Page 122 of Devil's Azalea

Their panicked shouts burst through the speaker as they open fire, trying to bring it down. But it maintains its trajectory, climbing higher the closer it gets to the warehouse.

And then it drops the bomb right through an open window. “Fuck me,” someone groans just as a small explosion rocks the building, followed seconds later by a much larger blast that shakes the camera violently before the video cuts to black.

The first explosion should have been containable, but we kept explosives in that warehouse—bombs, ammunition, fireworks. The chain reaction took everything. I hand the phone back to the kid and turn to survey the damage.

The fires are finally dying down, revealing the warehouse instark, brutal detail. The entire structure is charred and smoking, the windows and doors shattered, one section reduced to rubble and dust. But part of the frame still stands proud.

It can still be salvaged. The same can’t be said for the weapons that were stored inside, though. I know those are all gone now. Millions of dollars, gone.

My hands curl into fists at my side.I’m going to fucking kill Sergey.

“Rafael.” Enzo’s voice carries a new kind of urgency. When I look at him, his knees are bouncing nervously, his face twisted with barely contained panic. Fuck, what now?

I leave my men and walk towards him, keeping my voice low. They don’t need to hear about the next bullshit that’s hit the air. “What is it?”

“Federal agents are at the house. They flashed some sort of warrant. The men wouldn’t let them in, of course, so now they’re shooting their way inside.”

Fuck.

Wordlessly, I jog towards my car, Enzo close behind me. They’re not going to find anything they can use against me there, not without an insider telling them where to look, but I don’t trust them not to plant evidence.

Stacey must be getting desperate to pull this kind of stunt. Agents don’t usually kick down doors, guns blazing. Desperate people do despicable things.

Does she not realize this could all blow up in her face?

I slide into the driver’s seat, grateful that Emilia is at least safely away from this chaos. Is she still with Romero? I curse when I remember Romero is busy trying to put out fires in his own territory.

Please stay out a few minutes longer, baby.

My hands tighten on the wheel as I drive like a maniac, taking corners that should flip the car, running lights that should get us killed. Ten minutes of pure adrenaline and we’rescreeching down into the underground lot—only to find it deserted.Shit.

I park haphazardly and jump out, my breath catching in my throat at the dead bodies in front of the elevator. Four of my men and two I don’t recognize. Agents?

“Holy fuck.” Enzo’s voice is filled with awe and horror, but he’s already pulling out his phone to take a picture of the bodies and the blood. There’s so much blood. “Are we sure this is the government and not just the Russians in disguise?”

He calls for the elevator, and I grimace when the doors slide open and the insides are splashed with blood. We step over the bodies to get inside, fire sizzling in my bones as my shoes sink into the pooled blood.

Enzo takes pictures of the interior. “What if it really is Russians?” he asks, voice low.

“It’s not. They aren’t Russians.” That much I’m sure of. Sergey might be growing some budding confidence, but the most he can do is attack me from afar where he’s safe from my retaliation. He isn’t crazy enough to attempt something this brazen. That title is reserved only for government agencies.

The elevator slides open onto my lobby—and we’re met with men pointing fucking guns at me. The rage that’s been building in my chest all night finally erupts, but I force it down, channeling it into the cold calculation that’s kept me alive this long.

I step out calmly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

A tall, thin man steps forward, flashing his badge with the arrogance of someone who thinks a piece of metal and plastic gives him power over me. “Rafael Moretti, you’re under arrest for money laundering, arms dealing, illegal possession of firearms, tax evasion, illegal procurement and distribution of pharmaceutical medications, kidnapping of a federal agent and marrying her under duress.”

Most of the charges are standard bullshit I’ve heard before, but the last one raises my brow. “What the fuck are you talking about? What does my wife have to do with this?”

His smirk is the kind that makes me want to rearrange his face. He plants both his filthy hands on my shoulders—I go rigid and shake them off me immediately. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Want me to add resisting arrest to the list?” His smirk widens.

I give him my back, pressing my wrists together for him. “Get on with it, then. And call my lawyer.”

“A lawyer isn’t going to get you out of this one.” He tugs out cuffs. “Thankfully, poor Emilia is safe away from your clutches now.”

There it is again. This is the second time he’s mentioned my wife, and every instinct demands I ask—but I know hewantsme to take the bait. So I don’t.