Page 3 of Devil's Azalea

Maximo, the mercenary who’ll kill a man without blinking. Romero, the hotshot criminal lawyer who can argue his way out of hell itself. And Michael—his brand of crazy might be less public, but I know all about his underhanded tactics in crushing his competitors in the tech field.

Best of all, I’ve witnessed firsthand what they’re capable of—six years ago proved that much.

Exactly what I need to pull this off.

“New York City is big. Too fucking big,” I continue. “I could try to do it all alone, but I’m just one man. If we come together, though? We’ll be an unstoppable force. We’ll take over the city, borough by borough, until it knows exactly who its masters are. You’ll be the dons of your own boroughs—with power, money, and the world at your feet. Kings in your own rights. The only one you’ll ever have to answer to is me.”

The rooftop goes quiet. The kind of quiet that follows a loaded promise.

Then Maximo chuckles.

“You know, I’m getting damn tired of this mercenary work of mine,” he starts, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’m in, Rafael. And I call dibs on Queens,” he adds, smirking.

My lips tilt up a little as satisfaction cuts through me. One down. “Then you have it. Queens is yours.” I glance at my other brothers in question.

“I’m in too,” Michael says with a lazy shrug. “But I’m working on a code—a prototype that I believe might just put my company on the map. So not sure if I’ll have time to govern a whole borough.”

“Easy fix. You can govern Manhattan with me. It’s too densely packed, too wide for one person to manage alone. I’ll give you Midtown.” And since I know all about the codes he’s working on, I add, “I have no doubt you’ll make waves both in the tech world and ours, Michael.” He’s a genius for a reason. A dangerous, unhinged genius who will fit perfectly into my plans.

“Cool with me.” Michael leans back, crossing his ankle over his thigh. “You’ve been hogging all the fun for yourself. About time we get a piece of it.”

Two down. I nod, then finally turn to Romero, who’swatching us with a little furrow between his brows, green eyes stormy. “Are you in, Rome?”

His middle finger traces an absent circle on the table’s surface. “I went to law school with thoughts of upholding the law, Rafael. Not to go back to our old ways.”

As if you ever truly left them, I think but don’t say. The blood we’ve spilled together can never be washed away, no matter how many degrees he hangs on his wall.

“This won’t be like before, Romero. This time, we’re not some underlings—we’re the ones calling the shots. That makes all the difference.”

His finger stills. “Can I have some time to think it over? It’s… a different path from what I envisioned for myself.”

“Of course,” I assure him, holding his gaze briefly to show him I respect his decision. But we both know what his answer will be in the end. The pull of brotherhood runs deeper than law or pride. He’ll come around.

I turn back to the other two, who’ve been watching our exchange with barely concealed interest. “Now that that's out of the way…” I raise my right hand and wave two fingers.

Almost immediately, the side door leading to the stairs opens, and a few of my men emerge, pushing a trolley loaded with chilled alcohol.

“A drink. To celebrate our union,” I say as the empty table quickly fills with bottles and glasses.

For a moment, no one moves. A heavy pause hangs among us.

“Our reunion isn’t exactly complete,” Maximo murmurs, picking up a bottle of bourbon and snapping the lid open. The others mumble in agreement.

Before I can respond, the door opens again, and Enzo steps out onto the rooftop. Even from across the distance, I can see the excitement radiating from him as he hurries towards me. He acknowledges my brothers with curt nods before leaningdown to whisper in my ear—sweet, addictive words that make satisfaction curl in my chest.

“We found her, Rafael. We found Emilia.”

This reunion might be incomplete right now, but soon, very soon, we’ll all be together again. Just as we’re meant to be.

1

EMILIA

Present day…

“Slap them with every crime they've ever committed. Money laundering. Embezzlement. Murder. Torture. Assault. Anything you can think of, they’ve done it,” my supervisor barks into the phone.

Though he can’t see me, I nod reflexively, my eyes tracking my colleagues as they methodically sweep through the nightclub—now empty, except for its employees who are watching us like hawks, some even trailing my agents upstairs.