Page 85 of Devil's Azalea

“One last thing,” he rushes out. “Before Sergey was released from custody, he came to see me. Bragged about having a contact who got him out the second they heard about his arrest. He all but said that the new FBI director was his contact, but I didn’t take the bait. That can’t be true… can it?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before pushing on. “He was also curious about how you knew to be in that restaurant. Thankfully, he didn’t suspect me, but he was very interested in the woman you saved—wanted to know who she was.”

Damn it. “Thank you, Jason. Stay alive.” I end the call and stare blankly at my desk for a long moment.

The pieces are all shifting—slowly falling into place. Jason’swords only confirmed what I already suspected: the newly appointed director of the FBI, who has a personal vendetta against me, is on the wrong side of the very law she’s supposed to be upholding.

That is, if she’s really working with Sergey.

And Emilia… my beautiful, reckless, infuriating Emilia is stuck right in the middle, making herself the perfect target for a woman who’s been lying to her for years.

My jaw clenches as a gnawing concern grows in my gut.

Fuck, I have my own battles to fight. It pisses me off that I have to worry about her on top of everything else.

But the alternative—letting something happen to her—isn’t an option. It’s never been an option.

“Get Emilia here,” I tell Enzo, who does a double take. “I don’t care if you have to kidnap her, drug her, or carry her here kicking and screaming. Justget her here.”

I’m done playing this cat-and-mouse game with her.

29

EMILIA

I wake up disoriented as hell, wincing at the brutal sunlight streaming through my open curtains straight into my skull.Fuck, what time is it?Rolling over feels like moving through molasses, but I manage to squint at my alarm clock. 2:08 PM.

I bolt upright, then immediately regret the sudden movement as the entire room tilts sideways and starts spinning. My stomach lurches in protest.

That fifth glass of wine at five in the morning was a spectacularly horrible idea, wasn’t it? But after riding my bike around the city, trying to outrun my thoughts, I still couldn’t quiet the chaos in my head. Alcohol was the only thing that finally knocked me out.

Getting drunk always works. Shuts my brain off completely, makes me sleep like the dead. Though right now, I’m questioning whether feeling like the dead was worth it…

The moment my feet hit the floor, the reason I couldn’t sleep comes flooding right back into my brain. I stumble to my sink and splash cool water on my face, trying to shock some clarity into my pounding skull.

I wish I could dig into Stacey’s head and see what she’s thinking.

Normally, her not telling me about Sergey’s release wouldn’t be a red flag. Directors have a lot of moving pieces to manage, and not every development makes it to every agent. But combined with her ordering—no, more likethreatening—me to stop digging into my father’s case, then casually ordering me to commit murder like she was asking me to pick up coffee?

Yeah, that’s a whole fucking red parade waving in my face.

And it only makes my already shaky trust in her crack further.

I’ve heard of power corrupting people, changing them into something unrecognizable. Is that what’s happening with her right now? Or is it something even more sinister? Like her true colors finally bleeding through?

I shake my head as I grab my toothbrush and start brushing my teeth with more aggression than necessary. My bathroom door is suddenly yanked open without so much as a knock, and I jump hard enough to nearly choke on toothpaste foam.

“So, I’ve been thinking.” Katie barges in, arms crossed over her chest with that determined expression I know means trouble. “We’ve worked our asses off this week, even if the results sucked. I think we’ve earned a little treat. Don’t you agree?”

I blink at her reflection in the mirror, then spit out the paste. “Do you have no respect for boundaries?” It’s a silly question—of course she doesn’t. Especially not when she thinks I’m still upset from last night. Which, obviously, I am.

She ignores my question. “How about a shopping spree? Nothing too extravagant, of course—we’re still government workers, after all.”

“Can I take a rain check?” I rinse my toothbrush and return it to its holder.

“For when?” she demands, planting her hands on her hips.

“This evening. I have something to do in Queens.” Thedecision crystallizes in my mind as I say it, surprising even me with its certainty.

She’s practically vibrating with curiosity—I can read it in every line of her body language. I half-expect her to demand details about what exactly I’m planning to do in Queens.