Page 53 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

EMILIA

Rafael’s eyes find mine the second I step into the living area. The concern in his gaze is obvious, but he doesn’t mention my call. Instead, he nods towards the small dining area in the corner of the room. “Breakfast is ready.”

My stomach chooses that moment to growl audibly, and a sudden, almost painful hunger wells up, reminding me I haven’t eaten since… God, when did I last eat? Time feels fluid when you’re married to a man who can make you forget your own name with just his mouth…

Rafael returns his attention to his laptop as I make my way to the dining area. I tighten the belt on my robe and sit down, stealing quick glances at him, unsure how to navigate myself around him this morning.

How is this whole marriage thing going to work, anyway?

I lift the cover from the plate, and my mouth waters instantly.

Stacks of golden waffles generously drowned in syrup—exactly how I love them—with a small bowl of honey on the side.

Scrambled eggs that look impossibly fluffy, crispy bacon strips, and fresh berries complete the spread. He remembers everything .

I pick up my fork and knife and dig in with genuine enthusiasm. For a while, the only sounds filling the space are the gentle scrape of my cutlery and the steady tap-tap-tap from Rafael’s laptop. When I finish every last bite, I get up from the chair and start to clear the table.

“Leave it. Room service will take care of it,” Rafael says, eyes still on his screen. “We’re heading out soon anyway. Something came up at work that I have to deal with.”

Something came up at work? My brain immediately spirals through a catalog of criminal activities that word could cover.

He must know where my mind goes because he chuckles. “One of the sous chefs at one of my restaurants slipped and got a vat of boiling oil all over himself. I want to go check on him at the hospital.”

I nod, relief easing my shoulders, even as I feel sorry for the poor sous chef. At least Rafael isn’t about to go off and do something illegal.

Not that I’m delusional. I know what Rafael does. Sooner or later, he’s going to have to deal with the criminal side of his empire, and I’ll have to decide what that means for us. For me. After spending years hunting people like him, I’m honestly not sure how to feel about it anymore.

Is this numbness I’m experiencing normal?

Maybe the world isn’t as black and white as I’ve always believed. Hell, I mean, I’ve done a few unsavory things myself over the years in the name of catching criminals. The lines get blurry when you’re in the thick of it.

“I should go get dressed,” I say, already moving towards the bedroom.

Rafael drops me at the penthouse and disappears within minutes, but not before pressing a brand-new laptop into my hands.

“What’s this for?” I had asked, running my fingers over the expensive device.

“Now that you’re no longer with the FBI, you need something to stimulate that inquisitive brain of yours. Use it to figure out what you want to do next.”

The laptop sits on the coffee table now, practically taunting me. I’ve already taken multiple tours of this three-story penthouse, but I keep finding myself drawn back to the dining room on the first floor.

I wander there again. It’s clearly designed for entertaining—the kind of room where power moves happen over expensive wine and carefully orchestrated conversations.

The massive dining table commands attention, crafted entirely of glass with intricate gold etchings along its edges.

Twelve elegant chairs in white and cream surround it, each one probably worth more than my old monthly salary.

But that’s not what has me intrigued. It’s the chair at the head of the table. It’s enormous—easily three times the size of the other chairs. And carved into the back, delicate and unmistakable, are the same flowers now permanently etched into my skin.

My fingers trace over my still-bandaged forearm unconsciously as I walk to the chair across from it. This one is also bigger than the rest, though not quite as imposing as the one that obviously belongs to Rafael. A daintier version—the same design carved behind it.

These aren’t just chairs. They’re thrones. His and hers. Made for the host and hostess. So he had it made with his wife in mind.

Who? Jealousy claws at my insides with razor-sharp talons.

But wait—aside from me, he had never been engaged. Never even gotten into a serious relationship, as far as I could tell. And trust me, I would have known. I’ve had my eyes on him for years.

Before I can start spiraling down that particular rabbit hole, I sink into the smaller throne. Regardless of who he made it for, it’s mine now.

The view from here is insane. My lips kick up as I lean back, crossing one ankle over my knee. I love it.

I take my phone out and call Katie.

“I wasn’t sure when would be safe to call you,” she says by way of greeting, her tone carrying that familiar playful edge. “Didn’t want to interrupt anything intimate and risk your husband’s wrath. That man is… super protective.”

I wince, remembering the way Rafael had her in a chokehold yesterday. “I’m so sorry about that. The tensions were high, and he doesn’t really know you yet. He can be–”

“Hey, stop. It’s fine. Really.” Her voice is firm but warm. “I’m glad you finally have someone who cares so deeply about you watching your six. Sure, being choked wasn’t exactly pleasant, but I understand his reaction completely.”

I tap my index finger on the glass tabletop, hesitating. “I actually… need a favor. It’s risky as hell, and I totally understand if you don’t want to do it. In fact, I shouldn’t even ask. I–”

“Just spill it, Em,” she cuts in with a laugh. “You never ask for favors, so this must be really important. Tell me.”

I swallow. “I need to know what happened with my dad, Katie. Why he faked his death when I was sixteen—and why he died ten years ago. Stacey won’t tell me and neither will Rafael. I can’t stand being kept in the dark about this any longer.”

“I’m on it.”

“Be careful, please. Nobody can know what you’re doing. Stacey can’t know.”

“I’ll be the soul of discretion,” she promises. “Where are you right now?”

“At Rafael’s penthouse.” I switch the phone to my other ear as I uncross my leg and get up from the chair. “He gave me a laptop to research potential career paths.”

“What? He doesn’t fancy a housewife?” She’s clearly joking, but there’s genuine curiosity underneath.

“He knows I’d go crazy if I’m idle for too long,” I tell her as I make my way back to the living room where the cutting-edge laptop waits.

“Yeah, you absolutely would. Have you given any thought to finally putting that medical degree to use?”

No, I haven’t. I can’t picture myself stuck inside four walls, day after day. I love being out there, hunting down bad guys. But maybe that part of my life is over now…

I sigh. “Maybe I should consider it.”

Suddenly, there’s a blaring alarm on her end. “Shit—the fire alarm! I forgot I was making toast. Gotta run!”

I chuckle as the line goes dead. Katie could burn water if you gave her a chance.

My heart gives a sharp pang as I imagine her racing through our apartment to turn off the alarm. It’s only been a few days, but I miss it already.

I settle into the plush armchair and position the laptop on the wide armrest, flipping the lid open and tapping the screen to power it on.

The next two weeks go by pretty uneventfully, to Rafael’s delight. But we both know we’re not truly out of the woods yet.

I’ve been spiraling—diving deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole of the past. And fuck, the things I’m digging up have me realizing I didn’t really know who the hell my dad was. Or Stacey, for that matter.

There seems to be some kind of old connection between Stacey, my dad, and the fucking Vladmirs—the family of the Russian pakhan who was released last month.

The more pieces I uncover, the less I want to know what happened ten years ago.

But it’s a compulsion now. I can no longer stop myself from pulling at these threads.

I feel like I’m close—so close—to finally unraveling it.

Katie and I have been sharing information, and she’s discovered most of the same threads I have.

But we’re missing something crucial—that one key piece that will make everything else fall into place.

It’s maddening, feeling the answer just out of reach.

And worse, it feels like someone is actively trying to bury the truth so I never find it.

At first, I thought it was Stacey. She’s the one who stopped me from digging into the past once before, after all. But then Rafael slipped last night while we were on the bed after a particularly steamy intimate time together.

“Do you need to keep digging into the past? I don’t like this path you’re going down. I didn’t give you that laptop for this kind of research. Nothing good can come from finding out what happened.”

That comment got me thinking. What if Rafael is the one trying to bury the truth from me? And if he is… why would he do that? The thought reminded me that I already have a number of sources I can tap into—people who might give me the answers I’m desperate for.

Which is exactly why I’m sitting on my motorcycle outside this courthouse right now.

I had planned to come in time for Romero’s opening statement—to watch how he defends a client I know damn well is guilty of the charges against him.

But Rafael wouldn’t leave the penthouse, and I didn't want him to know what I was up to. If he knew, I’m sure he’d try to stop me—or get to Romero before I could.

It was hard enough bluffing my way past his men without his presence, ordering them to stay behind at the penthouse while I ran my ‘personal errand’ .

I park my bike in the courthouse lot just as Romero emerges from the building. I take off my helmet and wave at him. He does a double take when he sees me, then breaks into a grin as he strides towards me with that confident swagger of his.