Page 57 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

My hands ball into fists at my sides as the full picture crystallizes.

Being called to that restaurant with Katie and Stacey was nothing but a distraction.

If I had been home, Stacey’s agents never would have dared pull this stunt, because they had absolutely no legal grounds to fire the first shot at suspects.

The way they conducted these arrests was completely unethical and illegal .

Stacey must have thought she’d be able to manipulate me back to her side before the dust settled. That was the only reason she’d have risked such a reckless plan. Because no way in hell will Rafael and the guys stay in custody with everything I now know.

“Do we have everything that happened on record?” I ask Pierre.

“We should.” He immediately starts walking towards the elevator, but I stop him.

“Let me stitch that before you bleed to death.” I take the stairs two at a time up to our bedroom, grab the first aid kit from the bathroom, and jog back down.

Pierre shifts nervously when I return to the living room. “You don’t need to trouble yourself with me, ma’am. I’ll be fine.”

“You will be,” I agree, popping the kit open and gesturing for him to sit on the armrest of a nearby chair. He hesitates before following my instructions, and I gently push his hand away from the wound to inspect the damage.

I haven’t done stitching in years, and nerves flutter in my stomach as I wipe the blood away with disinfectant, but I don’t let it show. Thankfully, the bullet went clean through his flesh at surface level. An artery must have been nicked, which explains all the bleeding.

Relief makes my knees wobble, but I lock them in place. “Good news, Pierre,” I murmur. “You don’t need stitches.”

I clean the wound thoroughly and use tweezers to remove debris. After applying a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, I wrap it carefully with gauze and secure it with medical tape.

“There. All done.” I pat his arm gently and start packing the supplies back into the kit.

“Thank you so much, ma’am.”

I wave off his gratitude. “Why don’t you take me to where I can find the footage of the house? ”

“Of course.”

He leads me to the elevator, and we ride two floors below the penthouse. Rafael owns this entire building, with each floor designated for specific purposes. His men live on some of the floors, others house his business operations. One is his office space.

I’ve never had reason to visit this particular floor, so I take in the details as Pierre types in the passcode at the entrance. The elevator opens into a long hallway lined with multiple doors—we’re heading to the last one on the left.

The door reveals a huge security room. Large screens cover the walls and spread across an enormous central desk. Pierre circles around it and presses some buttons that bring the screens to life. As they flicker on, he begins typing rapidly on the keyboard and mutters under his breath.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Those motherfucking vermin tried to mess with our feeds and–” He stops short, glancing at me apologetically.

Because he referred to the agents as vermin?

I wave at him to continue. I couldn’t care less about his language choices right now.

I need physical evidence of what exactly happened before I can figure out how to proceed with this mess.

“Is the footage gone?” My stomach knots just asking.

“Yes, fuck.” He curses again, hitting the table in frustration.

My heart plummets. Without evidence, it becomes Pierre's word against the United States government, and any federal judge would know which side to believe if this goes to court.

Fuck .

This can’t be happening. There has to be something.

But Pierre isn’t giving up. He types furiously, brows furrowing, and I don’t miss the sweat that breaks out on his forehead under the bright fluorescent lights.

“Give me a minute.” He swallows hard, leaning closer to the screen as he types.

“After what happened with Elira last year— when you, uh, messed with the footage—Michael built a backup program that can reverse the frying process. He’s been working on it for close to a year and finally got it to us two months ago.

I just need to figure out how to make it work.

” He grimaces and turns to a specific computer, typing until some incomprehensible code fills the screen.

We stay there for over forty minutes while Pierre battles to reverse the damage done to the feeds. My ankles start to throb from standing so long, and nervous sweat plasters my shirt to my back. Still, I don’t dare discourage him.

I know the programs we—well, the agents—use to corrupt camera feeds are top-tier, created by MIT’s brightest minds, so reversing that kind of sophisticated destruction should be nearly impossible. But if anyone could pull it off, it’s Michael.

I grit my teeth, pacing anxiously as I check my phone for the time. Fifty-five minutes have passed. Five more minutes, and I’ll pull him away from those computers to brainstorm a plan B. The poor guy must be seeing double by now. And I need to go see Rafael, make sure he’s okay and?—

“Got it!” Pierre’s unexpected yell startles me so hard my heart nearly bursts out of my chest, and then his words sink in and I’m grinning, pumping my fists in the air.

“We got the feeds back?” I ask to be sure.

“Yes, ma’am.” He beams up at me. “Michael Hart is a mad genius. I had complete faith in his program.”

He hits a button and footage from multiple angles of the penthouse entrance begins to play, providing irrefutable proof of every single word Pierre said to me. The agents shot first .

“Perfect.” Immense satisfaction floods my veins. “Get copies on five flash drives.” Better safe than sorry. “I’m going to where the guys are being held.”

“I’ll come with you, I?—”

I hold up a hand to cut him off. “This is something I have to do alone. ”

Despite my desperate urgency to get to Rafael, I force myself to return to the penthouse first for a quick shower. Then I slip into the navy suit I got a few years ago when I had to testify in court during the prosecution of a criminal I’d detained.

I twist my hair into a professional chignon and check my reflection. I’m good to go. Sometimes appearance makes the difference between being taken seriously and being dismissed. And I absolutely need to be taken seriously for what I’m about to do.

Chin high, spine straight, I walk as fast as my stilettos will let me to the elevator.

I stop by the security room to collect two flash drives from Pierre, then head down to the basement garage. My heart leaps into my throat when the elevator doors slide open to reveal four men waiting outside. I immediately whip my gun out and point it at them.

“Step back,” someone tells the men in Italian, and a fifth man appears. He looks vaguely familiar. He was at the wedding. One of the made men. I don’t lower my gun though, not trusting him one bit.

“Is it true what’s happened?” he asks, voice dripping with disdain. But he doesn’t need my answer—the blood coating the elevator and garage floor tells the whole story. “I knew Rafael marrying a darned FBI agent was the worst idea ever.”

I roll my eyes and point the tip of my gun down as I step out of the elevator. I ignore the other men behind him—probably lower-level dons and their guards, all here like vultures to circle around and see what they can pick over while Rafael is locked up.

I fish the key fob from my pants pocket and point it at the Bentley I’ve been eyeing since I moved in here. It chirps beautifully, and despite the situation, a thrill zips through me at the prospect of driving it .

Without a backwards glance, I stride towards the car and tug the door open.

“Where are you going, woman?” the man calls after me.

I slide into the driver’s seat, my jaw set.

Going to bust my husband out of jail.