Page 28 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

EMILIA

Rafael and the others are the ones supplying the medications to the underground network in the city. I blink up at the ceiling in my room, my mind spinning like a broken record.

Of course it’s them. Of course it is. How did I not see this coming? The pieces were right there. If I’d been thinking with my agent brain instead of my wounded heart, I would have connected the dots myself. It’s a huge ring, so they had to be involved somehow.

But I just couldn’t imagine them doing something so…

I wouldn’t say philanthropic, but something good.

And it is an act of good, because they’re taking these ridiculously expensive drugs that the middle and lower class would sell their souls to afford and offering them at prices that actually allow people to survive.

Are they even turning a profit? Or is this really some twisted Robin Hood fantasy? Profit drives everything in Rafael’s world. A man doesn’t build an empire by giving charity.

No. This has Romero written all over it. We hadn’t met when the tragedy happened, but he lost his mother to the cold hand of death because of medical negligence. She had type 2 diabetes and high cholesterol—conditions that were manageable with the right medications.

But the family couldn’t get their hands on Ozempic, which was still in its early stages back then and hadn’t even been FDA-approved. They couldn’t afford the absurdly expensive insulin prices either. Romero’s dad was just a foot soldier back then and barely made enough to feed the family.

In the end, she settled for a cheaper alternative that attacked none of her actual issues. She succumbed to her diseases just months after her diagnosis. This underground network must be Romero’s and the guys’ way of honoring the woman.

I turn restlessly on the bed just as my bedroom door creaks open and Katie peeks in. She takes one look at me—at whatever naked emotion is playing across my face—and it’s like she plucks the thoughts right out of my head.

“Please tell me you’re not humanizing the Nightshades because of what we discovered two nights ago.

” She strolls into my bedroom uninvited.

“They’re the bad guys, Em. This one act of kindness— ” she practically chokes on the word, “—doesn’t erase all the blood on their hands.

And I guarantee you, there’s something more sinister going on than what you’re willing to believe.

Whatever it is, it sure as hell isn’t redemption. ”

She’s right. Logically, she’s absolutely right.

But logic isn’t the problem here. It’s my heart that’s confused. The stubborn thing still misses my old friends. And Rafael…

My suspicions that he was telling the truth about not killing my father are slowly starting to solidify into something stronger. A conviction.

He cared about me, damn it.

He never said as much, but I knew. I could feel it in his actions, in the way he looked at me— still looks at me. There’s no way someone capable of showing this kind of mercy to complete strangers could just turn around and execute someone he genuinely cares about.

No way.

Same way I—even at the height of my hatred for him—could never hurt him. Not really.

There has to be an explanation. There has to be.

I sit up suddenly, hit by an epiphany. “I’m going in.”

Excitement propels me off the bed, and I dash to my ensuite where I start brushing my teeth in a hurried frenzy. Katie trails behind me, watching me like I’ve just sprouted two horns and a tail.

“Going in where ?”

“The office,” I answer after spitting out the paste and rinsing my mouth. “I need to know everything that happened ten years ago.” Everything . I strip off my sleep shirt and carelessly toss it into the laundry basket as I step into the shower.

No, scratch that. Not even ten years ago. I should start my search from fifteen years ago. Starting with why my father faked his death and remained hidden from me for five years, and why he had to die for real ten years ago. What secrets did you take to your grave, Dad?

“You’ve lost me, babe. What happened ten years ago? You mean when Rafael kicked you out of his house like a stray dog? Or when he killed your father ?” The hostility in her voice takes me aback, and I blink at her through the shower steam.

“Both.” I regain my composure and frown a little. “I think there’s a deeper secret—something crucial I’m missing. Not just from ten years ago but fifteen years ago when this whole mess started.” Why would a federal agent ever bother working with some small-town detective, for example?

Now that I’m an agent myself, and I’ve been tasked with taking down someone as powerful as Rafael Moretti, I try to picture a younger Stacey assigned to take out Alfonsi Moretti, Rafael’s father .

Why would she team up with my dad? Even if he was already building a case against Alfonsi, and was one of the few clean cops Alfonsi couldn’t keep in his pockets, it still doesn’t make sense.

I know I would never team up with a cop.

They can be so arrogant and territorial, and too hasty to make an arrest.

“I don’t know, Emily.” Katie’s words draw me out of my musings. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea to go poking around the past. Can’t you let it be?”

I turn off the shower and grab a towel, wrapping it around my body. “I wish I could,” I say truthfully. But I know myself too well. Now that the idea is in my head, it’s going to bounce around until I do something about it.

Back in my bedroom, I start dressing quickly. Katie watches me, then sighs in defeat. “Just be careful. You don’t know if your moves and actions are being watched.”

“By someone in the bureau?” I frown, immediately dismissing the idea. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would anyone want to spy on me?”

She shrugs without elaborating.

“Want to come with me?” I suggest, wiggling my brows playfully, trying to lift her from whatever mood has suddenly seized her. She chuckles as expected, but it’s forced—a pale imitation of her usual laugh—and worry niggles at the back of my head. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” She sighs, sinking onto the edge of my bed. “I’m just worried about you. You’re caught up in so much mess—first the Nightshades, and now this.”

“Tell me about it.” I sigh as well. “But I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, yes, you will be.”

Katie’s cryptic words about someone secretly keeping tabs on me in the bureau has me paranoid as hell, and I find myself looking over my shoulders every few minutes as I make my way to the records room, doing my best to look casual—as unsuspicious as possible.

Nothing to see here. Just a hardworking federal agent, going about her daily duties. Totally normal.

I throw one final glance behind me before slipping inside the room.

I tried accessing information on my father’s case through the online database but hit a wall.

For some unexplainable reason, the information was classified—and even my rank as a special agent and one of the agency’s best wasn’t enough to unlock those sealed files.

Which was weird enough to raise serious red flags.

Usually, my login credentials clear just about any barrier, especially with older cases. Since most of them have already been solved, security tends to be lax. But not this one. I’m hoping I can find something here, in this physical repository of secrets.

If not, I'll have to go straight to Stacey and ask to borrow her login. As the director, there’s definitely nothing out of reach to her. Perfect timing too—she arrived in the city last night for a meeting with the governor, so I won’t have to fly to Virginia to speak with her face-to-face.

I glance briefly at the security camera mounted in the corner of the room before shifting my attention back to the rows upon rows of drawers filled to the brim with case files dating back as far as the 90s.

Technically, the files for every single case solved in this city should be stored here, buried among thousands of others. All I have to do is find the needle in this bureaucratic haystack.

I sigh as I walk past the drawers, carefully studying the dates, only stopping when I’m at the year I need.

Fifteen years ago. I stare at the long column of drawers filled with cases from that year and release another sigh, heavier this time, my shoulders slumping under the weight of the task ahead.

“Would it kill them to organize by month instead of throwing everything together like a tornado hit?” I grumble under my breath as I pull open the first drawer.

Well, here goes nothing.

I flip through dozens of case files, waving away clouds of dust as I scan the names on each folder. Outside, the sun dips lower, and eventually I have to stop to roll out my neck and back, then switch on the overhead lights just to see properly.

My stomach growls ferociously, as it has for the past four hours, but something keeps me glued to this spot. Deep in my gut, a nagging feeling warns me that if this file is indeed here and I take even a short break to go eat or pee, it will mysteriously vanish before I return.

Paranoid? Absolutely. But I’ve learned never to ignore my intuition.

I roll my neck again and reach for the final drawer in the column. Finally . One more. Just one more, and then I’ll?—

The door opens.

Standing in the doorway is Greg. My heart performs a frantic little tap dance, but I maintain my composure, meeting my boss’s steely gaze head-on. I haven’t broken any rules.

No agent is barred from going through these records. In fact, we’re encouraged to study them. Because criminals tend to follow the same patterns, reviewing old cases and seeing how they were solved is believed to help us crack our own.

“Greg. Hi, I–”

“Come with me.” His voice cuts clean through mine, and he turns, already expecting me to follow.

I give the drawer one last longing glance and shut it with a sigh. Looks like I won’t be reading that file after all. Unless I ask Stacey.

The thought relaxes me. After I deal with whatever Greg wants, I’ll reach out to my mentor before she leaves New York.

She’ll no doubt understand why I want to see the old files and grant me her permission—not that I should need special permission.

But I do need her login if the online route is my only option.

Greg and I walk in tense silence through the long, narrow hallways, past the low cubicles, and into another hallway—the one leading to his office. He opens his door and waves me in ahead of him.

That’s new. Greg isn’t exactly known for his manners.

I step in—and stop.

Sitting at his desk like she owns it is Stacey Rodrigues. The new director of the agency. My mentor. Family .

My face lights up once the initial shock fades, and I stride over quickly.

“Stacey! I mean, Madam Director,” I hastily correct myself, glancing furtively behind me, but Greg has closed the door and apparently decided to stay outside. Oh . Weird, but whatever.

I push away the prickle of unease and rush around Greg’s pretentious desk to lean down and hug the woman I’ve come to see as a mother figure. “How was your meeting with the governor, Miss Hotshot?” I tease.

She smiles faintly, running a hand through her immaculately pulled-back hair, still pitch black. I know she has salon appointments every Saturday to keep it that way—she insists she’s not ready for grey hair.

The dark hair gives her a youthful appearance, but subtle signs of age show in the crinkles around her eyes, the little dips in her forehead when she frowns, and the soft brackets at the corners of her mouth. None of it detracts from her beauty, and her brown eyes are as sharp as ever .

They’re scrutinizing me now. “It was fine. Why don’t you have a seat?” She nods towards the chairs across from her.

I frown but make my way over and sit down. I guess this must be a formal meeting then, because she never cares where I’m standing or sitting during our conversations. Unless she’s about to break news of a new mission. “What’s up?” I ask, crossing one leg over the other.

“You’ve been trying to dig into your father’s old case, and into Alfonso Moretti’s. Why?”

I blink, caught off guard. That… was not what I expected.

I was going to bring it up eventually, but I’m nowhere near ready right now.

“I–I just want to read everything again. To clear up some of my confusion,” I say carefully. “And I need to refuel my anger. You know—against Rafael. And everything he stands for.” Not a total lie.

She studies me for a long moment before giving a slow, regal nod. “I suspected you might go a little soft for him when you saw him again. First loves have a way of doing that.”

Relief washes over me. She believes me then?

“I understand your motive,” she continues, keeping her gaze locked on mine, unwavering and intense. “But I want you to stop digging into it. You are going to stop.”

What?

My mouth falls open, and for a moment, I can’t form words. This is Stacey—my mentor, the woman who’s supported every crazy idea I’ve ever had. And she’s ordering me to stop looking for the truth?