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

RAFAEL

Everyone has a first love. Even hardened criminals like me.

Emilia Azalea Rossi was mine.

For as long as I could remember, I only wanted one thing: to make her mine in front of the whole world. To have her as my wife and queen.

She was my everything.

Until she betrayed me. Then she became nothing.

Or at least that’s what I project to my brothers—pretending like she’s become nothing to me, to us. But I know better than to lie to myself. Despite her damning deeds, she’s still got me fucking twisted on the inside.

She’s like an addiction I can’t quite rid myself of. An obsession. Or something even more lethal. The kind of poison a man willingly drinks knowing it will kill him, but he can’t resist the sweet taste on his lips.

I keep my face deliberately blank as I watch the taillights of her car blend into the late evening Manhattan traffic, all too aware of my men’s eyes on me.

What the fuck is her deal?

She always seems so angry whenever our paths cross, which is fucking ironic. She’s the one who betrayed me, not the other way around.

Funny, though—she wasn’t so angry last year when I had my tongue down her throat.

My phone vibrates in my breast pocket, snapping me out of that dangerous train of thought before I can tumble headfirst into the rabbit hole of remembering the sweet, drugging taste of her mouth.

I turn my back to the traffic as I take out my phone, confident that anyone stupid enough to try and take me out on my turf will be swiftly dealt with by my men.

“Maximo, talk to me,” I say, grateful for the distraction.

My brothers had just arrived at my penthouse with their lovely wives, ready to kick off Thanksgiving, when we got the call about a fucking raid on our establishments. That killed the festive mood real fast. We didn’t waste time—we all left immediately to go check on our various businesses.

“You know we never leave damning evidence long enough to be found. The FBI came up empty in my office. Nothing on Romero’s and Michael’s ends either. We're clear.”

“For now,” I add. “Keep sharp and be careful who you trust.”

“Of course.” He pauses for a beat. “Was Emilia really behind this whole farce?” His tone is unreadable, but I have no doubt he’s pissed as hell.

He’s been angry with Emilia ever since last year. Not for shooting at him at the airport, no, not that. He’s angry she tried to go after his wife. That’s a line no one crosses.

I rub a hand over my face, torn between wanting to defend her—because I’m always trying to fucking defend the little traitor—and just spitting out the truth.

I opt for the latter. “She’s getting orders from someone higher up for sure, but yeah, she was here.

” My jaw clenches at the memory. Then I exhale heavily.

“Listen, I think it goes without saying at this point that dinner is over. Go get your wife at my apartment and take her home. I’ll text Michael to do the same. ”

“Actually, we’re on our way to your penthouse already.”

Of course they are. Maximo and Michael are so protective of their wives, it’s no surprise they’re already racing to them like knights on white horses. The kind of devotion I once wanted to give Emilia before she scorched that dream to ash…

“Good. I have some things to sort out here first. We’ll talk later.” I hang up before he can ask any more questions. I’m in no mood to answer.

Instead, I walk up to the entrance of Inferno, silently scowling at the empty space that’s usually bustling with patrons eager to get inside.

Fucking Emilia. I twist my watch on my wrist in irritation.

I’m not worried about how this will affect business. Tomorrow night, it’ll be like this shitshow never happened—I’ll make sure of it. What pisses me off is that it happened at all. Yet another red mark to go against Emilia.

Another event to add to the piling list of her goddamn misdeeds. The pressure pot is whistling, and soon it will pop. There’s a fucking limit, Emilia.

I know it won’t be long until she finally pushes me to the point where I’m convinced she’s beyond redemption. And when that happens, all hell will break loose.

“The clubbers were escorted out of the premises as soon as the agents arrived,” Vansh says as he steps up to me. I give him a blank stare. Why the fuck is he telling me something so obvious? Before I can quietly rip into him, Enzo waves him off.

“What are you thinking, Rafael?” Enzo asks, his voice calm but wary. He’s been by my side long enough to read my dark moods.

“I’m thinking someone needs to fucking pay for this.”

My jaw tightens as I step over a shard of glass, the crunch beneath my shoes reminding me of just how far this has gone .

Has everyone lost their minds? Have they forgotten who I am? What I’m capable of?

I stalk through the mess the feds turned my club into. My men are already working to clean it up, but it still reeks of disrespect.

Each step towards the stairs only fuels the rage bubbling in my gut. Enzo trails behind me without a word, smart enough to let the silence speak for itself.

Once we’re upstairs, I push into my office. One look at the chaos inside—the drawers yanked open, the files scattered, the chairs overturned—and I finally snap. “I want to fucking kill Emilia.”

“About goddamn time,” he murmurs under his breath, loud enough for me to hear. I level a glare at him, and he quickly raises his hands. “You’ve been too easy on her, is what I’m saying. You’re Rafael fucking Moretti, the man every man fears, and you’ve let that girl get away with so much.”

My hands form fists by my sides, but I hold my tongue, waiting to hear the rest. Clearly, he’s been dying to get this off his chest.

“I get that you two have a deep, intense history, but you can’t keep letting it fuck with your head.

Giovanni didn’t get the chance to pull half the shit she’s pulled before he lost his life to you.

And yet you let her reel you in every damn time.

She’s got you by the balls, man—you go soft for her. ”

I whirl on him, wrapping my hand around his throat with a growl. “Do I fucking look soft to you?” My thumb jams into his Adam's apple, and he gags, his eyes watering as he fights to breathe.

“You’re like a tiger whose claws have been shaved off when it comes to her,” he chokes out, because of course the bastard can’t shut up.

My jaw clenches so tight I taste blood—but even that sharp tang doesn’t cool my rage. Not loosening my grip, I slam his back against the nearest wall. “The fuck did you just say to me?”

His face is turning purple from lack of oxygen, but he doesn’t even try to fight me off. Doesn’t beg. Just tilts his neck higher into my grip, looking as defiant as a choking man can with bloodshot eyes and tears streaming down his cheeks.

The office door creaks open, and I twist my glare on the idiot peeking in. He lets out a squeak that sounds like a dying rabbit, then slams the door shut so fast it rattles the frame.

I turn back to Enzo, sneering. “Oh, don’t hold back now, fratello . You were feeling real bold a minute ago. What—cat got your tongue?”

Still nothing.

“That’s what I fucking thought.” I release him with disgust, and he crumbles to the floor, coughing and gasping as he tries to gulp in air as fast as he can.

“Just–just be careful,” the asshole rasps between breaths, rubbing his throat. “I’ve noticed because I’m so close to you. Take care that others don’t see your weakness.”

Weakness ? “Rafael Moretti has no fucking weakness,” I snarl at him, even as her face flashes in my mind—those honeyed eyes, that sharp mouth. Fuck me , he’s right. I do have a weakness. “Get the hell out of my office.” I round my desk, ignoring the mess the agents left on it.

How the fuck did they even gain access to my office? It’s fucking high-tech, secured better than some government facilities.

As I sink into my seat, Enzo pushes himself off the floor, rolling his neck with a wince as he heads for the door—though not before throwing one last glance my way.

Damn him. I’m no clawless tiger.

I tap my finger on an innocuous panel in the center of my desk. A flash of green light signals my print approval, and the panel slides to the right, exposing the little hiding spot there. With another flick of my finger, a small platform rises from the hollow space, bringing my laptop with it.

Just as I boot it up, my phone starts ringing. It’s Michael.

“Are you and Gianna safely home now?” I ask, skipping pleasantries. Gianna and I didn’t exactly start off on the right foot, but now she’s carrying precious cargo—Michael’s babies and heirs. The first children in the family.

“Yes, she’s fine,” he replies absently, the clacking of his keyboard faint in the background. “I have Maximo and Romero on the line too. You’ll all want to hear this.”

“Take us out of our misery already, Michael. What did you find?” Romero’s gruff voice cuts in.

“Andrew Hoovers died two days ago, and an acting director has already been appointed. A Stacey Rodrigues took over in the early hours of this morning. It was all kept under wraps, so I couldn’t find out until tonight.”

Andrew Hoovers is dead? What the fuck? The man was vibrant, in his prime—only 42. Just got appointed director of the FBI two weeks ago after the last one retired. And now he’s gone?

Something doesn’t add up.

“This might be the shortest stint as director the FBI has seen.” Maximo snorts.

No love lost there. The agency’s always been a pain in the ass, even though we’ve maintained a quiet understanding with them over the years.

They look the other way when we do our thing, and in return, we slip them intel on some of the notorious criminals on their most wanted list. Nobody important, just those that hurt the most vulnerable. Scum that deserve to die behind bars.

“Do we know how he died?” Romero asks the question rattling in my head. No way this was natural.