Page 6 of Devil's Azalea

“Emilia.”

Just one word, and my brain short-circuits. Fuck, I’ve always loved the way he says my name. Low and velvet-smooth, like a secret meant only for me. Like he’s tasting it. Like he stillownsit. Like—oh my God,fucking pull yourself together already, Emily.He’s acriminal, and you’re a federal agent. You’re supposed tohatehim.

I tilt my chin up to look down my nose at him. Not an easy task to accomplish with someone almost a foot taller, but I manage it through sheer force of will. “Rafael,” I reply, infusing my tone with all the disdain I can muster, which, given the circumstances, isn’t nearly as much as I’d like.

The corner of the bastard’s lips curls up in a ghost of a smile. “You could have chosen any other darned day for this. Why this beautiful holiday,piccola?”

My heart aches at hearing him call me that damned nickname in that soft, familiar way, and I scowl, hating that he still has the power to affect me so profoundly after everything that’s happened between us.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” I snarl, raising a hand to jab at his chest. Guns pop out in an instant—his men aiming at us, and Katie and the other agents drawing theirs in response.

One wrong move and this could turn into a bloodbath right here on a Manhattan street.

Yet I don’t let that stop me. I jab my finger hard against his solid chest, ignoring the tension. “I’m going to get you, Rafael. Maybe even right now, because your men pointing their guns at federal agents counts as obstruction of justice. A federal crime.”

Rafael smirks—that infuriating, sexy smirk that used to make me want to either slap him or kiss him senseless—and covers my finger with his hand. Electric tingles shoot down myspine as he presses it to his chest, right over the steady beating of his heart. With his other hand, he gives a lazy wave to his men, who lower their guns immediately, though their eyes remain vigilant. “You didn’t find what you were looking for then?”

With a glower, I try to yank my finger from his grip, but he doesn’t let go. Not right away. For one breathless moment, my pulse skyrockets at the thought that he might not. That he’ll tighten his hold, drag me closer, say something reckless, and ruin us both.

Instead, his thumb rolls over my finger in a slow, maddening caress that lights a fuse low in my stomach. I hate it. Goddammit, I hate it so much.

My brain is screaming that I should rip my hand back or kick him right where it hurts—anything but just stand here like some dumbass frozen in his heat.

And still, I don’t move.

Then, as if satisfied, he finally releases me, and I have to lock my spine rigid to suppress the shudder threatening to crawl through me.

Bastard.

To prove a point—to him or myself, I’m not sure—I wipe my finger down my pants as I say, “This isn’t over, so get that smirk off your face,stronzo.”

His goddamn smirk only widens, which makes my glare sharpen into something near murderous. I maintain aggressive eye contact while backing away towards my car, my agents moving with me in perfect formation.

Only when I slide into the driver’s seat—finally looking away from him—do they disperse to their own cars.

Katie slips into the passenger seat next to me. “You good?”

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” I growl, jamming the key into the ignition. But fuck, the conviction doesn’t land as strong as it used to, and I hate it. I hate it, hate it, hate it.

He’s fucking wormed his way into my head with his constant hovering and interference in my life, and now his presence is making me doubt myself and my revenge. I push those doubts down ruthlessly, burying them beneath years of rage and pain.

“Iamgoing to kill him,” I repeat with more force this time.

He’s not the Rafael I fell for ten years ago. Not anymore. That man is gone. What’s left is the monster who fucking murdered my father and has piled atrocity upon atrocity since then.

No matter what my treacherous heart might want, there’s only one way this can end: with Rafael Moretti behind bars—or in the ground.

And I’ll be the one to put him there, even if it kills me too.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

2

RAFAEL

Everyone has a first love. Even hardened criminals like me.

Emilia Azalea Rossi was mine.