Page 45 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

RAFAEL

“Thank you for this.”

The hint of a smile in Emilia’s voice makes me snap my attention away from the sidewalk, where I’ve been cataloging every shadow, every potential threat, to her face as we pull up in front of Gianna’s hospital.

She is smiling. Actually fucking smiling. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, it’s directed at me. Me. The smile is for me.

Suddenly, giving in to her ridiculous demand to see her friend feels like the smartest decision I’ve made all week. My mind is already racing, calculating what other concessions I can make to earn another one of those rare, precious smiles.

“Remember, we can’t stay too long,” I remind her, twisting my wrist to check the time.

My meeting with the made men in my city is in less than an hour.

Officially, they want to update my brothers and me about their territories, but I know what they really want to do is to scrutinize my upcoming nuptials.

Emilia nods as Alfred kills the engine.

Behind us, two more cars filled with my men slow to a stop and park.

They emerge just as Enzo opens my door, and I step out, immediately extending my hand to her.

I help her down, watching her face with hawk-like intensity, waiting for any wince or grimace that would give me an excuse to end this visit and whisk her back to safety.

But her expression remains carefully schooled like she knows exactly what I’m on the lookout for.

My jaw tightens with frustrated admiration. Even injured, even vulnerable, she’s still fighting me at every turn.

Placing my palm on the small of her back, I guide her towards the hospital entrance.

A gust of wind tosses her hair across her face, and my hand moves instinctively to brush it away.

But she beats me to it, using her left hand to tuck the honey strands behind her ear, and my heart damn near stops when my ring catches the light.

Primal possessiveness spears through me. That’s my mark on her. She’s mine.

Finally mine.

If I’m being honest with myself, part of my reluctance to bring her here has nothing to do with her safety.

It’s because I fear once she reconnects with her friend and they have an in-depth conversation—the kind of heart-to-heart women specialize in—Katie will snap her back to reality.

Remind her that marrying me is insane. That I’m dangerous, that I’ve killed people, that I represent everything she’s spent her career fighting against. And Emilia will come to her senses, look me in the eye, and tell me to forget about the wedding…

Which is another reason why the wedding is so rushed.

I’m not giving her enough time to think, to reconsider, to build up those walls again.

I’m locking her down while she’s still reeling from the attack, while she’s still vulnerable enough to say yes.

We can figure out what comes after once she’s legally mine.

And we do have a lot to figure out.

I glance down at her as we walk, recalling the information I got from SP after I returned from the downtown Brooklyn basement where her cowardly attackers were hiding out.

I wasn’t lying when I told her those fuckers refused to spill the beans. But I have my suspicions about who sent them. Suspicions that only grew stronger when I got another dossier from SP.

Suspicions that, if proven true, might destroy her.

I shake off the heavy thoughts as we walk into the hospital lobby, my nostrils immediately assaulted by the sterile cocktail of disinfectant, bleach, and artificial lemon that seems to permeate every medical facility.

A young nurse approaches us, her eyes widening when she recognizes me, but she doesn’t say a word.

Enzo steps forward, murmuring something about why we’re here, and she nods rapidly before leading us to the elevator. I step in with Emilia, the nurse, Enzo, and three of my men while the others remain in the lobby.

We get off on the second floor, and the nurse hurries ahead to a small private ward.

As soon as she opens the door, she flees, clearly eager to put distance between herself and us.

Inside, I watch in amusement as the blonde woman on the bed jumps to her feet the moment she sees us, dropping into a fighting stance with her fists raised.

She stiffens when Emilia emerges from behind me, then relaxes marginally. “Em? What’s going on?”

My fiancée rushes towards her friend, grabbing her arm. “Katie. How are you feeling?”

Katie’s suspicious blue eyes flick past Emilia to me and my men before reluctantly dropping back to her. “I survived,” she answers dryly. “And so did you.”

Then her gaze falls to Emilia’s left hand, and she immediately snatches it up, lifting it with wide eyes. “What the hell is this? Emily, you–” She cuts herself off, darting another look at me and my men with newfound wariness .

Emilia follows her gaze and then, with a soft sigh, withdraws her hand from her friend’s and walks up to me. I watch, fascinated, as she places her palm on the left side of my chest, right over my heart. The organ responds instantly, pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to reach her touch.

“Can you give us some time?” she murmurs, rubbing her palm across my shirt in small, hypnotic circles. “You can go to your meeting and come fetch me on your way back.”

My fascination deepens. Is she trying to use her wiles on me now? It’s not going to work. “That’s not going to happen.”

“I need to talk with her, and she obviously doesn’t feel comfortable with you here.”

“She’ll just have to get over it, because I’m not leaving here without you.

She–” My words die in my throat, my breath catching as she leans into me, her warm lips brushing the corner of my mouth and then my cheek as she whispers directly into my ear.

“I swear I’m not going to run. You can have your men wait outside if you don’t believe me, but I need to do this, Rafael. Please .”

Fuck. Her soft words, her hand on my chest, her breath in my ear—they all work together to chip away at my resolve. She’s found my weakness and she’s exploiting it ruthlessly. Damn her.

I glance at Katie, who’s watching us with rapt attention before quickly looking away when I catch her. “What do I get in exchange?” I ask, refocusing on my fiancée. I'm not letting this opportunity slip. If I’m going to keep giving in to her, it’s time I start getting something in return.

“What do you want?”

My heart races with all the possibilities flooding my mind. I can’t possibly pick one. “You’ll owe me a boon.”

Emilia frowns. “A boon? What does that mean?”

“When the time comes, I’ll tell you what I want from you, and you’ll give it to me freely and willingly, without argument.”

It’s a dangerous deal for her to strike with me. I could ask for anything, and she wouldn’t be able to say no. The thought has my cock twitching with anticipation.

She realizes the implications almost immediately, and hesitation flickers across her face. “Ask for something else.”

“No. Either you grant me the boon, or we’re leaving. Right now.”

She glares at me with those fire-bright eyes. “Fine, I agree.” Then she waves an imperious hand towards the door. “You can leave.”

Her voice carries clearly across the room, louder than our previous whispered conversation, and I hear my men shift behind me, surprised by her audacity. No one talks to Rafael Moretti like that. No one except the woman who’s about to be my wife .

I smirk at her, already imagining all the ways I’ll collect on this debt. Soon, I’ll have all that sass and attitude beneath me. I adjust the lapels of my jacket and spin around without another word, leaving the ward. Once the door shuts behind me and my men, I give them their orders.

“Pierre, you’re in charge. Your job—and the job of everyone here—is to make sure not a single strand of hair on my fiancée’s head is harmed. If anyone besides authorized medical personnel tries to enter this ward, I want to know who they are and what they want. Immediately . Am I clear?”

“Yes, boss,” Pierre answers, his expression serious.

Satisfied, I make my way to the elevator with Enzo, my mind already shifting to the meeting ahead.

“I hope to hell you know what you’re doing, Rafael,” my second-in-command mutters under his breath as we descend back to the lobby.

I don’t dignify his comment with a response. He has made his concerns about my re-engagement to Emilia abundantly clear since I told him about it last night, and I’ve made it equally clear where I stand .

I know exactly what I’m doing.

We arrived at the hospital in three separate cars; we leave in one, with the majority of my men staying behind to protect my soon-to-be wife. I don't know when her enemies might strike again, but they’ll have to go through an army to reach her.

I make it to Black Diamond, my hotel downtown, just over twenty minutes before the meeting time, and I’m not surprised when I walk into the thirty-seat conference room to find my brothers already seated at the table—I had been informed of their arrival a few minutes prior.

“Congratulations, man.” Romero grins at me. “Finally this darned rivalry with Emilia is over. I thought it was stupid right from the start.”

“Shut up, Rome,” Maximo grumbles. “There was nothing stupid about the rivalry.” But his words hold no real heat.

His anger at Emilia had already cooled a bit after the last time we met, but he’s remarkably calm right now—probably due to her visit to him yesterday morning.

I make a mental note to ask him about that later.

“We have the first two dons coming in hot,” Michael says, frowning down at his laptop. “So you should probably take your seat.”

I circle around the large table and settle into my chair at the head. My brothers sit flanking me—Michael and Romero to my right, Maximo to my left, and Enzo claims the spot beside him.

“Ready?” Romero asks me.

“I was born ready for this,” I answer just as the door opens.

Antonio Morone and Sandro Caruso walk in, and we exchange the usual pleasantries before they take their seats. After that, the other dons slowly filter in one after the other until every powerful made man in New York fills the room.

This is the first time since my takeover years ago that we’ve all sat together in the same room like this .

As soon as the last man arrives and takes his seat, the meeting begins.

It starts amicably enough—each don raising concerns about their territories, the various issues they’re facing, and we facilitate solutions.

Slowly, time trickles by, an hour passing with productive back-and-forth. Then conversation gradually fizzles out until a taut silence and an expectant tension fill the air. It’s time to address what they really came here for—the real reason this meeting was called.

Everything we’ve discussed so far could have been handled through phone calls like we usually do.

“I take it you’ve all received invitations to my wedding?” I ask, making eye contact with as many of the men as I can. They all frown in near-unison, misgivings clearly written on their faces.

“What’s going on, Rafael?” Luciano speaks up. “Is the wedding some sort of ploy? You’re not really marrying that FBI bitch, are you?”

The room draws a collective breath at his audacity.

Romero slams his hand on the table. “Watch your fucking mouth, Luciano.”

I lift a hand to calm my brother, and the tension thickens even further as I slowly rise to my feet. From my jacket, I take out a small but wickedly sharp pocket knife, spinning the handle idly between my fingers as I walk down the length of the table until I’m standing right in front of Luciano.

Sweat beads on his forehead as the reality of his mistake hits him. He swallows hard, his throat working nervously as he looks up at me.

Without a word, I point my finger to the table.

The room is so silent, I could hear a pin drop. Nobody dares to breathe as Luciano places a shaky hand on the desk. Spiteful digs at a don’s spouse are the ultimate insult—punishable by the loss of limbs.

Outwardly, I appear calm, but I drive my knife into the table with all the force of my rage.

A collective gasp fills the air, covered by Luciano’s thin, strangled scream—though I don’t know why since I haven’t actually touched him.

The knife quivers in the wood, embedded perfectly between his ring and middle finger.

A warning.

His whole body shakes as he stares at the knife.

“This is the only warning you get,” I say, raising my voice to address the entire room. “The only warning any of you get.” I sweep my gaze around the table, meeting each man’s eyes in turn. “Anyone else have something to say about my wife-to-be?”

A few of the dons clear their throats, shifting nervously in their chairs, but nobody dares speak. Good. Satisfied, I return to my seat, leaving the knife where it is as a reminder.

“I’m well aware of your grievances with the bureau—I share them.

But Emilia Rossi will be my wife in three days.

A Moretti, legally, in name and deed. And as such, she’s not only one of us—” My voice hardens to steel.

“—she’s your Queen. So you’ll treat her with the same goddamn respect you accord to me. ”

They remain silent, and I give them a couple of seconds to let it sink in before continuing. “I’m on top of our little FBI problem and will have it dealt with, swiftly and mercilessly. And that FBI ‘bitch’ is going to help me— help us —eliminate the threat permanently.”