Page 55 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

RAFAEL

I’m at one of my clubs, working on my laptop in the office because I love making surprise visits to keep my employees on their toes.

The door suddenly explodes open, and Enzo barrels in, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face.

I’m on my feet before he even utters a word, slamming my laptop shut. “Emilia?”

She snuck out a few hours ago—the little minx thought she was being clever. The only reason I’m not tearing the city apart yet is because of my man tailing her. Last report had her at the courthouse with Romero.

“No.” Enzo gulps air like a drowning man. “A bomb just took out our weapons warehouse in Tribeca. Russian drone delivered it personally.”

Fucking hell . I don’t waste time with more questions. We walk out of the office together, our strides quick. The club continues its normal rhythm around us as we cut through the crowd. I catch the eye of one of my stationed men in the corner and jerk my head towards him.

He approaches just as my phone buzzes with a text—no, several texts from the chat I have with my brothers. One glance tells me everything.

“Guess we’re not the only ones on the Russians’ radar tonight.” I lift the phone so Enzo can glimpse the messages scrolling by.

He winces. “Fuck. I knew they’d been too quiet lately.”

I had felt it too—a coil of dread in my gut all week that something was coming.

After Sergey’s release, I expected swift, reckless retaliation against my brothers and me. When nothing happened, his silence made me uneasy, chipping away at my relative marital bliss.

In a twisted way, I feel a little relieved now that he has finally made his move. At least now we know what we’re dealing with.

As we get into my car and pull away from the club’s curb, a darker thought occurs to me. This could be a trap. Losing that weapons depot is going to set my brothers and me back big time—especially after our shipment deal with Roan last month—but I know it can’t be just that.

My gut tells me this is bigger. More coordinated. I don’t know where exactly my brothers’ territories were hit, but I know it’s somewhere equally vital to us as a group.

The alarm bells ringing in my head are deafening now.

I remember the fucking laptop I left right on my office desk and curse under my breath. Nothing to be done about that now—though, at least it isn't my main laptop; nobody will find anything worth shit on it. Still, it’s careless. Sloppy. Everything I’ve trained myself never to be.

When we arrive at the warehouse, part of the building is still engulfed in flames. Sirens wail as fire trucks swarm the lot, taking over from my men, who’ve been chucking buckets of water at the blaze like medieval peasants.

I adjust my cufflinks and step out. Spray from the hoses drifts across my shoulders as I walk up to my men, their faces streaked with soot and shame.

They all drop their gazes as I stop in front of them. I do a mental headcount. “No casualties?”

“No,” Noah mumbles from the front line. “We were out for a smoke when we saw the flying machine. At first, we thought it was some sort of strange bird.”

That explains the guilt. They know they broke protocol—the warehouse should never be left empty, not even for five minutes. Doesn’t matter if you’re just outside. That rule exists specifically to prevent situations like this.

Normally I’d flay them alive for it, but their rule-breaking saved their lives tonight, and dead men are harder to replace than weapons.

“How do we know the drone was from the Russians?”

“I have footage.” A small figure steps forward from behind Noah. A kid, maybe sixteen, all gangly limbs and wild curls, with bright blue eyes that practically sparkle with excitement. This is probably the most action he’s ever witnessed in his short life.

Noah’s expression turns even more pained because he knows a fucking minor has no business on these grounds. That’s the second rule they’ve broken tonight.

“My sister got sick yesterday,” Noah rushes to explain, “so she dropped my nephew off for me to watch. I couldn’t find a babysitter on such short notice and–”

“I don’t need babysitters,” the boy interrupts with teenage indignation, making a disgusted face. “I’m not a baby.”

I remember being his age, maybe younger, when I first started running errands for the syndicate. But rules are rules. Still, that can wait. I file away my anger at Noah for later and extend my hand to the teenager.

His eyes light up like I’ve just made his entire year, and he places his sweaty palm into mine, shaking my hand vigorously. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Phillip.”

“I think Mr. Moretti wanted the footage you have, Phillip,” Noah whispers, desperation bleeding through his voice.

The boy’s face becomes crestfallen. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

He slips his hand out of mine and takes out his phone. As he unlocks it, my mind starts calculating potential problems. Did this dickhead record anything else? The weapons stockpile inside, maybe? You can never trust kids with phones these days.

He hands me his phone, and I press play, frowning at the dark screen that shows nothing but night sky.

“I like filming the stars,” Phillip explains. “I want to be a nature videographer when I grow up.”

I don’t bother to reply, just wait impatiently for something useful to appear. At around the fifty-second mark, a small red dot materializes against the darkness, growing bigger until a black drone takes shape. And there, clear as day on the side of the machine, is the Russian flag.

Motherfuckers . That was on purpose. They wanted me to know who the attack came from.

My grip tightens on the phone at the same time the men in the video notice the flag and the bomb the drone carries.

Their panicked shouts burst through the speaker as they open fire, trying to bring it down. But it maintains its trajectory, climbing higher the closer it gets to the warehouse.

And then it drops the bomb right through an open window. “Fuck me,” someone groans just as a small explosion rocks the building, followed seconds later by a much larger blast that shakes the camera violently before the video cuts to black.

The first explosion should have been containable, but we kept explosives in that warehouse—bombs, ammunition, fireworks. The chain reaction took everything. I hand the phone back to the kid and turn to survey the damage.

The fires are finally dying down, revealing the warehouse in stark, brutal detail. The entire structure is charred and smoking, the windows and doors shattered, one section reduced to rubble and dust. But part of the frame still stands proud.

It can still be salvaged. The same can’t be said for the weapons that were stored inside, though. I know those are all gone now. Millions of dollars, gone.

My hands curl into fists at my side. I’m going to fucking kill Sergey.

“Rafael.” Enzo’s voice carries a new kind of urgency. When I look at him, his knees are bouncing nervously, his face twisted with barely contained panic. Fuck, what now?

I leave my men and walk towards him, keeping my voice low. They don’t need to hear about the next bullshit that’s hit the air. “What is it?”

“Federal agents are at the house. They flashed some sort of warrant. The men wouldn’t let them in, of course, so now they’re shooting their way inside.”

Fuck.

Wordlessly, I jog towards my car, Enzo close behind me. They’re not going to find anything they can use against me there, not without an insider telling them where to look, but I don’t trust them not to plant evidence.

Stacey must be getting desperate to pull this kind of stunt. Agents don’t usually kick down doors, guns blazing. Desperate people do despicable things.

Does she not realize this could all blow up in her face?

I slide into the driver’s seat, grateful that Emilia is at least safely away from this chaos. Is she still with Romero? I curse when I remember Romero is busy trying to put out fires in his own territory.

Please stay out a few minutes longer, baby.

My hands tighten on the wheel as I drive like a maniac, taking corners that should flip the car, running lights that should get us killed. Ten minutes of pure adrenaline and we’re screeching down into the underground lot—only to find it deserted. Shit .

I park haphazardly and jump out, my breath catching in my throat at the dead bodies in front of the elevator. Four of my men and two I don’t recognize. Agents?

“Holy fuck.” Enzo’s voice is filled with awe and horror, but he’s already pulling out his phone to take a picture of the bodies and the blood. There’s so much blood. “Are we sure this is the government and not just the Russians in disguise?”

He calls for the elevator, and I grimace when the doors slide open and the insides are splashed with blood. We step over the bodies to get inside, fire sizzling in my bones as my shoes sink into the pooled blood.

Enzo takes pictures of the interior. “What if it really is Russians?” he asks, voice low.

“It’s not. They aren’t Russians.” That much I’m sure of. Sergey might be growing some budding confidence, but the most he can do is attack me from afar where he’s safe from my retaliation. He isn’t crazy enough to attempt something this brazen. That title is reserved only for government agencies.

The elevator slides open onto my lobby—and we’re met with men pointing fucking guns at me. The rage that’s been building in my chest all night finally erupts, but I force it down, channeling it into the cold calculation that’s kept me alive this long.

I step out calmly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

A tall, thin man steps forward, flashing his badge with the arrogance of someone who thinks a piece of metal and plastic gives him power over me.

“Rafael Moretti, you’re under arrest for money laundering, arms dealing, illegal possession of firearms, tax evasion, illegal procurement and distribution of pharmaceutical medications, kidnapping of a federal agent and marrying her under duress. ”

Most of the charges are standard bullshit I’ve heard before, but the last one raises my brow. “What the fuck are you talking about? What does my wife have to do with this?”

His smirk is the kind that makes me want to rearrange his face. He plants both his filthy hands on my shoulders—I go rigid and shake them off me immediately. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Want me to add resisting arrest to the list?” His smirk widens.

I give him my back, pressing my wrists together for him. “Get on with it, then. And call my lawyer.”

“A lawyer isn’t going to get you out of this one.” He tugs out cuffs. “Thankfully, poor Emilia is safe away from your clutches now.”

There it is again . This is the second time he’s mentioned my wife, and every instinct demands I ask—but I know he wants me to take the bait. So I don’t.

“Aren’t you curious how we’re here?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Your loving wife gave us the tip. Want to guess where she is right now? She’s having a cozy dinner with Director Rodrigues, her mentor and mother figure.”

The world tilts on its axis, and for a moment, I feel like I’m falling through space. The edges of my vision go dark, and I have to fight to stay upright as the words sink in.

Did Emilia betray me again? I’m going to fucking throttle her.