Chapter 3
3
EMILIA
“You want me to investigate Rafael?” I blurt out, my mind still spinning, struggling to process Stacey’s request. She knows about my history with him—how the hell could she ask this of me? Wouldn’t it be a conflict of interest? The very thought of spying on Rafael fills me with a sinking sense of dread.
Stacey’s eyes, usually warm and understanding, harden with resolve. “Flip the pages.” She nods toward the folder in my hand that I’m now clutching so tight, my knuckles turn white.
Something primal within me screams not to look, to toss the damn thing away and run. But I can’t. I’m rooted to the spot, my trembling fingers betraying me as they flip the page.
And I instantly regret it.
Oh, God…
Grotesque images assault my senses—bodies mutilated beyond recognition, flesh torn and twisted in ways bodies should never be. My stomach churns, and I taste bile at the back of my throat.
“All those people were brutally murdered by a group known as the Nightshades,” Stacey says, her voice oddly detached. “There’s more.”
I don’t want to see more. But I swallow and flip to the next page. The wave of nausea that hits me is so strong I nearly double over.
Little kids— girls , murdered with their limbs hacked off, and their middle sections gape open, showing missing organs. I feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead, and a strangled gasp escapes me. “W–what the hell?”
“Keep going.”
My fingers, numb and clumsy, fumble with the next page. The photos here are blurrier, like they were snapped from far away. But I’d recognize those faces anywhere.
Rafael Moretti, Michael Hart, Maximo Leonotti, and Romero Lombardi.
My saviors.
Men I consider family, even though they must hate me now.
They’re sitting across from each other in what looks like a rooftop garden, surrounded by flowers I know all too well. Nightshade. My lips part as recognition dawns. Those flowers aren’t just pretty—they stand for something.
Freedom. Revolution. Revenge.
Beneath the image, a scrawl of handwriting catches my eye: ‘the nightshades’ first meeting.’
“No,” I breathe, shaking my head in denial. “This can’t be right.”
“That meeting happened two months ago, Emily. Since then, the city has been turned upside down. Numerous deaths of the previous ruling mafia families. Massacres. Slowly but surely, the men in that picture took over New York, a borough at a time. They are the Cosa Nostra now. They rule the city. And Rafael… he is their leader.”
“ You’re wrong .” I insist. “They would never?—"
“There’s more,” Stacey cuts me off. “Flip.”
I shake my head again. I don’t want to see. But Stacey doesn’t give me a choice. She leans over and flips for me. The first picture shows an elderly man, on his knees, staring down the barrel of a gun. The picture is grainy, probably pulled from surveillance footage, but I know the man holding the gun.
I kissed him last night. I m ade out with him . And I wanted to do more. So much more.
In the next picture, the elderly man is sprawled on his back, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. Dead. Executed.
More pictures follow, each one more brutal, each one featuring Rafael, Michael, and Maximo. I try to reconcile these images of cold-blooded killers with the boys I once knew, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
The folder slips from my numb fingers, scattering its gruesome contents across the floor. My hands fly to my ears, clamping down hard, as if I could somehow shut out the cacophony of thoughts screaming through my skull. It’s pointless, I know. It never works—never has. But old habits die hard.
With monumental effort, I force my hands down from my ears, just like my therapist drilled into me. Stay in control. I close my eyes and focus on counting my breaths.
In. Out. In. Out. Slow and steady.
When I finally pry my eyes open, Stacey gives me an approving nod. “Good job, Emily. You’re making progress.” Then she tilts her head slightly. “But you’re still struggling with eye contact, huh?”
A bitter laugh bubbles from my throat. Eye contact. Right. Out of everything, she picks that to focus on? But I bite it back. “Yeah. It’s the worst,” I mutter, squeezing my hands into a fist.
Holding people’s gaze makes my brain crawl and my eyes burn. A symptom of my condition, they call it. Like the urge to cover my ears or the endless loop of repetitive thoughts. Knowing doesn’t exactly make it any easier to deal with, though. Sure, I’ve fought off some of the habits, but the eye thing… that’s still a losing battle.
“I’m trying,” I feel the need to add.
“That’s all that matters,” she says with a warm, encouraging smile, always so supportive. But her support is bittersweet. It always makes me wonder what my dad would think of me now. He’s been gone six years now, and without him, I wouldn’t have met Stacey.
My gaze drops to the pictures on the floor, and it all comes rushing back—the dead people, the pools of blood, the grainy surveillance footage. Rafael… I swallow hard, my stomach twisting.
When I look up again, Stacey’s smile is gone, her face serious once again. “I know you don’t want to believe this, but think about it. Rafael came to see you last night. The very same night you set foot back in the city. How could he have known if he wasn’t involved in the underground?”
How did she—no, of course, she knows. Stacey knows everything. But how much?
Shit.
I swallow, her words sinking in. I know he’s been looking for me for years. But I thought I was hidden. Protected by the confidentiality Stacey promised. If he’s finally found me… it’s because she let him. Because she wants to use me to get to him.
A bitter taste lingers in my mouth as I wrestle with the thoughts spinning in my head. “Why me? I’m still just a newbie. You could send anyone else to cover this mission—someone with more experience.”
“No one else will do,” Stacey counters, her voice firm. “It’s easier if you go. You won’t rouse much suspicion, and the Nightshades are more likely to let you in than a total stranger.”
The Nightshades . The name sends a chill down my spine. I shake my head, clinging to the last shreds of my denial. “I don’t know about everything else, Stacey, but I do know Rafael and the other guys would never hurt kids. Never .” Not after the way they risked their own lives to save me when I was nothing but a stranger to them.
She sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Your mission is simple, Emily. You don’t have to do anything drastic. Just stay close to the man and watch him. You think Rafael Moretti isn’t the one responsible for the deaths of these kids? Prove it.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and slowly get up from the chair. This is my first-ever mission, and it’s Stacey asking. I can’t say no. I can’t say no .
“I will prove it,” I vow as I leave her office.
The world outside Stacey’s office is a blur. Whatever excitement I had walking into that building is now completely drained. I absentmindedly hail down a taxi, mumbling my address as I sink into the backseat. My head leans against the window, cold glass grounding me, but it’s no use. My thoughts spin out of control.
Rafael helped me all those years ago… saved me. They all did. Maybe this is my turn to help them. I shudder, shutting off the part of my brain that starts playing a reel of the events that happened that dark night. No. No. No. I can’t go back there. Not now.
Instead, I let myself drown in more recent memories—Rafael’s warmth, his teasing, his kiss. I sigh, embracing them.
There’s no hiding that I’ve always had this stupid crush on him, but I never dared to think he felt the same way. He always seemed a little… disgruntled. Even after we all ran away together, cramped into that tiny studio for a year. His teasing was relentless, especially when the others were around. So I buried my feelings, convinced they were nothing but a childish fantasy.
Now, worry spikes through me. He’s definitely going to reach out again. What if he hates me for what I have to do? He can’t find out. He can’t .
The taxi jerking to a stop jolts me out of my spiraling thoughts, and I blink in surprise to find we’re parked in front of my Manhattan condo. The driver’s impatient glance prompts me to fumble with the fare. Ignoring his annoyed huff, I scramble out, clutching my jacket tighter against the biting cold, my breath turning into frosty clouds as I jog to the entrance.
Inside the lobby, I give a quick nod to the doorman, grateful for the warmth that seeps into my bones. The place feels like a sanctuary against the cold outside. The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and I click the button for the third floor, finally allowing my shoulders to drop from their tense perch.
But as the elevator ascends, so do my worries. What the hell am I going to do? How the hell am I going to get Rafael to open up to me? How will I prove his innocence? Because he is innocent—of hurting children, at least. He has to be. No matter what he is now, I know that like the back of my hand. Rafael would never cross that line. We were those kids once. He just wouldn’t be that cruel.
The elevator chimes again as it reaches my floor, and the doors open to the quiet, empty hallway. I’m the only one on this floor, even though there are two apartments here. Both belong to the bureau, but I’m currently the lone occupant. Lucky me.
Halfway down the hallway, I freeze mid-step. Something catches my eye. My body goes rigid, and my hand moves on reflex to the holster at my hip. There’s something on the floor in front of my door.
I don’t move. My legs refuse. So I just stand there, eyes locked on that spot, heart hammering like it’s trying to send a warning signal. My eyes sweep the hallway, every nerve now buzzing with caution. It’s empty. Or at least seems to be.
But that doesn’t mean I’m alone. It doesn’t mean?—
Oh, get a grip.
I force myself to take a step forward, then another, each movement slow and deliberate.
With each step, the tension coils tighter in my chest. My hand hovers near the holster, ready to draw at the first sign of trouble.
And then I see it. And suddenly I feel ridiculous. My hand falls away from my weapon as my eyes focus on the shape on the ground.
It’s just a bouquet of flowers.
But not just any flowers.
Azaleas .
What the?—
I crouch down to get a closer look. My heart’s still pounding, but now it’s for an entirely different reason. The flowers are beautiful—purplish-red petals, wide and funnel-shaped, stand out vividly against the deep green foliage tinged with reddish–bronze at the edges.
A spicy, heady scent wafts up as I carefully lift the bouquet by its white wrapping. My lips stretch into a pleased smile despite myself, and a thrill I can’t quite squash rises up.
Rafael .
Only he would send me Azaleas.
Cradling the bouquet in my arms, I’m mindful not to let the flowers touch my skin as I unlock my front door. Beautiful as they are, Azaleas are poisonous. I’m not sure if mere contact is enough to cause a reaction or if indigestion is the real danger, but I’m not about to find out, thank you very much.
Pretty, but deadly. Just like the sender.
Before I go in, I shoot another glance around the hallway. Still empty. Okay. The door opens directly into the living room, and as I shut it behind me, something flutters from the wrapping around the flowers.
A card.
I deposit the bouquet on the coffee table before going back to the doorway to pick up the fallen card. The moment I see the hard, masculine scrawl, I’m transported back in time. It’s the same handwriting I remember from our tutoring sessions.
Have dinner with me. Be ready by 8.
–R.
My mouth goes dry. Typical Rafael. Not a request, not a polite invitation—an order .
I stare at the card, heart thudding as realization sinks in.
This isn’t just dinner. It’s a date. And not just any date…
A date with the leader of the Nightshades.
Exactly eight o’clock. Right on time.
My heels click softly against the marble lobby floor as I make my way toward the exit. Running a shaky hand down my coat, I smooth it out, while silently reminding myself to breathe.
You’ve got this.
The revolving door spits me out into the freezing winter air, and I have to bite back a curse as the cold slaps me in the face. My eyes immediately land on the sleek, black limo parked at the curb, and I frown. Seriously? This is a no-parking zone, but it seems whoever owns that car doesn’t give a damn. I glance around, searching for any sign of Rafael.
Where is he?
The limo’s driverside door swings open, and out steps a mountain of a man. Salt-and-pepper hair crowns a face that screams ‘don’t mess with me.’ If I passed him on the street, I’d probably mistake him for a bouncer or high-end security. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. But as he approaches, a small smile softens his hard features.
“Good evening, Miss Rossi. I’m Alfred, Mr. Moretti’s driver.”
Rafael’s driver. Oh. So, he didn’t come to pick me up himself. Disappointment flares, quickly followed by a flicker of annoyance. What did I expect? A grand, romantic sweep-off-your-feet entrance? Get real. I shake it off and cast another glance at the limo with new eyes as Alfred opens the door for me.
“Thank you,” I murmur, sliding into the plush interior where warmth instantly embraces me. Shrugging off my coat, I flip my hair over my shoulder before fastening my seatbelt. Alfred gets back behind the wheel, and we’re off.
The drive is a blur of city lights and winding turns. My stomach twists with anticipation. Where is he taking me? I have no idea, but Alfred seems to possess some kind of magic when it comes to navigating traffic. He weaves through the notoriously tight Manhattan streets like a pro, bypassing Hell’s Kitchen and Houston Yards before turning at the corner of 33rd Street, then 10th Avenue.
And all the while my mind is racing with possibilities about where we’re going. I chew on my lower lip. Rafael has always been unpredictable. That’s the part that scares me. I have no idea what I’m walking into.
Finally, the limo rolls to a stop in front of a massive skyscraper that dominates the skyline.
30 Hudson Yards .
No way…
My lips curve into a smile as I crane my neck to admire the building. Standing over a hundred stories high, it’s the sixth tallest building in the city and promises jaw-dropping views. Rafael and I used to talk about visiting once the development was complete. But it was only finished earlier this year, long after I’d left for Virginia.
He remembered.
Alfred opens the passenger door for me, and as I step onto the curb, a figure emerges from the shadows. My heart immediately kicks into overdrive, my breath hitching when I catch sight of those familiar, silvery eyes.
“Thank you, Alfred. I’ll take it from here.” He nods at his driver, then places a firm hand on my arm. His eyes sweep over me, like he’s already feasting on the appetizer. “You look stunning, piccola. ”
A snort almost escapes me, but I manage to keep it together. “You haven’t even seen my dress yet.”
His gaze drops to my plain brown coat and a hint of a smirk plays at the corner of his lips. “You’re always beautiful, Emilia…. even when you’re just wearing one of my old threadbare shirts.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. Oh my God. He’s teasing me. I bite down on my lip, scrambling for a comeback. But before I can fire back a retort, his hand finds the small of my back and ushers me towards the entrance.
The opulence of the lobby nearly stops me in my tracks. I have to consciously keep my jaw from dropping as I take in the décor.
Holy shit.
I sneak a glance at Rafael from the corner of my eye, but he seems unruffled by the sheer luxury surrounding us. The old Rafael would have been at least a little bit impressed. This new version… who is he? He looks like he owns the damn place.
The elevator ride is an experience in itself, showcasing an animation of the city's gradual development and its current beauty. It’s lightning-fast, too, whisking us up to the 101st floor in about fifty seconds flat.
By the time we reach the actual restaurant, I’m blown away. Gorgeous circular chandeliers hang overhead, throwing a warm, inviting glow over the space, highlighting the understated but elegant gray and gold finishings and decor. It’s like stepping into a scene from one of those luxury lifestyle magazines.
My gaze drifts to the bar, where colorful Christmas lights add a bit of festive charm to all this sophistication. And then, there’s the tree—huge, lavishly decorated, commanding an entire corner of the room.
The place is breathtaking.
And also completely empty.
“Where’s everyone?” I wonder out loud as I glance around. At this time of year, a place like this should be bustling. Instead, there’s only the hostess who leads us to our table and a waiter who silently trails us with a bottle of wine in his hand.
“It’s just us. I wanted to have dinner with you. Just you. No one else. No noise. Just us.”
I cast another glance his way to try and confirm if his reaction has changed since earlier. As I watch him survey the restaurant, it’s clear he’s still not impressed. His gaze sweeps the room with a sharp, almost assessing look. Not wonder, not awe—something else. Something far more controlled.
Still, I only barely notice.
Because what the hell…
He reserved the entire restaurant?
My mind reels. How did he pull this off? Why would he? There’s no way that’s cheap. Five years ago, we had to steal to get by, and now he’s renting out fancy-ass places on a whim?
They are the Cosa Nostra now. They rule the city. And Rafael… he is their leader. Stacey’s words pop into my head , and I bite my lip in worry.
Before I can spiral further, the hostess presents our table. And oh my God … Whatever breath I have left is gone. My lips part as I take in the mind-blowing vista before us—a perfect panorama of the glittering city below. “This is—wow. The view is absolutely gorgeous,” I breathe.
Rafael shifts behind me and tugs at my coat. I glance up at him as I shrug out of it, letting him slide it off my shoulders. His eyes widen, and he inhales sharply as he takes in my dress for the first time.
Finally . There it is. That flicker of shock I’d been waiting for since we walked into this place. I fight to keep my smile discreet while savoring his reaction, but inside, I’m doing a victory dance.
After reading his note, I went on a rapid-fire shopping spree. My everyday wardrobe consists mostly of slacks and jeans—not exactly fine dining attire. So I splurged a little on this killer blue V-neck dress. And oh boy, Rafael’s reaction made it well worth every penny.
“See something you like, Rafael?” I tease, throwing his words from years ago back at him.
His gaze snaps to mine, holding me hostage for an intense moment. For a heartbeat, I stop breathing as I watch the storm of emotions swirling in his eyes. But then that all-too-familiar nagging itch starts in my brain, and I can’t help but shift my gaze to his shoulder, annoyed at myself for breaking the spell. Even now, even when I want nothing more than to lose myself in his eyes, I can’t… Why is it so hard…
His hand moves to my chin, fingers warm and assertive as he tilts my head up. I focus on the bridge of his nose but can see the little smirk playing on his lips. “As a matter of fact, amorina, I do see something I like. Very much.”
My heart roars in my chest, my throat runs dry, and my palms start sweating uncontrollably. I didn’t see that coming. When he finally lets me go, I feel an odd emptiness. But then I see he’s only pulling a chair out for me. Nervously, I lick my lips and sit down, hyper-aware of his presence as he pushes my chair closer to the table.
Rafael takes the seat across from mine, leaning back with the easy confidence of a king on his throne. The waiter hovers nearby, looking more than a little nervous as he presents the bottle of wine in his hand. Rafael nods slightly, barely acknowledging him, his eyes still glued to me. God, stop looking at me like that. I bite down on my lip, forcing my attention to the fluid motion of the wine being poured into our glasses.
Focus on the wine. Anything but those eyes.
“So, it’s been a while, huh,” I blurt out, grasping at the first words that come to mind. But he just keeps staring, studying me like I’m some unsolved puzzle. I squirm under his gaze, grabbing my glass and taking a long sip of wine. It’s delicious, rich, and full, but my nerves are so frazzled that I can’t even fully appreciate it. Damn it, why am I so rattled? It’s just Rafael. Even with my silly crush, I’d never been this nervous around him. So t his shouldn’t be such a big deal.
But it is.
My heart is thumping erratically in my ears, and his eyes on me are like beams of electricity, sending tingles everywhere they touch.
“Five years.” His voice is low, almost a growl. “Where did you go? Why did you leave?”
And here we go. The million-dollar question. I frown into the wine, swirling the glass so the dark red liquid swishes around. “I um… I explained that in my letter.”
“Right. The letter.” He rolls his eyes as he picks up his own wine glass. Finally, his gaze breaks from mine, and I exhale softly, grateful for the momentary relief. “So, you went to medical school in Houston. Why come back to Manhattan for your residency?”
I glance up at him in surprise, though I really shouldn’t be. Stacey called me last night to warn me that she would release some information about my past to prevent suspicion when Rafael inevitably started digging. I just wasn’t expecting him to dig into it this quickly.
“What if I told you I missed the city?” I hesitate, feeling the words clog in my throat. “Missed… you ?”
His eyes whip back to mine, and for a brief second, they flare with something—hurt, disbelief, maybe even a flicker of anger—before freezing over, turning as cold and distant as a glacier. “I invited you to dinner, Emilia. No need to lie to get on my good side.”
But I wasn’t lying. My heart sinks and a lump forms in my throat. I had missed him, missed all of them. But clearly, the Rafael sitting across from me now isn’t the same boy I left behind five years ago.
Before I can respond, the waiter returns, bearing a tray filled with food. I frown, confusion briefly overriding my hurt. We haven’t even had a chance to order yet. But, of course. Rafael must have ordered for us in advance, huh?
“I hope you still have the same tastes,” he says, studying me again with those endless eyes. “I made sure to order your favorites. You do still like the same food, don’t you? Or have you gone and changed on me, piccola ?”