Page 12 of Devil's Azalea

A different me. A different him.

It’s ridiculous how well I still remember every detail.

Rose gold band. Cushion-cut pale pink diamond at the center. Three outer circles of tiny diamonds shaped like the star petals of my azaleas. And above that, pink gems forming a delicate tiara.

I loved the ring when he first gave it to me. Hell, a part ofme, shoved deep down into the darkest corner of my soul, still loves it.

But it’s just too much. Too heavy with promises that were broken, with a future that died before it could begin.

Sitting beside it is a full-on diamond crown. Anactualcrown that cost even more than the ring—I know because I did my research on both.

After everything that’s gone down between Rafael and me, receiving something this extravagant from him feels wrong. Like a slap in the face. A mockery.

Not like he gave me a damn choice.

My gaze slips to the small, framed photograph lying facedown on the desk, and I pick it up. Detective Tomassi Rossi, standing proud and at attention in his uniform, with every medal he ever earned gleaming on his chest. My father, the man who raised me to believe in justice and honor, to always do the right thing no matter how difficult.

Rafael killed him.

I snap the box shut with a sharp, angry flick and stand, movements tight and jerky, as I shove it back into its hiding place on the bookshelf.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’m going to get him.” And I won’t let anything—not even my own stupid feelings—stand in my way.

I won’t.

4

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 naïve. 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.