Page 7 of Devil's Azalea

For as long as I could remember, I only wanted one thing: to make her mine in front of the whole world. To have her as my wife and queen.

She was my everything.

Until she betrayed me. Then she became nothing.

Or at least that’s what I project to my brothers—pretending like she’s become nothing to me, to us. But I know better than to lie to myself. Despite her damning deeds, she’s still got me fucking twisted on the inside.

She’s like an addiction I can’t quite rid myself of. An obsession. Or something even more lethal. The kind of poison a man willingly drinks knowing it will kill him, but he can’t resist the sweet taste on his lips.

I keep my face deliberately blank as I watch the taillights of her car blend into the late evening Manhattan traffic, all too aware of my men’s eyes on me.

What the fuck is her deal?

She always seems so angry whenever our paths cross,which is fucking ironic. She’s the one who betrayed me, not the other way around.

Funny, though—she wasn’t so angry last year when I had my tongue down her throat.

My phone vibrates in my breast pocket, snapping me out of that dangerous train of thought before I can tumble headfirst into the rabbit hole of remembering the sweet, drugging taste of her mouth. I turn my back to the traffic as I take out my phone, confident that anyone stupid enough to try and take me out on my turf will be swiftly dealt with by my men.

“Maximo, talk to me,” I say, grateful for the distraction.

My brothers had just arrived at my penthouse with their lovely wives, ready to kick off Thanksgiving, when we got the call about a fucking raid on our establishments. That killed the festive mood real fast. We didn’t waste time—we all left immediately to go check on our various businesses.

“You know we never leave damning evidence long enough to be found. The FBI came up empty in my office. Nothing on Romero’s and Michael’s ends either. We're clear.”

“For now,” I add. “Keep sharp and be careful who you trust.”

“Of course.” He pauses for a beat. “Was Emilia really behind this whole farce?” His tone is unreadable, but I have no doubt he’s pissed as hell.

He’s been angry with Emilia ever since last year. Not for shooting at him at the airport, no, not that. He’s angry she tried to go after his wife. That’s a line no one crosses.

I rub a hand over my face, torn between wanting to defend her—because I’m always trying to fucking defend the little traitor—and just spitting out the truth. I opt for the latter. “She’s getting orders from someone higher up for sure, but yeah, she was here.” My jaw clenches at the memory. Then I exhale heavily. “Listen, I think it goes without saying at this point that dinner is over. Go get your wife at myapartment and take her home. I’ll text Michael to do the same.”

“Actually, we’re on our way to your penthouse already.”

Of course they are. Maximo and Michael are so protective of their wives, it’s no surprise they’re already racing to them like knights on white horses. The kind of devotion I once wanted to give Emilia before she scorched that dream to ash…

“Good. I have some things to sort out here first. We’ll talk later.” I hang up before he can ask any more questions. I’m in no mood to answer.

Instead, I walk up to the entrance of Inferno, silently scowling at the empty space that’s usually bustling with patrons eager to get inside.

Fucking Emilia.I twist my watch on my wrist in irritation.

I’m not worried about how this will affect business. Tomorrow night, it’ll be like this shitshow never happened—I’ll make sure of it. What pisses me off is that it happened at all. Yet another red mark to go against Emilia.

Another event to add to the piling list of her goddamn misdeeds. The pressure pot is whistling, and soon it will pop.There’s a fucking limit, Emilia.

I know it won’t be long until she finally pushes me to the point where I’m convinced she’s beyond redemption. And when that happens, all hell will break loose.

“The clubbers were escorted out of the premises as soon as the agents arrived,” Vansh says as he steps up to me. I give him a blank stare. Why the fuck is he telling me something so obvious? Before I can quietly rip into him, Enzo waves him off.

“What are you thinking, Rafael?” Enzo asks, his voice calm but wary. He’s been by my side long enough to read my dark moods.

“I’m thinking someone needs to fucking pay for this.”

My jaw tightens as I step over a shard of glass, the crunch beneath my shoes reminding me of just how far this has gone.

Has everyone lost their minds? Have they forgotten who I am? What I’m capable of?