheric lighting that casts long shadows over the polished mahogany table and the powerful men who occupy the chairs. The air hangs heavy with cigar smoke and the rich, oaky scent of aged bourbon.

“I see everyone is here. Right on time too.” I survey the room as I enter.

“Mr. Moretti, an honor.” Roberto rises to his feet, extending his hand, head bowed in subservience. I shake it firmly, and when he finally looks up, our eyes meet for a brief second. There’s something calculating—cynical—in that gaze of his that bothers me.

What do you want?

“Roberto,” I say coolly, taking my seat at the head of the round table. I nod at my brothers, noting that Romero and Maximo both have what looks like whiskey on the rocks in front of them, while Michael has a clear liquid in his glass that I suspect is water.

Roberto takes out a pack of cigars and offers them to me first. I wave him off and signal to Enzo, who leaves immediately and returns less than a minute later with a waiter.

Roberto shrugs and lights a cigar for himself as a waiter pours me a generous serving of whiskey. I eye the ashtray in front of him—already filled with some ash and the butts of two cigars. He’s been here a while.

“So,” I speak once the waiter departs and the door locks behind him, “tell us what was so urgent you had to call us here, Ricci?”

He blows out a thick cloud of smoke and leans forward. “I’m sure you’re aware the feds have been poking around the city.”

My fingers flex involuntarily around the tumbler of whiskey, but I force my grip to relax. “Oh?” I ask after taking a deliberately slow sip, letting the liquor burn a path down my throat.

“They’re tightening their grip on us, Rafael. Surveillance. Wiretaps. Underground agents sniffing around our businesses.” He pauses for a moment, letting the tension build. “Emilia Rossi.”

My expression remains carved from stone, my posture deliberately relaxed, but something inside me twists, tightening until my chest hurts.

Emilia. I’m well aware of her recent activities—her little crusade at my club two nights ago.

After I had dealt with the supplies I got from Roan, I summoned Eric to my office to explain her presence.

She’s since moved on to other parts of my city, sticking that beautiful nose of hers where it doesn’t belong. And now she’s on Roberto’s radar. That, I don’t fucking like . I take another sip of my whiskey, rolling the warm drink around my tongue before swallowing .

“What about Emilia Rossi?” Romero asks when my silence drags too long.

“She’s persistent. Like a dog with a bone,” Roberto continues, soaking up the full attention he’s getting from us.

“She’s not just a random fed sniffing around.

I suspect she has a personal stake in this.

And from what I hear…” His gaze fixes on me, watching for any reaction. “She knows you better than most.”

There it is.

His implication is clear. He knows about my history with her.

The heat inside me intensifies, and it has nothing to do with the whiskey in my hand. Yet I give him nothing. I stare down at him, making my gaze hard as flint as I say, “So?”

He breaks eye contact first, clearing his throat as his gaze jumps between my brothers.

“So, what are we doing about her?” His tone remains measured but firm.

I respect him for that. A lesser man would have backed down.

“She already came after you all before. If we don’t deal with her now, she’ll burn everything we’ve— you’ve all worked for to the ground. ”

His meaning couldn’t be clearer if he painted it on the wall: he wants Emilia out of the picture.

Over my dead body.

My fingers tighten around my tumbler again, and this time there’s no controlling the reaction. My brothers all remain silent, but I feel their gazes on me. This isn’t just another problem to deal with—this is personal. She’s personal. Not just to me. To all of us.

Killing a federal agent is risky enough under normal circumstances, but killing Emilia? Impossible . I couldn’t do it ten years ago when she gave up our location to the agency, nearly getting us all killed. There’s no chance in hell I can do it now.

Roberto clears his throat again as the silence thickens into something suffocating. He leans back in his seat and raises his cigar to his lips. One long inhale, then smoke curls from his nostrils and mouth as he exhales.

“Listen, I know it’s a daring suggestion, but she’s not going to just let it go, you know.

Your nightclubs first, the medications now—what’s next?

Who’s next? We have to be proactive to protect our empire.

They came after us first. Retaliation is justified self-defense.

” His eyes narrow slightly. “Unless, of course, there’s a reason I don’t know that she should be spared? ”

His question is heavy, filled with implication. Fucking snake. He’s testing me, probing for confirmation that Emilia still matters to me—if the great Rafael Moretti has a soft spot that can be exploited.

“Thank you for bringing this up, Roberto.” My gratitude is arctic, my words a clear dismissal.

Roberto Ricci’s lips thin as Enzo takes a step towards him, and he crushes the tip of his cigar into the ashtray with a savage twist.

“I’m only doing my job as your loyal capo,” he mutters as he gets to his feet and stalks out, slamming the door behind him.

“What a slimy bastard.” Romero breaks the silence first.

“I agree with Roberto.” Maximo’s voice vibrates with quiet fury that makes my blood run cold. “I want her tortured before she dies. For what she did to my wife.”

Fuck.

“Is that really what you want?” I ask, watching him closely. Is he about to become a problem? Because Emilia isn’t dying, and she sure as hell isn’t getting tortured. Not by any of us. Not if I have anything to say about it—and I have everything to say about it.

“She didn’t hurt Elira. Even your wife doesn’t want Emily to be hurt by us,” Romero reminds him, his voice uncharacteristically gently.

Maximo’s jaw clenches as he slams his fist on the table. “She came after our businesses too! How about that, huh? It’s only been a week. Have you all forgotten so suddenly? And she keeps poking and poking.”

“Maximo–” Michael starts, but he gets cut off.

“Don’t tell me you’re on the traitor’s side as well. What the hell is wrong with you people?” The question targets all of us, but his furious dark gaze is locked on me. Because he knows I’m the only one that matters right now. I’m the only one standing between Emilia and his justified anger.

“She’s our sorellina, ” Romero says quietly. “No matter what she did or didn’t do, she’s family, and I believe she can still be brought back to our side.”

“Then you’re a damn fool—all of you are. She doesn’t give a shit about us or our history anymore. Why are you still clinging to it like it still means something?” Maximo stands abruptly, adjusting his jacket. “I think this might be where we call our partnership quits.”

No. Not over this. Not over her.

“Maximo, fratello .” I say, my tone stopping him mid-step. I’m not sure what to say to get through his anger, so I go with the truth. “She thinks I killed her father.”

His lips part, then he slowly sinks back into his seat, the anger momentarily eclipsed by confusion. “What the fuck?”

“That night ten years ago. Tomassi died a second time, and someone in the FBI has been feeding her lies that I did it. That’s her motivation for everything she’s done. Revenge .” I let that sink in before adding, “We would have done worse if we were in her shoes.”

“The feds pulled the rug on Tomassi’s life, and now they’re trying to pin it on us?” Romero grits his teeth and slams his fist on the table. “Bastards.”

“I know that. We all know that. But she doesn’t,” Michael points out. “She’s been with them longer than she was ever with us. Of course she’s going to believe them.”

“Exactly.” I nod grimly. “The burden is on us to find the proof. Find the agent who killed him and bring them to justice.”

“Yeah, well… maybe another time.” Michael makes a show of checking his watch and gets to his feet. “I gotta go.”

The rest of us exchange glances before rising as well. “We’ll conduct our own research and get back to this conversation at a later time,” Romero suggests.

I nod, but my attention is on Maximo. His brows are drawn together in deep thought as he leaves with the others. Will his anger return once the surprise wears off? That remains to be seen. But at least I’ve bought myself some time.

Once I’m alone with Enzo in the room, I wave him over. “I want you to put Stefano on Emilia.”

“What?” He rears back like I just slapped him.

I get to my feet swiftly. “She’s very intuitive, so it has to be Stefano.

” The man blends into backgrounds better than anyone I know.

Something about his salt-and-pepper hair and the gentle look he’s had in his eyes since becoming a grandfather makes people instinctively trust him.

It will make it harder for her to suspect him as one of mine.

“I want her every move tracked—and reported directly to me.”