Page 5 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

EMILIA

“So let me get this straight. Even with the element of surprise on our side, and us striking the one night they were away from their establishments, we still got… nothing?!”

I wince as Greg slaps his palm on his desk, his face darkening with anger. “What the hell, Emily? Then what did you guys bring here in those boxes? Fucking receipts for legal purchases?”

I keep quiet, making sure my expression is the perfect picture of regret. In the two years Gregory Winston has been my supervisor, I’ve learnt one golden rule: when he’s on a rant, you shut the hell up. Talking just drags it out—and God knows I’m not built for extra suffering tonight.

I’m tired as hell and emotionally wrecked, so I need this meeting over yesterday. I flew in from Chicago last night right after successfully completing my mission there.

Usually, I’d get a breather after such an intense mission, but no—this time, Stacey made a special request for me to come to New York. It wasn’t until I was here that I found out why: she was being appointed the new director and wanted me to clamp down on the Nightshades immediately .

Her exact words were: “ Now is our time for revenge. Go after Rafael with all you’ve got, Emilia. I’m trusting you with this.”

I said yes, of course. How could I not?

But the truth is… I don’t know if I still want revenge.

I quickly push the thought away. Nonsense. Of course I still want revenge. I–

“Are you even listening to me?” Greg demands, getting to his feet.

I blink, dragging my gaze from the bookshelf back to his pissed-off face. “Yes, sir.” No, sir. I just want to go home and sleep the entire weekend.

He clearly doesn’t believe me, his lips thinning to nearly nothing. “Get out of here. When you come back in the morning, I want you refreshed and at your best.” He waves me off like I’m a bad smell and slumps back down into his chair.

Come back in the morning? Fuck. “Yes sir.”

I fight the urge to add a mocking salute and just turn on my heel. Shoulders back, head high, I walk out of his office, down the buzzing hallway, and into the elevator. Even there, with nobody but me and the hum of the lift, I stay alert, conscious of the camera in the corner.

You never show weakness or it will be taken advantage of.

In the underground parking lot, I fish out my key fob. The headlights of my bike blink and, for the first time today, a little of my exhaustion slips away.

God, I missed my baby.

I can’t ride her when I’m on missions, so whenever I’m back in the city, I make it a point to take her out for a spin.

From the back saddle, I grab my helmet—a thick black one that matches the chrome finish of my bike—and pull it on.

Then my leg swings over, straddling the seat, and the second my hands wrap around the handlebars, a delicious thrill shoots down my spine.

I kick the stand up and settle in, feeling the weight of the world lift off my shoulders .

One twist of the key, and my baby roars to life with a low, hungry purr that sinks straight into my bones. I give the throttle a playful rev, just for the hell of it, then lean forward and let her loose from the parking lot.

Strands of hair whip behind me under my helmet, the wind tugging hard, and I feel my face crack into a genuine grin. First one in days. I needed this—speed, freedom, the city blurring around me. I take the long way home, dodging cars and weaving through the traffic, heart pounding with excitement.

About twenty minutes later, I finally make the turn onto my street—the one that leads to the brownstone apartment I got a few years ago in Washington Height.

I feel my phone buzz again in my jacket pocket.

It hasn’t stopped all ride, and I already know it’s Katie.

She’s the only one who blows up my line like that.

I pull up into my parking spot with an expert flick of the wheel and kill the engine, knocking the kickstand down in one fluid move.

A chorus of catcalls follows as I pull off my helmet, and I chuckle, waving a dismissive hand at the drunk men wobbling down the sidewalk.

Yeah, keep dreaming, boys. Helmet stashed in the saddle, I take out my phone and make my way into the lobby, nodding at the door man on my way past.

Sure enough, it’s Katie that’s been blowing up my phone. Nine missed calls. Twelve texts. That girl . I shake my head as the elevator doors slide shut.

“Where have you been?” she blurts out the second I walk into the apartment, shoving her blonde hair out of her face like she’s two seconds from combusting. “Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

“Sorry, babe. I was on my bike, on my way home,” I say pointedly, hoping she’ll get the hint that I’m exhausted, but Katie has the emotional intelligence of a brick wall when she’s worked up.

She just sticks her hand out like I’m supposed to know what that means.

I raise a brow, deadpan, and place my hand on hers—because, hell if I know what else she wants from me.

She slaps it away with a huff. “Give me your phone. Unlocked, please,” she elaborates, mouth set in a determined line that I know means arguing is useless.

Oh. This should be interesting.

I unlock my phone and hand it over to her. She immediately spins away from me, fingers flying across the screen. I shuffle up close behind her, practically breathing down her neck to catch a glimpse of what she’s doing.

She’s downloading something. A few taps, a swipe… and then I catch the icon. A tracking app. Without missing a beat, she signs me up, links it to her phone, then finally hands mine back. “Now I can see where you are at all times—and vice versa,” she says, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“Well…” I say, because honestly, what else is there to say?. Intrusive much?

Katherine and I first met back at the academy in Quantico and we were briefly friends. Then I got called to New York for my first mission— the one that cost me my fucking heart —while she was sent across the country.

We tried to keep in touch whenever we could, and then five years ago, after my old partner snitched on me and lost his life for it—courtesy of Rafael—I was assigned a new one: Katherine Pierce.

Yeah, that Katherine. Katie. My best friend.

We’ve only gotten closer since. She’s the sister I never had. We know everything about each other. Well, almost everything. She’s family. Just like Maximo, Romero, Michael… and Rafael once were.

I still consider the other guys family, even if things are sort of strained between us right now. Because of the criminal path they chose to walk.

“What happened? What did Greg say?” Katie asks me as I head for the fridge to grab a bottle of water. I twist off the lid with one quick flick of my wrist and take a long gulp, feeling her stare burn holes into me.

“He wasn’t impressed with us.” I wipe the back of my hand over my wet lips and shove the bottle back into the fridge. “He fully expected us to get the Nightshades.”

“If he thinks a power force like Rafael Moretti can be taken down that easily, then he’s a fool. The fact we even got a warrant to search their businesses when they’ve been untouchable for years is a miracle.” She shakes her head in disbelief, taking a seat on the arm of our couch.

Not a miracle. Stacey finally has enough authority to go after them. Now that she’s director, she’s not holding back anymore.

She wants revenge for my father almost as much—if not more— than I do.

“I know, right,” I murmur instead, turning away before she can read too much on my face. My hand finds the high-pressure sprayer on instinct as I cross to the corner of the living room, where my azalea sits like royalty.

She’s ten years old now, a little over four feet tall, with star-shaped flower petals spreading out into twenty inches of pink, orange, and white shrubbery.

Without much thought, I squeeze the trigger, spraying water generously over the leaves of the plant I consider my first child—my bike being my second. Doesn’t matter how I came to own her, or who gave her to me, the azalea is mine now. Mine, not ours, no matter what he said.

Because there is no ‘us’.

I trace my finger along one glossy leaf, admiring its quiet danger. Funny how something so pretty can be that deadly. But that’s good, since this toxic beauty has saved my ass more than once.

Just like its giver .

I feel Katie’s stare drilling into my back, her silence louder than any accusation. I know what she’s thinking, and I hope to God she doesn’t say it because I–

“I think we should’ve gone to HartSphere. Or hell, any other place besides that club. I just knew we might run into Rafael there,” she grouches, and I close my eyes with a small sigh.

Not for the first time, I regret telling her about my history with him.

Stupid, stupid mistake. But what was I supposed to do?

I was vulnerable, riding a high of emotions because he came for me in Boston.

And I was a little confused too. Okay, a lot confused.

Maybe even a little hopeful, if I’m being honest with myself, which I rarely am.

But yeah, I definitely should have looked for clarity somewhere else.

Anywhere else instead of Katie’s sympathetic ear.

“I want you to stay away from him,” she barrels on, and my shoulders stiffen. “If we ever have to deal with the Nightshades again, which I’m sure we will, I want to be the one to face him. I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

I glance back at her just in time to catch her mid-eye-roll.

My heart skips a beat—no, more like trips and faceplants—because I know all too well how he looks at me. All-consuming. Devouring. As if I’m still his.

As if he never destroyed everything we had.

“It’s too proprietary. Like he thinks he owns you or some sick shit,” she finishes with another dramatic eye roll.

I drop the spray bottle back on the table and stare at my hand for a moment, watching it tremble slightly.

“I need to rest. It’s been a long day. You should get some rest too.

” When I glance up at her again, she’s giving me that knowing look—the one that peels back my skin and sees every lie I’ve ever told myself.

I ignore it and head straight to my room, locking the door behind me.

Knowing her, she’d absolutely come barging in the second she thinks of something else to say, and Lord, I do not have the strength for a debate Rafael-fucking-Moretti debate right now.

Not when just seeing him tonight has ripped open wounds I’ve spent years trying to stich closed.

Damn that man for consuming my thoughts. I won’t let him dominate my life.

Even as I think that, I’m helplessly drawn towards my bookshelf. Specifically to the collection of books I’ve gathered over the years on azalea plant care.

I pull out a thick volume titled Evergreen Azaleas and Acidic Soil .

Not really a book—just a box disguised to look like one.

A clever little decoy made to blend in with the rest of my azalea obsession.

So if anyone ever snoops around my room, they’ll think it’s just another plant book. Even Katie wouldn’t look twice.

I carry the hefty box over to the desk in the corner of my room and it down carefully. Then I drag my chair closer and sit, lifting the lid to study the contents for what feels like the millionth time since I got them ten years ago.

That’s right. I got the darned thing the same day I got the azaleas. But unlike the flowers, these exist solely to feed the fire. To stroke the anger I still carry for Rafael.

Because nestled inside the box is the ring he gave to me at the peak restaurant a decade ago.

Feels like a lifetime ago.

Back when everything still felt possible.

A different me. A different him.

It’s ridiculous how well I still remember every detail.

Rose gold band. Cushion-cut pale pink diamond at the center. Three outer circles of tiny diamonds shaped like the star petals of my azaleas. And above that, pink gems forming a delicate tiara.

I loved the ring when he first gave it to me. Hell, a part of me, shoved deep down into the darkest corner of my soul, still loves it.

But it’s just too much. Too heavy with promises that were broken, with a future that died before it could begin.

Sitting beside it is a full-on diamond crown. An actual crown that cost even more than the ring—I know because I did my research on both.

After everything that’s gone down between Rafael and me, receiving something this extravagant from him feels wrong. Like a slap in the face. A mockery.

Not like he gave me a damn choice.

My gaze slips to the small, framed photograph lying facedown on the desk, and I pick it up.

Detective Tomassi Rossi, standing proud and at attention in his uniform, with every medal he ever earned gleaming on his chest. My father, the man who raised me to believe in justice and honor, to always do the right thing no matter how difficult.

Rafael killed him.

I snap the box shut with a sharp, angry flick and stand, movements tight and jerky, as I shove it back into its hiding place on the bookshelf.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’m going to get him.” And I won’t let anything—not even my own stupid feelings—stand in my way.

I won’t.