Page 88 of Devil's Azalea

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I clear my throat again because it’s starting to tighten with emotion. I’mnotfine at all.I don’t know what to believe anymore. My entire life feels like an elaboratelie. “Does your offer to go shopping still stand? Some retail therapy sounds perfect right about now.”

Katie pauses. “Of course it does. Get your ass back here and we’ll go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Katie and I spend the rest of the day hopping from one store to another, engaging in the time-honored tradition of window shopping. Yes, retail therapy is genuinely therapeutic, but we still need to be sensible with our spending—there are rent and bills and all the other joys of adult responsibility to consider. Ah, the glamorous life of a federal agent.

We go into the stores, try on some clothes and jewelry, then turn our noses up at the prices and walk out to try the next place. It’s ridiculous and fun and exactly what I need to get my mind away from my problems for a few hours.

But as we leave the mall, each holding a small gift bag, everything comes crashing back down on me. The air is light and we’re both relaxed—wellsheis still relaxed.

Should I ask her about last year?

She might have insight into what really happened. She was the one watching Maximo, the one who let me know his location—which was why I didn’t go after Elira. Could she have shared that information with someone else?

Impossible, right? Katie’s the one person I trust completely.

“Katie, I–” My phone chirps with an incoming text, cutting off whatever I was about to say. I pull it out as we walk towards the parking lot, frowning when I see the message is from a blocked number.

It’s an image. Of me. EnteringMughetto, Maximo’s restaurant in Queens a few hours ago.

Another text comes in immediately:

Traitor. Snitches get stitches.

I freeze, blinking at the messages as a mixture of disbelief and confusion rushes through me. What the hell?

“What is it?”

I glance up at Katie just in time to see three masked men in black emerge from the shadows behind her, sprinting towards us. “Watch out!” we both yell at the same time, reaching for each other in a moment of pure instinct.

My heart thuds anxiously as I spin around, and sure enough, three more masked men are charging behind me as well. One of them swings a gun in my direction, and I barely duck in time.

The men surround us, and my heart hammers erratically now.

We’re outnumbered. Six to two. And these are heavy-set men. From their stance and movements, I can tell they’re well-trained professionals.

Fuck.

Who the hell are they? Who sent me that text?

There’s no time for analysis. No time for fear.

The six of them close in like a pack of wolves, fists flying. Katie ducks low, dodging the first wave of hits, but I’m not quick enough. A heavy fist slams into my gut, catching my ribs, and I lose my breath in a rush as I stumble backwards, pain exploding through my torso.

The agony is excruciating, but there’s no time to focus on it because more punches are already coming.

Move, Em. Move or die.

My training and survival instincts finally kick in, and I twist away sharply, weaving and bobbing. Some blows still land. I can’t dodge them all. Not at this range, not with this many attackers.

But I’ll be damned if I go down without a fight.

I lash out with everything I have, driving my elbow hard into the face of the nearest attacker. There’s a satisfying crunch as it connects—he grunts, stumbling back with his hands flying to his nose. But before I can capitalize on the opening, another man charges in. As I block his swing, something sharp connects with the back of my skull, sending white-hot pain exploding through my head.

Disoriented, I spin around—just in time to take a fist to the throat. The blow knocks the air from my lungs. I double over, gasping, only to feel a vicious kick slam into my tailbone that sends me sprawling.

The pavement is rough, cold, and slippery under my palms, and I can’t catch myself in time—I hit the floor face-first.