Page 32 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

RAFAEL

“Tell me you’ve found something,” I say to Enzo when he walks into my office a week later.

I’ve been riding his ass relentlessly about digging deeper into the events leading to Tomassi Rossi’s death—both the real one ten years ago and that elaborate fake bullshit that preceded it. Each passing day without answers feels like another knife twisting in my gut.

The way I see it, the only thing standing between Emilia and me is the lie that I killed her father. If I can get concrete proof that it wasn’t me, surely things will change between us?

There’s also the matter of her betrayal. I shove that small niggling thought aside.

We can talk about that later when things have been sorted between us. That might just be the lust talking.

Hell, who am I kidding? It is the lust talking.

It’s been exactly seven days since our encounter at my supermarket in Little Italy—technically, it’s hers since the deed is in her name, but she doesn’t know that yet.

When I went to delete the security footage afterwards, I couldn’t stand the thought of our moment together being erased forever. So I saved it to my phone before wiping it from the store’s database.

Fucking mistake.

I’ve watched it more times than I care to admit. And despite my resolve not to, I’ve cum with her name on my tongue several times this past week. The sound of her moans echoing in my ears even when the video is silent. The memory of her taste still lingering on my tongue…

“I haven’t,” Enzo grimaces, his face tight with tension. “But I do have some news you might be pleased with.”

“Out with it then.” I wave an impatient hand, already feeling the familiar spike of irritation.

“We just got a delivery of high-quality Scotch from the councilor, and the delivery man has some interesting information for you.” He steps back to open the door.

A man dressed in a delivery uniform shuffles in, furtively glancing around, shoulders hunched as if expecting a bullet between them at any moment. Then he looks up.

It’s Jason Moore himself.

I frown as I silently dismiss Enzo. “What’s with the subterfuge?” I ask once the door closes behind him.

Jason clears his throat. “I think the pakhan has his men watching me. I couldn’t risk him finding out I came to see you directly after our phone call. And I didn’t want to call because who knows who might be listening in?”

I watch him settle into the chair across from my desk, his movements jerky with nerves. “What you’re doing is toying with my life, Rafael. I don’t like it, and I won’t forgive you if I die.”

“You’d be dead,” I point out. “Not much use for your forgiveness then.”

He glares at me, anger momentarily overcoming his fear, but then he seems to remember exactly who he’s glaring at and the anger drains from his face. “I got a call from Sergey this morning. He wants to meet with me.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. I tap my fingers on my desk. “That’s a good development. When?”

“It’s only a good development if I don’t end up dead .” Jason’s voice cracks, sweat beading on his forehead. “He’s going to grill me, Rafael. I just know it. I don’t like this. Isn’t there another way we can handle this without using me as bait?”

“When?” I repeat impatiently.

“Tonight.” Jason sighs. “He wants me to come to Long Island as a ‘gesture of goodwill’. Promises to host me in one of his best restaurants. That can’t be good, right? What if it’s a trap?”

“Sergey isn’t smart enough to think that far ahead. He’s arrogant enough to believe his reputation will keep people in line. If he wants you to meet him on his turf, then he’s making a power play. Trying to remind you who’s got the bigger dick. What did you tell him?”

“I said I’ll check my schedule and get back to him. I wasn’t sure what you’d want me to do. That’s why I’m here.”

“Good. You made the right decision. When you get back home, you’re going to call him back and say no.”

“Are you crazy?” Jason gapes at me.

“You’ll tell him your schedule doesn’t permit you tonight,” I continue, ignoring his outburst. “You can, however, make it tomorrow night. But you want a neutral spot—Long Island is obviously his powerhouse, and you’re not comfortable with that.

” I lean forward. “You’ll suggest meeting at Westhampton Island instead.

” An island so small it’s relatively free from crime and the clutches of the Cosa Nostra, Bratva, and other outfits.

It’s the only neutral ground in New York.

The perfect chessboard for my next move.

Jason considers my words for a moment. “And if he says no? ”

“Remind him that he’s asking you to betray me. The least he can do is agree to meet on neutral ground—unless he was planning a trap for you on his turf. And to show good faith, let him pick the restaurant. As long as it’s in Southampton.” That should tie his hands nicely.

“That’s… actually really fucking smart.”

I give him a flat look. Or you’re actually really fucking stupid . I don’t say it out loud, but he must catch the direction my thought is going because he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, then gets up.

“Sounds like a solid plan. How do I let you know I’m leaving the house?” he asks.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll know.” I have my men watching him. They’ll report to me when he leaves.

I open my desk drawer, take out a pen, and hand it to him. Recognition flashes in his gaze, and he eyes it warily.

“Tap the side of the ball point here to start recording,” I explain, then take out a pair of glasses with an audio transmitter embedded inside.

I examine them for a moment before handing them over as well.

“Put these on before you leave your house. They’ll let me listen in on your conversation with Sergey in real time. ”

“He’s going to have his men pat me down for bugs, Rafael. Isn’t this risky?” Jason reluctantly accepts the glasses, inspecting them critically.

“It’s just a pen and your eyeglasses. Nothing suspicious about that. I doubt Sergey or his men will give them a second thought.”

He swallows and pockets the items.

“Once you know which restaurant Sergey picks, send one of your guards to the coffee shop at the corner near your house and have him ask for Tim. Tell Tim the restaurant name, and I’ll know where you’re meeting.”

I’ll know and plan ahead .

Jason nods, and I lean back in my seat, waving him off. The councilor leaves the same way he came in—quietly.

“Welcome to Maison Lumière, sir. Do you have a reservation?” The host greets us with a warm smile as Enzo and I walk into the beachfront restaurant.

Enzo steps forward. “Yes. Under River Dale.”

The host’s demeanor instantly shifts, his spine straightening like someone stuck a rod up his ass. “Oh, yes, of course. Follow me, sir.”

As arranged—after we made our generous ‘donation’ to the restaurant and secured our reservation last night—the host leads us through the back halls meant only for staff. I didn’t want to walk through the main restaurant and risk being seen by either Jason or Sergey before I want them to see me.

I’m an hour early, but still. I’m nothing if not meticulous.

He leads us to the second floor—the VIP section, which has a similar design to my club’s private lounge.

The dining area is medium-sized, built to host at least a dozen guests, with a massive window overlooking the entire ground floor.

I notice the obvious handle immediately.

Amateurs. I would have made the window mechanism discreet.

Just like I suspected, Sergey reserved the entire restaurant for his meeting with Jason. But thanks to my large ‘donation’, they made an exception and pointed me to this private lounge.

“The glass can be turned opaque, if you like,” the host explains, moving to a button beside the window. “That means you can see everything downstairs, but no one can see in.” He demonstrates, and the view darkens slightly as a shade covers the glass.

“That’s fine. Leave it like that,” I tell him, and he nods in response .

“Your waitress will be with you shortly,” he says as he starts to leave.

Sure enough, within five minutes after he’s departed, a woman in a waiter’s uniform steps in, holding a notepad and pen. “Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Tina, and I’ll be your server for tonight. Are you ready to order?”

I glance at the menu without really seeing it. “Just the house special starter for now. Enzo?”

“Same for me.”

Tina hesitates, then nods. “Alright, I’ll be right back.”

“She’s pretty,” Enzo comments when she’s gone.

“You can try your luck with her then,” I answer absently as I get to my feet and look around the empty ground floor, making sure I can see every vantage point from here. Perfect positioning.

“I wasn’t talking about me, damn it. I meant for you. She’s definitely your type.”

I raise a brow as I turn towards him. “I don’t have a type.” Besides, I barely remember what the girl looks like—just that she’s a woman and she has eyes.

Enzo shakes his head, but before he can say anything, a group of men walk through the front entrance. One of the staff tries to intercept them, but they push her aside and sweep in like they own the place.

Sergey’s men.

“We have company,” I tell Enzo, reminding him why we’re here. But he’s already seen them and moved to join me at the window.

Our host walks up to them, hands moving as frantically as his mouth.

One man steps forward—Viktor. I recognize him from Jason’s office the night of the ballet performance. He says something to the host, who listens for a few seconds before his shoulders slump and he steps aside, defeated .

Viktor signals the men behind him, and they begin a theatrical sweep of the restaurant, flipping tablecloths, checking under tables, inspecting the cutlery.

“How sloppy,” Enzo comments, and my lips tilt up slightly. It’s a security check, but they’re doing such a showy, half-assed job it’s a wonder Sergey hasn’t lost his life yet. Then again, he rarely leaves the relative safety of Long Island. The coward.