Page 29 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

EMILIA

“What?” I ask when I’m finally able to think past my shock. “Why? I’d think you’d want me to go through it thoroughly so I don’t get complacent in my quest for revenge and?—”

“You won’t.” She cuts me off like I’m some junior agent wasting her time.

“I’m also taking you off Jason Moore’s case, since you’ve made no meaningful progress on that.

Same with the illicit medication supply chain.

Since Katie was with you on both cases, I’m handing them over to her to handle on her own. ”

My jaw drops. I launch from my chair, my palm smacking the desk in indignation. “What!? You can’t do that! Those are my cases, and I’m working my ass off to–”

“I can, and I will, Emily,” she says ruthlessly, cutting me off again.

My chest heaves with emotion as I stare at her, searching for even a flicker of recognition—something.

But there’s nothing. No affection, no familiarity in her expression as she continues, “You’ve worked hard these past few years.

But you’re thirty now. Maybe it’s time to leave the fieldwork to the younger agents and take up a desk job. You can choose any office you like. ”

No fucking way.

Swallowing the curses crowding my throat is hard, but I force myself to do so. Going off on her won’t make her change her mind. I inhale deeply, keeping my voice even as I point out the obvious. “Katie is the same age as me.”

If this is about age, that argument is not going to fly. I won’t let it. “And you stayed in the field until you were forty-five,” I add, hoping she’ll hear her own hypocrisy.

“You haven’t been producing the output you should,” she fires back. “You failed to deliver Jason. And now, instead of focusing on your active cases like you should be, you’re wasting time digging into an old one. You’re distracted—and distracted agents have no place in the field.”

So that’s what this is about. Not my age. Not my lack of output. But digging into my dad’s old case.

I take in another deep breath, not wanting to let my anger show.

“It’s only been a few days; I will deliver Jason.

And I’ve already made significant headway in the medication case.

I know it’s Rafael and the Nightshades behind it.

I just need to find undeniable evidence and compile it with their existing charges. ”

Stacey watches me, eyes calculating, searching for cracks in my armor. Finally, she nods. “Good. Then you’re going to stop digging into the past. Focus on the cases you have, or risk getting removed from them.”

I give a sharp nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

Only then does she smile and wave for me to sit back down. “Now tell me, how have you been enjoying winter in Manhattan? Is it my old bones, or is the cold especially brutal this year?”

She’s trying to reset, to smooth over what just happened with small talk about the weather. But there’s no smoothing this over. Not for me.

I answer—I have no idea even what I’m saying, but words come out of my mouth. She asks about my apartment, my workload, my health. I respond on autopilot while my mind races at light speed.

Why does she not want me digging? What doesn’t she want me to find?

She must not know me at all if she thinks threatening me will make me back off.

Coming down so hard on me was exactly the worst possible approach.

Now I’m not just curious—I’m ravenous to uncover whatever secrets are buried in my father’s case file.

And I’m fucking going to find out every single thing.

I’ll just be smarter about it this time. Keep my digging away from the bureau.

After ten minutes of hollow small talk, Stacey finally lets me go, claiming exhaustion.

My stomach chooses that moment to let out a growl so loud it could wake the dead, reminding me I haven’t eaten all day.

I mumble my goodbyes and escape Greg’s office, feeling like I’ve just survived an interrogation.

The first thing I do is hit the nearest fast food joint and order something greasy and caloric. I don’t even taste it as I shovel it mechanically into my mouth, my eyes glazed over, seeing not the food in front of me but connections, patterns, secrets….

When I’m done, I take a cab home, but I don’t go inside. I can’t. I’m too wired. Too restless. My brain feels like it’s been plugged into an electrical socket.

I put on my helmet, straddle my bike, and fire her up. The engine roars to life beneath me, but even that doesn’t thrill me like it usually does.

I hit the road with no destination in mind, just needing speed and wind and the rush of adrenaline that comes with controlled danger.

I feel like my world is caving in. Maybe that’s dramatic, but Stacey’s reaction keeps replaying in my head like a warning bell.

She doesn’t want me looking into the past. Why?

What doesn’t she want me to find? What if there were foul plays?

What if Stacey knows more than she’s letting on?

What if everything I’ve believed about my father’s death has been a carefully constructed lie?

I’m not sure how long I ride—could be minutes, hours. But gradually, I become aware that I’m slowing down, that the road is coming to an end, and my spine stiffens at the sight of the big building looming in front of me. I park but keep the engine running as I stare at it.

An innocuous supermarket that looks like any other to most eyes, but to me it’s a vault of memories, emotions, scars…

Why the hell did I come here?

My breath comes out in an icy gust as I look up at the glistening board at the top. A fancy, curvy capital letter A, followed by the rest of the letters in elegant cursive: Azalea’s.

A supermarket. An important landmark in Little Italy. Named after me .

I finally kill the engine and kick down the brake stand.

Each step towards the store feels like I’m walking through molasses.

The closer I get, the heavier the memories sit on my chest. When I reach the door, I already know what I’m going to find—it’s locked, of course.

I sigh as I pull out the scanning device I always keep on me.

I hate being on the wrong side of locks—a hate I picked up from Katie’s phobia.

She’s been trapped behind way too many locked doors in her life.

Flicking on the blue light, I run it over the keypad. Four digits glow brighter than the rest, smudged from overuse. Clearly the most-pressed numbers.

Now I just have to figure out the correct sequence.

I frown as the numbers swirl in my head, my brain arranging and rearranging them over and over into different combinations. On pure instinct, I punch in a sequence that feels right—and by some miracle, I get it right on the first try.

“ Yes .” For a moment, I forget where I am and what I’m doing, pumping my fist in triumph like I’ve just won the lottery instead of breaking into a supermarket linked to my darkest memories.

A shudder of pleasure runs through me as I step inside, instantly wrapped in the lingering warmth from the heater that was no doubt on all day.

Pocketing my scanner, I inch forward slowly, my eyes immediately sweeping over the huge open space broken only by rows and rows of shelves and dangling signboards.

My gaze finds the security cameras mounted in their usual spots, high on the walls, quietly recording.

Whatever. By the time they check the feed in the morning, I’ll be long gone. Still, I keep my head down, angling myself just right so that even if someone does review it, they won’t get a clear look at my face in the dim lighting.

I stand motionless inside the entrance, glancing around the store, trying to recall the events of that night fifteen years ago—the night I like to think of as the catalyst. But the building now is nothing like it was then.

In my dreams, it plays out so vividly, like it just happened. But standing here now, the only memory that comes clearly is ten years ago. When Rafael brought me back to show what he turned my trauma ground into.

The layout is almost identical to how it was then.

The checkout counter is still to the right of the door, and a big Christmas tree stands next to it, though unlit.

And there, in exactly the same place as before, a dark mistletoe dangles from the aisle sign, the only difference being the words on the sign.

A powerful wave of déjà vu washes over me, so intense it’s almost dizzying. For one wild, irrational moment, I half expect Rafael to materialize from one of the aisles, scaring the hell out of me like he did back then.

Ridiculous, of course. He has absolutely no reason to be here. My brain knows this, but my thundering heart refuses to be convinced .

My lips tingle as I walk underneath the mistletoe, remembering the hot kiss we shared in this exact spot.

The kiss that led to the most mind-blowing oral experience of my life.

I’ve been with other people—two before Rafael, and one after—but none of them, not even combined, could hold a candle to what he did to me that night.

My nipples tighten, beading as phantom sensations ghost across my skin.

I can almost feel his mouth on them, his hands mapping every inch of my body.

I shake my head and walk faster, moving aimlessly through the aisles, forcing myself to focus on items on the shelves—cereal boxes, canned goods, household cleaners—anything to distract myself from the way my body is responding to mere memories.

Fucking Rafael. Even when he’s not here, he can still unravel me.

He did keep his promise from that night, though—to help replace those awful memories with something sweeter. And for a brief, blissful time afterwards, the nightmares stopped tormenting me.

I’m near the back of the supermarket when my spine prickles with sudden awareness. I’m not alone. Pure instinct sends my hand to my concealed weapon just as dim lights flicker on overhead, bathing the entire store in a faint yellowish glow.

I move carefully, keeping my steps feather-light as I weave through the aisles, trying to spot the intruder before they spot me, my fingers never leaving my holster.

There —a very tall shadow lurking near the condiment aisle.

I duck behind the spice rack and carefully peek over. The figure is tall, unmistakably male, with broad shoulders and short-cropped hair. He’s wearing a fitted black suit that hugs his lean frame like a second skin. And the way he moves… it’s familiar, so familiar.

Then he turns his head towards my hiding spot, and even though a black mask covers the lower half of his face, recognition slams into me. Rafael.

There’s no mistaking that lithe figure. Those arresting eyes that glint even from this distance.

He tilts his head the slightest bit, looking down at me like he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Since you’re here, piccola, I assume you now realize how wrong you’ve been?

How could I dedicate this place to you, to rid you of your nightmares, only to create more for you?

” His voice is quiet, but every word hits hard, tugging at the strings of my already racing heart.

My hand drops away from my holster, and I step out from behind the shelf. “What are you doing here?”