Page 105 of Devil's Azalea

Then he shakes me, hard enough to snap the fog away, and suddenly the chaos in the garden crashes back into focus—people yelling, footsteps scuffling, the sound of something heavy being dragged.

“Piccola, answer me. Are you okay? Did I push you down too hard?” His entire focus burns into me, even though behind him I catch glimpses of the wedding guests swarmingaround someone I can’t quite make out. The shooter, probably.

He’s worried about pushing me too hard when someone just tried to blow my brains out.

Something snaps inside me.

“Are you fucking stupid?” The scream that rips from my throat silences every murmur in the garden and draws every pair of eyes to us. Do I care? Not even a little. I shove him back, slapping his chest over and over. “You could have gotten shot! What the hell were you thinking?” My voice fractures on the last word, and suddenly I’m shaking so hard I can barely breathe as the full weight of what just happened crashes down on me.

He threw himself on top of me. Without hesitation. Without thinking about his own life.

“Areyouokay?” My hands race over his chest, searching for blood, for holes, for any sign that he’s hurt. Nothing. He’s fine. That should be a relief, but instead, a bone-deep chill rolls through me, and I wrap my arms tight around myself as my teeth chatter.

Rafael curses under his breath and shrugs off his jacket. The garden is warm—outdoor heaters hum everywhere—but temperature has nothing to do with why I’m shivering.

This is the second attempt on my life within a week. Someone really wants me gone.

I’m no stranger to near-death situations. I’ve had brushes with death plenty of times over the years as an agent. But this… this blatant, public assassination attempt is new.

My hand slips under my dress, fingers closing around the knife hidden in my thigh holster. Just as I draw it free, Rafael’s jacket descends over my shoulders, and his scent—more than the warmth of the expensive fabric—is what calms me enough to start thinking rationally. It’s like being wrapped in his protection, even when he’s not touching me.

As I get to my feet, I feel my crown sitting crooked on my head, but fixing it is the last thing on my mind right now.

My grip on the knife tightens.

The crowd parts for me as I march towards the shooter, my left hand gathering the heavy skirts of my dress, my right brandishing steel.How the fuck did I not notice him?I berate myself as I finally come to a stop in front of him.

Or rather, his corpse.

My lips curl in disgust as I stare down at the prone body with the right side of his brain blown out. “Who shot him?” My calm voice belies my anger, because with him gone, so is any chance of learning who the fuck sent him.

Who the fuck wants me dead badly enough to crash my wedding?

“He shot himself after firing at you,” a familiar voice says. It’s Enzo, the man who’s always with Rafael.

I drop to my knees, not caring about my dress, and start searching the fake waiter’s pockets.There has to be something. A clue. Anything.

“Emilia.” Rafael’s voice, soft but commanding, stops me cold. I glance back at him as he extends his hand down to me. “Our men will take care of that. Come, we have our wedding reception to attend.”

I glance around and notice several phones pointed in our direction, trying to be discreet about recording me crouched over a dead body in my wedding dress with a knife in my hand. I calmly get to my feet. “This is being recorded,” I murmur to my husband. He doesn’t say a word, just gives a subtle nod at Enzo, who’s close enough to hear.

Maximo, Michael, and Romero step up to us as we move away from the crowd.

“We’ll deal with this,fratello. Focus on your wedding,” Maximo says, his gaze skimming over me, and I’m a little warmed by the concern in his eyes.

“Any idea who might be trying to get rid of you?” Romero asks, and I shake my head mutely, a little ashamed, because it could be anyone. I haven’t exactly been a saint.

“That’s alright. Go on.” They shoo us away.

Rafael’s men fall into tight formation around us as we head back into the hotel, and his words from earlier replay in my mind.Our men will take care of that.

Ourmen. Because I’m a Moretti now. A Nightshade. The thought sends an unexpected thrill through me as I glance down at my rings.

The wedding coordinator tries to separate us so I can change into my reception dress, but Rafael isn’t having it. He follows me back to my suite, pacing the length of the huge room like a caged predator while typing furiously on his phone.

I already know heads will roll for this security breach. Our wedding might have been planned quickly, but no expense was spared, especially on security. The main reason we got married was because of the danger surrounding me. And still, someone managed to get in. How?

There has to be an inside man. But who?