Page 7 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)

You’ll have any information you want at your disposal.

Steep price, but your first taste is free ;)

Intrigued but cautious—it could easily be a trap, an attempt to hack into my systems or plant incriminating evidence—I went to Michael, the technologic genius among us. If anyone can outsmart a hacker, it’s him.

He followed the instructions on his fortified, encrypted computer and assured me it was legit enough. At the very least, there were no shady bugs hidden in the site or its links that could possibly endanger my files.

And that’s how my connection with SP began.

I still don’t know who the hell he is—but he damn sure knows who I am, if the subtle hints he’s dropped in our chats are anything to go by. And that’s exactly why I try to use his services only when I need immediate intel that my regular channels can’t provide.

SP

Sergey visited the New York Public Library a week ago. Met with someone powerful there.

I couldn’t identify them—they brought tech advanced enough to scramble the bug I planted on Sergey's ring.

What I do know: after the meeting, Sergey became convinced he could take over the city from Rafael Moretti.

He thinks he’s taking over my city?

A primal rage bubbles up inside me, threatening to boil over. I fought tooth and nail to take over this city, for it to be fully mine. I’ll be damned if I let anyone take it from me.

They’ll have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands—and even then, I’d find a way to reach from beyond the grave and strangle them with the chains of hell itself.

“Hold on, let me see if I heard you right. Someone’s feeding Volkov the delusion that he can take over from us?” Romero snorts. “And the idiot actually believed it?”

I tap my index finger on the booth table, glancing around the currently empty club as I contemplate how to handle Sergey diplomatically.

The rage still burns hot in my chest, but I can’t let it cloud my judgment.

The damn man has made a name for himself as one of the best arms dealers in the States.

Taking him out now would stir up more trouble than it’s worth.

If I go the political route and table it to the commissioner , Sergey will get punished—probably banished from the States. But that would still leave him able to continue his business from somewhere overseas.

That’s too fucking lenient for me.

I shift my attention to Maximo. “The Albanians are allies with the Russians. Did your in-laws get a video as well?”

He nods grimly. “Roan recorded it and sent it to me. Hang on.” Roan—his redheaded, Albanian brother-in-law. A ruthless son of a bitch slowly climbing higher on my radar.

Maximo’s fingers fly across the phone screen, and seconds later, our devices ping simultaneously as the video lands in our group chat.

The Albanian’s torture mirrors Pierre’s—except their man was left alive. Barely. Death would have been a mercy to the poor man compared to the state he’s been left in.

Sergey ends the video with an ultimatum. “I’m keeping your man alive out of goodwill. Pick your allies carefully, Afrim. Is it me or the Nightshades? You have forty-eight hours.”

“This is madness.” Michael slams his fist on the table, his diamond thumb ring glinting under the dim lights overhead. “Have they forgotten who the fuck we are?”

“And he’s cut us off as a supplier,” Romero snarls, downing his whiskey in one angry toss. “Does he think we won’t find another? Fucking arrogant swine. ”

I share their sentiments completely, but we need to keep our heads clear if we’re going to handle this right. Sergey’s dangerous, yeah. But what concerns me more is the unknown player behind him. That meeting in the library wasn’t for fun.

Until I find out who gave him the confidence to challenge us, we must tread carefully. Because that’s the real threat. Not Sergey or any other thug in the underworld. I hate not knowing who I’m up against.

“Did Permeti tell you where the Albanians stand?” I ask Maximo, studying his expression for any hint of divided loyalties.

I wouldn’t blame the guy if he sided with the Russians. They share territory on Long Island, so Sergey could make life hell for him.

“It’s a no-brainer that he and the other Albanians are sticking with us, Rafael. We’re blood now,” Maximo replies with strong conviction, and relief floods through me.

“Good.” I nod. We need all the allies we can get. Sergey might have started this war, but I’ll be the one to end it. Him included—once I figure out who’s pulling his strings. “Tell your men to be on high alert. And find a new arms supplier. ASAP.”

“About that. Roan says he can get weapons for us through the Kosovo–Serbia border.”

“Perfect. Tell him to reach out to me.” With the meeting winding down, I finally pick up my tumbler of whiskey and take a sip.

“By the way, the annual ballet performance and auction is this weekend.” Michael reminds me. “You sending your usual representative this year too?”

Right. The invitation came in the mail months ago, followed by a reminder email last month, and another just last week.

It’s the end-of-year social event for the city’s top 1%.

A chance for new money to kiss up to old money and cozy up with grubby, corrupt politicians.

Most made men show face too, since forging the right connections can decide how long you last in our world.

I haven’t attended in years. I usually send someone to keep up appearances and make sure they remember the Nightshades still own the room.

I’ve already got most of those bastards in my pocket anyway.

And frankly, I’ve got better things to do than sit through a dull ballet and watch bored billionaires fight over some overpriced piece of hundred-year-old upholstery like it’s the Holy Grail.

Still, I let out a heavy sigh. “I’m going this time.”

If people are forgetting who I am, it seems I need to start showing up to these things more. Remind them I’m not a myth. That I’m very real—and still just as dangerous.

“You think the FBI might try to show up to this thing?” Michael asks, frowning. “My intel says they’re still poking around in our business. Those agents who raided Inferno have been seen nearby.”

He means Emilia and her colleagues.

Maximo slams his fist on the table as he gets up from his seat. “Emily better not cross paths with me,” he growls. “And she sure as hell better not cross paths with my wife.”

That’s a threat.

My jaw clenches, anger flashing through me at the fact that he thinks he can threaten her. The only one allowed to do that is me .

But she’s no longer just my enemy—she’s branded herself an enemy to us all now.

She’s your weakness.

Fucking Enzo and his damn mouth.

I stand abruptly, cutting off whatever Maximo might say next. If I stay, I might do something I’ll regret. So without another word, I walk away from my brothers, ending the meeting before my mask of control slips.