Page 15 of Devil's Azalea

I would have trashed the fucking thing right then and there if it wasn’t for a politician who came up to me. Not wanting to be seen holding that filth, I stuffed it into my pocket and forgot about it… until I got home and started undressing.

The sight of it pissed me off all over again, so I pulled out my lighter to burn it, turning the side with the trashy print away from me. But as the flame neared the blank backside, words started to appear. Invisible ink.

A hidden message.

Want information on the most private of criminal organizations?

Go to the website on the flyer. Several ads will pop up.

Click yes to the one asking if you’re lonely.

You'll be redirected to a live video. Don’t panic.

Go through the comment section and find the link ending in ‘.xyp’.

It will lead you to a chat with me.

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

Steep price, butyour 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 overmycity?

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 thecommissioner, 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.