Devil’s Foxglove (Nightshades #5)

Chapter 1

KATIE

The late afternoon sun spills in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning every speck of dust into floating gold as I wipe down yet another antique dresser.

I huff out a frustrated breath, my breathing carefully controlled through parted lips because the last thing I need is a sneezing fit to blow my cover.

God, this room is ridiculous.

One of—what, twenty?—elegant guest bedrooms that no one has actually slept in since I started this maid charade three weeks ago.

Huge, church-quiet, and completely over the top, like it exists purely to impress.

Then again, that’s the whole Permeti mansion in a nutshell: three floors of unused rooms, more for show than human habitation.

The other buildings in the estate probably tell different stories—the ones where Afrim’s men live and breathe and bleed. But I haven’t been assigned to clean there yet, so there’s no way to know.

I’m bent over, smoothing out a wrinkle in an overpriced Persian rug, when the door creaks open behind me. Heavy footsteps echo into the silence, and my blood instantly goes cold.

Shit.

The other maids and I are usually left alone when we’re cleaning—Afrim and his men don’t waste their time supervising. So if it’s not them… yeah, this can’t be good.

Heart racing, I straighten to my full five-foot-five and turn around.

But even before I see him, I know who it is.

I’ve mostly only dealt with Afrim Permeti since I infiltrated this place, and while the older man has his own brand of authority, he doesn’t possess the kind of magnetic presence that shifts the very air in a room just by walking in.

Only one person in this house does.

I trace long, very long legs encased in boots and fitted dark jeans, up to a white shirt half-hidden beneath a black leather jacket molded perfectly to thick arms. A glint of gold at his neck snags my attention, and I’m seconds from squinting like a dumbass to see what it is before forcing my gaze higher.

Past reddish–brown stubble. Past a sharp, slightly crooked nose dusted with freckles I have no business finding hot. And yet—hello, mouth watering.

Since when do I have a thing for man-freckles?

Then I finally make eye contact with the intruder, and my carefully constructed composure nearly cracks under the weight of those emerald depths. My heart thuds—once, twice, doesn’t stop—my pulse going absolutely wild in my throat as his gaze arrests mine.

Roan Permeti.

I’d seen his face in the brief tossed in my lap that night a month ago when I was given this nightmare mission.

One grainy surveillance photo, all shadows and bad angles, because he isn’t exactly the social type and rarely seen at high-profile events people of his class usually attend.

Even so, even blurred, he’d looked dangerous in a generic, criminal sort of way. But in person? Holy hell.

That photo hadn’t captured even a fraction of him.

Not the dark red hair pulled into a man-bun, not the few rebellious strands curling at his temple.

Not the stubble, trimmed so precisely it turns already sharp features into something almost sculpted.

And definitely not the eyes—the way they seem to glow from within, lit by intelligence that makes it feel like he’s reading my thoughts, like he’s already figured out that I don’t belong here and is just waiting to see what I’ll do about it.

He’s so unfairly handsome it actually pisses me off.

I wasn’t supposed to be attracted to him. My brain knows better, my knees too, and yet every damn part of me is betraying itself. This could ruin everything if I’m not careful.

Heat creeps up my neck as I realize how not put together I look right now.

My hands twitch, wanting to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, and my mind nags at me to check if I look decent at all.

But none of that matters—I’m not here to look pretty.

Besides, there’s nothing embarrassing about being a maid; it’s not like I’ve been caught stealing.

Though technically, what I’m doing here is far worse than theft.

“Who the hell are you?” The words roll through the room, deep and rough with an edge that suggests he doesn’t ask questions twice.

And somehow, my nipples actually tighten in response, which is just fantastic.

Of course he has a voice that could melt panties.

Because why would the universe give me any breaks?

I steady my breathing the way I was trained, wiping my hands on the apron that’s become both costume and shield. Each step he takes closer winds my nerves tighter, but I lift my chin to hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. “I’m the new maid.”

Good. Keep it simple. Don’t give him anything to work with.

He’s been away on some business trip for the entire three weeks I’ve been here, negotiating with the Albanians on Long Island now that he’s taken control from his father. I was hoping to have more time to establish my cover before dealing with him directly.

So much for that plan.

He stops advancing and runs his gaze over my body in one quick, assessing sweep. “You always clean with the door shut?”

Shit. Did I break some unspoken rule?

“I didn’t want to disturb the others,” I reply smoothly, hoping that’s enough to make him lose interest and leave me the hell alone.

One auburn brow arches into those rebellious red curls at his temple. “You got a name, new maid?”

Katie.

My real name almost slips out, but I bite it back just in time. “Mia. Mia Jorge.”

For a heartbeat, his eyes narrow with unmistakable suspicion. Then his head tilts slightly, like he’s listening to something beyond the walls. Some sound I can’t hear. When his attention snaps back to me, the room seems to lose all its warmth. I’ve never seen eyes freeze over so fast.

He knows something. Somehow, he fucking knows.

My heart is doing acrobatics now as I wait for his verdict, but I keep my expression carefully concerned—like a maid anxious about losing her job, not a guilty intruder terrified of losing her life. He takes a step forward, mouth opening to deliver what’s surely going to be a verbal execution—

“Roan.”

The voice floats in from the hallway, cheerful and deep and thank God, familiar. Dizzying relief rushes through me, and then Afrim Permeti is there, filling the doorway with a wide smile creasing his weathered face. Did Roan somehow hear those approaching footsteps? That’s… unsettling.

“Ate,” Roan says, his voice losing none of its edge even when greeting his father.

Afrim crosses into the room, undeterred by his son’s hostile mood, and pulls him into a firm embrace.

Roan doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t exactly melt into it either—just performs the mechanical back-patting ritual men do before breaking apart.

I drop my gaze, hoping to fade into the background.

It doesn't work.

“Ah, I see you’ve met Mia! She’s been an absolute delight.” Afrim’s words draw my gaze back up to him, and I manage what I hope is a warm, grateful smile.

The older Permeti had completely blindsided me when I first arrived.

I’d braced myself for a cold-hearted, paranoid bastard with a stick up his ass—basically, the way Roan is acting right now.

Instead, I found a man who chats with the maids, asks about our families, and damn near glows every time he mentions his new grandson.

He’s actually so… human. Paternal. Which makes this whole situation infinitely more complicated.

I shouldn’t like him, not when my mission depends on staying detached. But the man makes it impossible. He even discovered I play chess and now regularly challenges me to games when my work is finished.

“A delight indeed.” Roan responds dryly, jerking me out of that fragile comfort and into the danger at hand.

My smile fades as I catch his gaze again, all that suspicion still glittering in those perceptive emerald eyes. He doesn’t believe a word of this performance, and somehow I know that the moment his father leaves, the interrogation will begin in earnest.

But thankfully, Afrim takes his son by the elbow, steering him towards the door. “Come, we have much to discuss. The business on Long Island…”

The second they’re gone, my shoulders slump and I rub a hand over my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. “Stop that,” I whisper to my traitorous body that responded to him in all the wrong ways. “Just stop, damn it.”

Hell, I’m going to have to avoid Roan Permeti and that piercing look as much as humanly possible.

Get close to Roan and gather every scrap of intel you can on his import business—the shipping schedules, routes, everything.

Fuck that. Even the suspicion that he might be smuggling Albanians into the country through his company isn’t worth voluntarily putting myself in his crosshairs again.

I can find the information I need without getting anywhere near him. He hasn’t been around the past few weeks and I’ve managed just fine, haven’t I?

He’s too dangerous. He sees too much.

It would benefit both me and my mission enormously to stay the hell away from him.