Page 126 of Devil's Azalea

I hold up a hand to cut him off. “This is something I have to do alone.”

Despite my desperate urgency to get to Rafael, I force myself to return to the penthouse first for a quick shower. Then I slip into the navy suit I got a few years ago when I had to testify in court during the prosecution of a criminal I’d detained.

I twist my hair into a professional chignon and check my reflection. I’m good to go. Sometimes appearance makes the difference between being taken seriously and being dismissed. And I absolutely need to be taken seriously for what I’m about to do.

Chin high, spine straight, I walk as fast as my stilettos will let me to the elevator.

I stop by the security room to collect two flash drives from Pierre, then head down to the basement garage. My heart leaps into my throat when the elevator doors slide open to reveal four men waiting outside. I immediately whip my gun out and point it at them.

“Step back,” someone tells the men in Italian, and a fifth man appears. He looks vaguely familiar.He was at the wedding.One of the made men. I don’t lower my gun though, not trusting him one bit.

“Is it true what’s happened?” he asks, voice dripping with disdain. But he doesn’t need my answer—the blood coating the elevator and garage floor tells the whole story. “I knew Rafael marrying a darned FBI agent was the worst idea ever.”

I roll my eyes and point the tip of my gun down as I step out of the elevator. I ignore the other men behind him—probably lower-level dons and their guards, all here like vultures to circle around and see what they can pick over while Rafael is locked up.

I fish the key fob from my pants pocket and point it at the Bentley I’ve been eyeing since I moved in here. It chirps beautifully, and despite the situation, a thrill zips through me at the prospect of driving it.

Without a backwards glance, I stride towards the car and tug the door open.

“Where are you going, woman?” the man calls after me.

I slide into the driver’s seat, my jaw set.

Going to bust my husband out of jail.

43

EMILIA

The rhythmic click-click-click of my heels against the marble sends confidence surging through my veins as I stride out of the elevator onto the 23rd floor of the FBI office. I’ve walked through these floors what—a thousand times over the years? But the circumstances this time are different.

Today, I’m not Agent Tomassi. I’m Mrs. Moretti, and I’m here to collect what’s mine.

Where I used to glide past the front desk without a glance, now I march straight for it with a pounding heart. The officer behind it watches me like a hawk. This is my first time seeing him here, so he must be new. My gaze flicks to the ID tag hanging from his neck as I deliver my opening line.

“Name, please,” he says in a bored tone.

“Emilia Moretti for Rafael Moretti.”

His fingers freeze over the keyboard. He looks up from his computer screen, and I watch recognition dawn in his eyes as he does a double take. He might not know me personally, but he’s definitely heard of me. My marriage to Rafael wasn’t exactly a quiet one. I raise a cool brow at his obvious staring, and he goes back to typing on his computer.

“An officer will be right out to escort you to the holding cell where your husband is being detained, ma'am. When did you get the call from his lawyer?”

My heart stutters.His lawyer.Of course Rafael has a lawyer—no, a whole team of them. And apparently not a single one of those overpaid suits thought to pick up a phone and inform me that my husband got arrested?

I fish my phone from my pocket, checking just in case I missed a call. Nope, nothing.

What if he told them not to call me?The thought slams into me with the force of a sledgehammer, but I shove it down deep. No way. Absolutely not. Rafael knows I wouldn’t betray him that way. Not a second time. Not after everything we’ve gone through to reach this point.

“Mrs Moretti? Come with me.” A woman steps out from the back office. It’s Riley, one of the agents. I haven’t interacted with her, but I’ve seen her around. Her expression stays carefully blank, and I mirror that same mask as I follow her towards the elevator.

I try to shove my doubts to the back of my mind, but it’s impossible. My pulse hammers, and I barely resist the urge to tap the pointed end of my stiletto against the elevator floor.

What if he says he doesn’t want to see me?

Stop it. If Rafael didn’t want to see me, the front desk officer would have turned me away at the door. That logic helps settle my nerves, but my fingers still unconsciously twist my wedding rings around and around.

We get off on the fifth floor and walk through a long hallway leading to the holding cells. After taking a right turn, I spot them immediately—a cluster of expensive suits huddled outside one particular door, heads bent together in hushed, urgent conversation.