Page 6 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

RAFAEL

“This package came in for you last night while we were at Inferno,” Enzo says, shaking the square box in his hand as I step off the elevator two floors beneath my penthouse, where my office is housed.

I raise a brow at the plain, brown box. I’m not expecting anything, and in my world, unexpected deliveries rarely bring good news.

“Bring it in,” I motion with a quick jerk of my chin.

Once inside, I shrug off my suit jacket, draping it over the back of my leather chair before taking a seat.

The fucking FBI agents would probably sacrifice a limb or two to gain access to this room.

But unfortunately for them, I own the entire thirty-floor building, and warrant or no warrant, those government dogs will never set foot on my private property.

Enzo drops the box on my desk and immediately points his gun at it while I take out a knife to slice through the packaging. Inside is a burner phone—an old Android model—and attached to the screen on a yellow post-it note are the words: TURN ME ON.

“Cocky bastard,” I mutter .

Enzo and I exchange bemused glances, his eyes mirroring my suspicion. “You think it’s been tapped?”

“Assume everything is.” I’m far from na?ve. Whoever sent this device won’t be gaining any intelligence from me. Once I’m done with it, this phone and everything that came with it are getting torched. I press my thumb on the power button, and the screen reluctantly flickers to life.

Enzo keeps his gun pointed at it like an enemy’s about to crawl out of the damn thing while I scroll through the interface, searching for… what exactly?

“Maybe check the contacts?” Enzo suggests.

“Already did. Nothing stored.”

I exit the phonebook and tap on the gallery. There’s one video. Three minutes long. I frown and hit play.

Immediately, a blood-curdling scream tears through my office, bouncing off the walls and settling into my bones.

The camera focuses upward, catching the ceiling at first, but then tilts down?—

My jaw clenches.

Tied to a metal chair, bloodied and barely upright, is one of my men—Pierre. His shirt is soaked through, face a mangled mess, blood leaking from the corner of his split lips.

Fuck.

Enzo abandons his defensive stance and moves to stand beside me. His breath catches at the sight.

Suddenly, a broad back fills the frame and approaches the battered Pierre. The man pinches Pierre’s chin between his fingers, forcing his head up. “Want to beg now, wop ?” he sneers.

The accent is thick. Easy to place.

“Russians,” Enzo spits in disgust.

“F–fuck you,” Pierre chokes out, summoning enough strength to launch a bloody glob of saliva directly at his tormentor’s face.

The unseen man flinches back, then explodes forward, driving his fist into Pierre’s face. “Wrong move, wop, ” he growls, and signals to someone off-camera.

A few seconds later, another man—undoubtedly another Russian thug—steps into view, though his back is also turned to the camera.

The newcomer stops beside Pierre, calm in a way that’s almost worse, and flicks open a small pocket knife, the blade catching the light as he leans in close. “You should not have done that.”

Then the first man finally turns around to face the camera, and my blood turns to ice.

Sergey Volkov. The pakhan of the Volkov Bratva.

“Motherfucker,” Enzo curses under his breath.

The Russians have been tentative allies to my brothers and me for a couple of years now.

And sure, it’s no secret that Sergey has always been hungry for more power—more reach in my city.

But he’s never had the balls to make a move against us.

Just the occasional snide comment when he brings us new supplies of arms.

Guess now we know where we stand.

“Moretti,” Sergey’s voice slithers through the speaker as he wipes Pierre’s defiance from his face. “You see what became of your man? Found him lurking in my territory. A spy of yours? You–”

Pierre’s agonizing scream drowns out Sergey’s words, forcing my gaze behind him. The second Russian is dragging the blade down Pierre’s arm—from the top of his right shoulder, past the crook of his elbow, down to his wrist—and judging by the spray of blood, he’s nicked an artery.

Sergey spins towards his man, unleashing a barrage of angry Russian, clearly pissed at having his little monologue interrupted. Always the fucking showman.

He turns back to the camera, irritation obvious in his dark eyes.

“Anyway, by the time you get this, your man will be long dead. I could ship his body parts to you, but why waste the postage?” He chuckles.

“My dogs will feast on the flesh of wop for the first time in their lives. I hope wop flesh is tasty and doesn’t give them–”

“Why does he keep referring to us as wops and?—”

“Shhh,” I shush Enzo. The slur is nothing new—a derogatory term meant to dehumanize Italians.

“ —poisoning.” Sergey pauses to laugh at his own joke, then his lips curl into what he thinks is a victorious smile.

“A new king is coming for your crown, Moretti. So enjoy that throne while it lasts, because soon, it will be mine.” He punctuates his declaration with a wink, and the video cuts to black.

“Fucking Volkov!” Enzo explodes, pacing away from my desk. “What the fuck was that?”

What indeed? I muse, my mind racing through possibilities.

Where’s this sudden courage coming from?

This… delusion to think he can challenge me?

Has everyone gone mad for real? They’re all forgetting who I am so soon?

“You said this came in last night? While we were at Inferno?” The same night the FBI struck. Coincidence?

She makes you soft . Enzo’s warning creeps into my head, uninvited—and with it, Emilia’s face.

I banish her image instantly, locking it away in a fortified corner of my mind. I don’t need her up there clouding my judgment right now. Not when I need to be the monster everyone fears.

With a calm that masks the fury burning in my veins, I power down the phone and return it to its box, covering it as best I can. “Go burn it. Then toss the ashes into the Hudson,” I instruct Enzo.

He studies my face, and a slow, knowing smile spreads across his. “You’ve got that look. That calm-before-the storm look.” He grabs the box and heads for the door, whistling low under his breath. “Sergey just fucked himself, didn’t he?” .

More than he could possibly understand.

Fucking Russian. He thinks he’s untouchable in Long Island? That territory might not officially belong to the Nightshades, but that doesn’t mean my tentacles don't stretch there. Hell, I can reach any fucking idiot in any corner of the entire damn country.

Sergey Volkov just signed his own death certificate—along with every one of his men.

I tap the obscure button on my desk—just like in my office at Inferno. All my desks have the same hidden design, so even if someone breaks in, they’ll find nothing worth stealing.

As I turn on my laptop, my phone starts vibrating. One text. Two. Three. I slide my gaze to it and distractedly pick it up with one hand while typing my laptop password with the other.

The group chat with my brothers is blowing up. All three of them sending similar messages within seconds of each other.

Maximo

What the fuck is going on with Sergey Volkov? Did he finally lose his ever-living mind?

Romero

The Russians have gone mad.

Michael

Tell me I’m not the only one who got the honor of a fucking threatening video from the fucking Russians.

Huh. Of course they got messages too. So we’re all targets.

Me

I take it we all got a variant of the same message from our friend then. Meet me at Inferno in four hours. We have much to discuss .

More messages flood in as I set down the phone, but I’ve already moved on. I need information, and I know exactly where to get it.

I move the laptop’s cursor to the browser and type in the address. It loads fast, bringing up a porn site cluttered with explicit thumbnails and pop-ups begging for attention.

I scroll past the chaos until I spot the ad I’m looking for: a dark box with white text.

Are you alone right now?

Two options sit below: Cancel and a blinking Yes .

I click Yes .

The screen immediately fills with footage of a cam girl pleasuring herself. I ignore her performance entirely and dive straight into the comment section. It’s packed with thirsty idiots, so it takes a while for me to sift through the filth.

Then I find what I need—an encrypted link to a chatroom that erases itself after thirty minutes.

ME

Did you know about Sergey’s intended attack on the Nightshades?

I ask, going straight to the point.

SP

I found out too late. The men were already killed. I tried to reach out to you, but you were not online.

That’s the drawback of this communication method—if we’re not on at the same time, messages vanish into digital oblivion.

ME

Tell me everything you know.

Three pulsing dots appear as my mysterious informant types.

I recall the first time SP reached out to me—just under six months ago at a charity event. A flyer for a porn website was shoved into my hand, and whoever did it vanished into the crowd before I could spot them.

I would have trashed the fucking thing right then and there if it wasn’t for a politician who came up to me. Not wanting to be seen holding that filth, I stuffed it into my pocket and forgot about it… until I got home and started undressing.

The sight of it pissed me off all over again, so I pulled out my lighter to burn it, turning the side with the trashy print away from me. But as the flame neared the blank backside, words started to appear. Invisible ink.

A hidden message.

Want information on the most private of criminal organizations?

Go to the website on the flyer. Several ads will pop up.

Click yes to the one asking if you’re lonely.

You'll be redirected to a live video. Don’t panic.

Go through the comment section and find the link ending in ‘.xyp’.

It will lead you to a chat with me.