Chapter 4 - Azrael
The late afternoon stretches over the Varela compound, casting heat across the stone and steel, while I stand rigid on the balcony, my gaze locked on the docks in the distance.
The sea roils beyond, dark and wild, a mirror to the chaos twisting inside my stomach.
My shirt hangs open, sweat gathering along my collarbone, but I stay rooted, fingers clamped tight around the railing, the metal biting into my palms as I try to force her out of my mind—Isolde D’Angelo, the enemy who defies that label, the woman from Venice whose memory clings to me like a shadow I can’t shake.
I rake a hand through my damp hair, the black strands sticking to my fingers, and curse under my breath.
That negotiation in Palermo—our families’ first meeting—cracked something open.
Her voice hit me like a punch, that same sharp edge from the masquerade, and then her face—green eyes, auburn hair, a beauty that cuts deeper than any blade.
Unmasked, she’s more than I bargained for, and that gala last night didn’t help.
Dancing with her, feeling her under my hands, her breath on my neck—it’s a fire I can’t put out, and it’s burning me alive.
The door bangs open behind me, and Cassian steps out, his hazel eyes narrowing as he clocks my state—half-dressed, tense, staring at nothing. “You look like hell,” he says, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Still stuck on her?”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, turning back to the sea, but there’s no heat in it.
“Thought so,” he says, smirking. “That gala—dancing with D’Angelo? You’re playing a dangerous game, Azrael.”
“It’s not a game,” I snap, spinning to face him. “It’s—shit, I don’t know what it is. She’s in my head, Cass. That voice, those eyes. I can’t shake her.”
“Then shake harder,” he says, voice sharpening. “She’s the enemy. You saw what happened yesterday—someone tried to put a bullet in you. We’re blaming them, they’re blaming us. This war’s heating up, and you’re mooning over their princess.”
I grit my teeth, the memory of that failed hit flashing—screeching tires, gunfire, a graze on my shoulder still raw under a bandage. “I’m not mooning,” I say, but it’s weak, and he knows it.
“Sure,” he says, dry as dust. “Just don’t get us killed over it. We’ve got a run tonight—shipment out of Palermo. You in?”
“Yeah,” I say, buttoning my shirt, grabbing my jacket. “Let’s move.”
The drive’s quiet, the sweltering day fading into a sticky dusk, the wind still restless as it rattles the truck. My father’s up front, growling about the D’Angelos, while Cassian rides beside me, briefing low. “Shipment’s small—guns, cash. Easy drop, unless they hit us again.”
“They won’t,” I say, but doubt gnaws at me. That assassination attempt wasn’t them—it didn’t fit. Too sloppy, too public. Someone else is stirring this pot, and I’ve got a bad feeling it’s about to boil over.
We’re halfway to the drop—a deserted road cutting through olive groves—when my phone buzzes. Unknown number. I frown, answering sharp. “Yeah?”
“Varela,” her voice cuts through—Isolde, low and urgent, unmistakable. “It’s a trap. Ambush, two miles ahead. Get out now.”
My blood freezes, then surges hot. “How the hell—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“No time,” she hisses. “Trust me. Move.”
The line goes dead, and I’m staring at the phone, heart hammering. Cassian’s watching me, brow raised. “Who was that?”
“Her,” I say, shoving the phone in my pocket. “D’Angelo. Says it’s an ambush ahead.”
He curses, loud and sharp. “And you believe her?”
“She’s got no reason to lie,” I say, but it’s more than that—I feel it, her voice ringing true. “Tell the driver—turn back, now.”
He hesitates, then bangs on the partition. “Pull off! Ambush!”
The truck swerves, tires screeching, and my father’s head snaps around, eyes blazing. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Saving our asses,” I say, meeting his glare. “D’Angelo tipped me off.”
“D’Angelo?” he roars, lunging forward. “You’re taking orders from them now?”
“She’s not them,” I snap, and the words slip out before I can stop them. He stares, rage twisting his face, but the crack of gunfire cuts through—bullets pinging off the truck, glass shattering. She was right.
***
Night’s fallen hard over Palermo’s outskirts, the humid air thick with the stench of gunpowder and blood.
Sporadic gunfire cracks through the darkness, flashes lighting the olive groves as my father’s men return fire.
The truck’s a wreck—tires blown, windows gone—but we’re alive, thanks to her.
Isolde. Her voice still rings in my ears, sharp and urgent, a lifeline I didn’t expect.
She betrayed her own to warn me, and that twists something deep in my chest—anger, gratitude, something hotter I can’t name.
Cassian’s beside me, crouched behind the truck, Beretta blazing. “Told you she’s trouble,” he shouts over the noise, but there’s a grim smirk on his face.
“Shut up and shoot,” I growl, popping up to take out a shadow moving in the trees—clean shot, head snapping back. My father’s ahead, barking orders, but his glare keeps slicing my way. He’s pissed—beyond pissed—and I know I’ll pay for this later.
The attackers thin out—masked, not D’Angelo colors, confirming my gut. This isn’t her family; it’s someone else, maybe Salucci, playing us like pawns. I’m reloading, sweat stinging my eyes, when my phone buzzes again. Same number. I answer, ducking low. “Yeah?”
“Varela, it’s me,” Isolde says, breathless, panic edging her voice. “I’m pinned—warehouse off Via dei Fiori. They’re after me now. Help.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “On my way,” I say, no hesitation, and hang up.
Cassian grabs my arm as I move. “What the fuck? We’re in the middle of this!”
“She’s in trouble,” I say, shaking him off. “Cover me—I’m going.”
“You’re insane,” he yells, but he’s already firing, giving me a window. My father roars something—my name, a curse—but I’m gone, sprinting through the groves, the humid night swallowing me.
Via dei Fiori’s a mile off, a crumbling industrial strip, and I push hard, legs burning, the Beretta heavy in my hand.
The warehouse looms up—rusted, dark, windows smashed—and I hear it: gunfire, shouts, her voice cutting through.
I slip inside, shadows thick, and spot her—pinned behind a crate, auburn hair wild, gun blazing at four masked bastards closing in.
Blood streaks her arm, but she’s fighting, fierce and alive.
I don’t think—just act, firing fast. Two drop, clean shots to the chest, and Isolde spins, eyes wide as she sees me. “You,” she pants, shock mixing with relief.
“Me,” I say, ducking a bullet, taking out a third with a shot to the throat. She nails the last one, a perfect hit between the eyes, and we’re alone, breathing hard in the dim, humid dark.
“Why?” she asks, standing, wincing as she grips her arm. Rain starts outside, a soft patter on the roof, cutting the heat.
“You called,” I say, stepping closer, holster clicking as I stow my gun. “Couldn’t let you bleed out.”
She laughs—short, ragged—and it’s that Venice laugh, slicing through the tension. “Bullshit,” she says, but her eyes soften, green and deep, pulling me in.
I grab her good arm, steadying her, and she doesn’t pull away. “You’re hit,” I say, nodding at the graze, blood soaking her sleeve.
“Flesh wound,” she mutters, but she’s close—too close—her heat seeping through my damp shirt. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you,” I counter, and my hand lingers, fingers curling tighter. “You warned me. Risked everything.”
“Had to,” she says, voice dropping, and her gaze locks on mine—raw, unguarded. “Couldn’t let you die blind.”
I close my eyes, sigh, and open them again as rain drums harder. My thumb brushes her skin, accidental but electric, and she shivers, lips parting. “This is fucked,” I murmur, but I don’t let go.
“Totally,” she agrees, and her hand finds my chest, resting there, a spark igniting. Our attraction’s a live wire now—dangerous, undeniable, deepening with every breath—but we’re still enemies. Her family’ll crucify her for this; mine’s already fracturing, my father’s rage a ticking bomb.
“Go,” I say, stepping back, but it’s reluctant, my body screaming to pull her closer. “Before they find you here.”
“You too,” she says, and she’s gone, slipping into the night, rain swallowing her shadow. I stand there, chest heaving, the humid dark pressing in. She warned me, I saved her—betrayals stacking up, lines blurring—and it’s not just want anymore. It’s something heavier, something I can’t outrun.
Back at the compound, my father’s waiting, fists clenched, eyes black with fury. “You ran off for her?” he roars, slamming a chair into the wall. “A D’Angelo?”
“Saved us first,” I say, voice steady, meeting his glare. “Call it even.”
“Even?” He steps in, close enough I smell the whiskey on him. “You’re soft, Azrael. Weak. She’s playing you.”
“She’s not,” I snap, and it’s too sharp, too sure. He stares, then spits on the floor, storming out. Cassian’s silent, watching me, and I know he’s torn—loyalty to me, doubt in this.
I slump against the wall, rain streaking the windows, and scrub a hand over my face.
Isolde’s under my skin, and it’s a betrayal to everything I am.
We’re enemies, locked in a war neither of us can win, but I don’t care.
Not tonight. This attraction’s a fire, and I’m letting it burn, consequences be damned.