Page 99 of Devil's Azalea

I smirk at her, already imagining all the ways I’ll collect on this debt.Soon, I’ll have all that sass and attitude beneath me.I adjust the lapels of my jacket and spin around without another word, leaving the ward. Once the door shuts behind me and my men, I give them their orders.

“Pierre, you’re in charge. Your job—and the job of everyone here—is to make sure not a single strand of hair on my fiancée’s head is harmed. If anyone besides authorized medical personnel tries to enter this ward, I want to know who they are and what they want.Immediately. Am I clear?”

“Yes, boss,” Pierre answers, his expression serious.

Satisfied, I make my way to the elevator with Enzo, my mind already shifting to the meeting ahead.

“I hope to hell you know what you’re doing, Rafael,” my second-in-command mutters under his breath as we descend back to the lobby.

I don’t dignify his comment with a response. He has made his concerns about my re-engagement to Emilia abundantly clear since I told him about it last night, and I’ve made it equally clear where I stand.

I know exactly what I’m doing.

We arrived at the hospital in three separate cars; we leave in one, with the majority of my men staying behind to protect my soon-to-be wife. I don't know when her enemies might strike again, but they’ll have to go through an army to reach her.

I make it to Black Diamond, my hotel downtown, just over twenty minutes before the meeting time, and I’m not surprised when I walk into the thirty-seat conference room to find my brothers already seated at the table—I had been informed of their arrival a few minutes prior.

“Congratulations, man.” Romero grins at me. “Finally this darned rivalry with Emilia is over. I thought it was stupid right from the start.”

“Shut up, Rome,” Maximo grumbles. “There was nothing stupid about the rivalry.” But his words hold no real heat. His anger at Emilia had already cooled a bit after the last time we met, but he’s remarkably calm right now—probably due to her visit to him yesterday morning. I make a mental note to ask him about that later.

“We have the first two dons coming in hot,” Michael says, frowning down at his laptop. “So you should probably take your seat.”

I circle around the large table and settle into my chair at the head. My brothers sit flanking me—Michael and Romero to my right, Maximo to my left, and Enzo claims the spot beside him.

“Ready?” Romero asks me.

“I was born ready for this,” I answer just as the door opens.

Antonio Morone and Sandro Caruso walk in, and we exchange the usual pleasantries before they take their seats. After that, the other dons slowly filter in one after the other until every powerful made man in New York fills the room.

This is the first time since my takeover years ago that we’ve all sat together in the same room like this.

As soon as the last man arrives and takes his seat, the meeting begins.

It starts amicably enough—each don raising concerns about their territories, the various issues they’re facing, and we facilitate solutions.

Slowly, time trickles by, an hour passing with productive back-and-forth. Then conversation gradually fizzles out until a taut silence and an expectant tension fill the air. It’s time to address what they really came here for—the real reason this meeting was called.

Everything we’ve discussed so far could have been handled through phone calls like we usually do.

“I take it you’ve all received invitations to my wedding?” I ask, making eye contact with as many of the men as I can. They all frown in near-unison, misgivings clearly written on their faces.

“What’s going on, Rafael?” Luciano speaks up. “Is the wedding some sort of ploy? You’re not really marrying that FBI bitch, are you?”

The room draws a collective breath at his audacity.

Romero slams his hand on the table. “Watch your fucking mouth, Luciano.”

I lift a hand to calm my brother, and the tension thickens even further as I slowly rise to my feet. From my jacket, I take out a small but wickedly sharp pocket knife, spinning the handle idly between my fingers as I walk down the length of the table until I’m standing right in front of Luciano.

Sweat beads on his forehead as the reality of his mistake hits him. He swallows hard, his throat working nervously as he looks up at me.

Without a word, I point my finger to the table.

The room is so silent, I could hear a pin drop. Nobody dares to breathe as Luciano places a shaky hand on the desk. Spitefuldigs at a don’s spouse are the ultimate insult—punishable by the loss of limbs.

Outwardly, I appear calm, but I drive my knife into the table with all the force of my rage. A collective gasp fills the air, covered by Luciano’s thin, strangled scream—though I don’t know why since I haven’t actually touched him. The knife quivers in the wood, embedded perfectly between his ring and middle finger.