Page 41 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

There’s a crack in his armor. Maybe there’s hope after all.

“I–I’m not going to do it. But I figured I owe you one… for the mess I caused last year. I know it’s not enough, but I am sorry about that. I would never have hurt Elira.”

His expression turns back to stone, and he gets to his feet with muscles coiled tight with angry tension.

“You would never have hurt her? But you fucking rigged the vehicle she was in to explode when she escaped from your clutches, then fucking fired bullets at me and my men with her caught in the crossfire.”

My jaw drops. “What? No, I didn’t .”

That’s not what happened. That’s not what happened at all.

“Don’t fucking stand there and lie to my face, Emily. You’re defenseless here, and Rafael isn’t around to stop me from hurting you.”

Despite the frigid atmosphere in the restaurant and the very real threat in his voice, I risk a step closer to him, my heart pounding as my mind races through that night.

“Why would I lie to you now? What would be the point? When Elira escaped, I was impressed with her quick thinking and hotwiring skills, but I didn't chase after her because I got intel from a friend I had watching you that you were almost at that airstrip. I couldn’t risk running into you and facing your wrath. That’s the goddamn truth. ”

“Somebody rigged that car to explode just as Elira got out, and shot at us during the chaos,” he says slowly, enunciating each word. “If it wasn’t you, then who the hell was it?”

I stare up at him, my heart hammering in my throat. Did someone set me up—frame me just so the Nightshades would hate me? No way. No fucking way.

“It doesn’t matter who the real culprit was anyway.

You put her in danger in the first place,” Maximo continues caustically, but his coldness can’t penetrate the numbness spreading through my system.

I’m already frozen to the bone by the possibility that someone has been manipulating me and the guys, orchestrating conflicts to keep us at each other’s throats.

Twisting everything. My father’s death. So many things.

And the more I think about it, the more it seems that someone might be Stacey. And I fucking hate that. Was any decision I’ve made ever fully mine? Did I even want to join the bureau… or did I join because that was the life she offered me? How deep does this manipulation go?

This is the absolute worst place to be having an existential crisis, Em.

Get out. Get out now before you completely fall apart.

Without another word, I spin around and leave the restaurant, quickly jogging to my bike. The snow has stopped, but the temperature has dropped even further. I should be shivering, but I’m too numb to feel much of anything.

My phone buzzes as I straddle my bike, and I absentmindedly fumble for it with hands that are definitely shaking now. Katie’s name flashes on the screen.

Shit, our shopping plans.

I clear my throat and try to sound normal as I answer. “Hey.”

“Hey, are you okay? Your time is up, and I know you hate being late without at least giving people a heads-up, so I’m just checking in.” Her voice carries genuine concern, and some of the ice around my heart starts to thaw.

At least there’s still one person in my life I have a pure, uncomplicated relationship with.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I clear my throat again because it’s starting to tighten with emotion. I’m not fine at all . I don’t know what to believe anymore. My entire life feels like an elaborate lie. “Does your offer to go shopping still stand? Some retail therapy sounds perfect right about now.”

Katie pauses. “Of course it does. Get your ass back here and we’ll go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Katie and I spend the rest of the day hopping from one store to another, engaging in the time-honored tradition of window shopping.

Yes, retail therapy is genuinely therapeutic, but we still need to be sensible with our spending—there are rent and bills and all the other joys of adult responsibility to consider.

Ah, the glamorous life of a federal agent.

We go into the stores, try on some clothes and jewelry, then turn our noses up at the prices and walk out to try the next place. It’s ridiculous and fun and exactly what I need to get my mind away from my problems for a few hours.

But as we leave the mall, each holding a small gift bag, everything comes crashing back down on me. The air is light and we’re both relaxed—well she is still relaxed.

Should I ask her about last year?

She might have insight into what really happened. She was the one watching Maximo, the one who let me know his location—which was why I didn’t go after Elira. Could she have shared that information with someone else?

Impossible, right? Katie’s the one person I trust completely.

“Katie, I–” My phone chirps with an incoming text, cutting off whatever I was about to say. I pull it out as we walk towards the parking lot, frowning when I see the message is from a blocked number.

It’s an image. Of me. Entering Mughetto , Maximo’s restaurant in Queens a few hours ago.

Another text comes in immediately:

Traitor. Snitches get stitches.

I freeze, blinking at the messages as a mixture of disbelief and confusion rushes through me. What the hell?

“What is it?”

I glance up at Katie just in time to see three masked men in black emerge from the shadows behind her, sprinting towards us. “Watch out!” we both yell at the same time, reaching for each other in a moment of pure instinct.

My heart thuds anxiously as I spin around, and sure enough, three more masked men are charging behind me as well. One of them swings a gun in my direction, and I barely duck in time.

The men surround us, and my heart hammers erratically now.

We’re outnumbered. Six to two. And these are heavy-set men. From their stance and movements, I can tell they’re well-trained professionals.

Fuck.

Who the hell are they? Who sent me that text?

There’s no time for analysis. No time for fear.

The six of them close in like a pack of wolves, fists flying. Katie ducks low, dodging the first wave of hits, but I’m not quick enough. A heavy fist slams into my gut, catching my ribs, and I lose my breath in a rush as I stumble backwards, pain exploding through my torso.

The agony is excruciating, but there’s no time to focus on it because more punches are already coming.

Move, Em. Move or die.

My training and survival instincts finally kick in, and I twist away sharply, weaving and bobbing. Some blows still land. I can’t dodge them all. Not at this range, not with this many attackers.

But I’ll be damned if I go down without a fight .

I lash out with everything I have, driving my elbow hard into the face of the nearest attacker.

There’s a satisfying crunch as it connects—he grunts, stumbling back with his hands flying to his nose.

But before I can capitalize on the opening, another man charges in.

As I block his swing, something sharp connects with the back of my skull, sending white-hot pain exploding through my head.

Disoriented, I spin around—just in time to take a fist to the throat. The blow knocks the air from my lungs. I double over, gasping, only to feel a vicious kick slam into my tailbone that sends me sprawling.

The pavement is rough, cold, and slippery under my palms, and I can’t catch myself in time—I hit the floor face-first.

The familiar metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as my teeth slice into my inner lip. Then another brutal kick hammers into my side, and I wheeze as I curl into a protective ball. Next to me, Katie hits the floor with a pained grunt.

The fight is over. We’ve lost.

This is where they finish the job.

But instead… they back off.

I blink up at them through a haze of pain and confusion, my breaths coming in ragged gasps.

Why aren’t they finishing this?

One of them steps forward—the leader, I assume. He draws a gun from the small of his back and crouches in front of me, waving it casually. “I could finish you off right now.” His voice is deep, unrecognizable, and laced with pure malice.

Fuck this. I’m not going out cowering on the floor.

Desperation and rage fuel my next move. I lunge forward and slam my forehead into his with every ounce of strength I have left, simultaneously wrestling the gun from his grip as he stumbles back, caught off guard.

My whole body screams in protest, my insides shaking as I force myself into a sitting position and raise the pistol at him .

The weight of the gun is warm and familiar in my grip— too familiar.

And then I realize why. It’s identical to mine—the one I left in Katie’s car to avoid the metal detectors in the mall. It's an FBI standard-issue sidearm.

They’re federal agents. Just like me.

The shock stuns me long enough that I let the victory of the moment slip away. The leader slaps me across the face and snatches his gun back. My face whips to the side, and more blood fills my mouth. I spit it out before turning back to glare at him.

He’s pissed off now. Maybe I shouldn’t have provoked him. He raises the gun—this time aiming it right at my head—but before he can pull the trigger, the other men surround him, and one of them yanks it from his hand. He lets out an angry growl and storms away.

The remaining five men stare down at Katie and me with what almost looks like hesitation. One of them leans closer and whispers just loud enough for us to hear: “Be careful.”

Then, to my complete amazement, they walk away to catch up with their leader, leaving us alone and bleeding in the parking lot.

I collapse back onto the cold pavement, groaning. Everything hurts. Every breath feels like fire. Katie moans somewhere behind me, and it hits me—we’re both still breathing despite the odds.

We’re alive. Battered and broken, but alive. For now.

“We–we can’t go back home or to the agency, can we?” Katie’s voice is breathy and strained, and I realize she saw the FBI-issued weapon as well.

Then it all crashes into me like a tidal wave.

What the actual fuck? Someone in the bureau wants us dead? Or at least beaten into submission. That text I got right before the ambush— Snitches get stitches. Was this because I went to see Maximo? How did they know so quickly?

Katie was right all along. Someone in the bureau is keeping their eye on me. But who?

Maybe it’s the pain talking, or maybe it’s the blood still ringing in my ears, but while lying here on the frozen ground, tasting my own blood, I finally understand something that should have been obvious from the beginning: in this battle between right and wrong, between the law and criminals, nothing is as black and white as I’d first believed.

And I might need to choose a side.

Not might. I need to choose a side. And stick to it. Completely.

No more holding back with Rafael, Maximo, Michael, or Romero. No more trying to balance loyalty to the agency with my own sense of right and wrong. It’s one or the other. I can’t have both.

Even as the thought breaks my heart, I know the choice is already made. I’ve already picked the side I’m sticking on. The side I should have been on all along.

Dim headlights suddenly brighten the lot behind me. The sound of a car door being wrenched open and slammed fills the air, followed by hurried footsteps.

Are they back to finish us?

I turn my head towards the sound with what little strength I have left, bracing for round two.

Then a familiar shadow detaches itself from the darkness, and hope flares in my chest.

Rafael .