Devil’s Lily: A Dark Mafia Romance (Nightshades Book 1)

“Maximo, I’ve sent you the location we traced the phone to.” Dante’s face twists like he’s just bitten into a lemon. I arch an eyebrow, wondering what crawled up his ass this time. He’s been pissy ever since I told him about slipping one of our burner phones into my mysterious redhead’s pocket yesterday. Guess he doesn’t appreciate my innovative tracking methods.

I unlock my phone and thumb through my emails until I spot one from Giorgio, our IT guy. There’s a link to an online map, and when I click it, my eyes nearly bug out of my skull.

“What the fuck?” I blink at the location pulsing on the screen, frowning as I try to make sense of it. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Dante shakes his head. “You know Giorgio. The guy’s a fucking savant with tech. Had him run the application twice, just to be sure. That’s really where she is.”

Her location is Malba, a small, rich suburban neighborhood in the northeastern part of Queens, situated on the peninsula between the East River and Powell’s Cove. But that’s not the problem.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t give two shits about some ritzy area like that. But this isn’t just any neighborhood—it’s the breeding ground for the Albanian rats I’ve been in a rivalry with for the past few years. In fact, the massive mansion she’s in right now belongs to none other than Afrim Përmeti, the goddamn leader of those scumbags.

Just who the fuck is she?

But that doesn’t even matter. What matters is that Përmeti’s men were in my territory, armed to the teeth, and I fucking let them waltz out of there with their limbs still intact. How did that slip past our radars?

My grip on the phone tightens as rage engulfs me. Was this their plan all along? Dangle a pretty little redhead in front of me as bait to distract me while his men… what? Stand around looking menacing behind her? It doesn’t make sense.

“What have our Albanian friends been up to lately?” I ask Dante through gritted teeth.

Afrim’s plotting something Is this his idea of payback for the weapons shipment we intercepted? What were they doing yesterday morning while I was busy trying to impress their mole?

Dante’s answer only deepens the mystery. “That’s the weird part. They’ve been dead quiet. If not for this new development, I’d think they were still licking their wounds after we hit their shipment. But they can’t be that devastated if they’re bold enough to send armed men into our territory in broad daylight. I just don’t see what their aim was.”

I drum my fingers on my desk as I try to think what their end goal might be. It would have made more sense if the girl hadn’t run off, face as red as her hair, when I touched her. If she was their mole, shouldn’t she have milked the situation for all it was worth?

She could’ve gotten way more information—or whatever the hell they wanted—if she stayed, accepted my gifts, and went to a hotel with me… so why run?

The more I think about it, the less it makes sense. Something’s off.

“Maybe Afrim finally lost his marbles in his old age,” Dante offers with a sardonic grin. “Dementia catching up to him?”

I snort. “If only we were that lucky. What does Giorgio have on the girl?”

Dante shakes his head with regret. “Nothing yet. It’s like she doesn’t fucking exist. Would’ve been easier if we’d snagged a picture. He could’ve run it through his intelligence database.”

Frustration gnaws at me, but an idea forms. I shoot out a text to the burner.

Me: I want to see you. Tonight. Come to Mughetto.

Let’s see how she responds. If she’s really their spy, she’ll jump at the chance to work her charm on me. They probably think they have me hook, line, and sinker after yesterday’s performance. And fuck me, if it weren’t for this new intel, they’d be right.

Hell, even the discovery of her treachery does nothing to abate how hard my cock gets when I think about her and the delicious citrus-vanilla scent that filled my nostrils the second I got into her space. I shift in my seat, trying to adjust myself discreetly. Dante, ever the professional, pretends he doesn’t notice, but I catch a glimmer of something in his eyes.

My alarm beeps briefly just as the notification for my conference meeting with my brothers pops up on my computer screen. Christ, it’s 9 PM already? Time really flies when split between lust and unraveling a problem that could screw us all.

I dismiss Dante as I fire up the video call. Four faces fill my screen, and despite the circumstances, a small smile tugs at my lips as I take them in.

My brothers—not by blood, but by choice, bound together by the dark shit we survived fifteen years ago. Looking at them now, you’d never guess the nightmares we’ve lived through.

“Can we make this quick?” Romero grumbles, shuffling a stack of documents around on his desk. “I have a mountain of paperwork to get through before midnight for my court appearance tomorrow.”

Ah, Romero. Don of Brooklyn by night, hotshot lawyer by day. You’d think running the entire borough’s criminal underworld would be enough for the guy, but nope. He’s still got time to take on cases for the city’s elite criminals—politicians, CEOs, trust fund brats who’ve never worked a day in their pampered lives.

Once a lawyer, always a lawyer, I guess, even if he now works for the wrong side of the law. It’s almost poetic.

Michael rolls his eyes, arms crossed over his chest as he leans back in his seat. His dirty blonde hair falls over his forehead, and with an exaggerated huff, he blows it out of his face before running a hand over his tattooed scalp. “You’re not the only one with a packed schedule, Romero. We’ve all got shit to handle. But these weekly meetings are why we’re the most feared dons in the city—and four of the five New York families, at that. So suck it up.”

I’m about to chime in when something catches my eye. I lean closer to my screen, squinting. “Hold up. Is that a fucking piercing?”

Michael Hart is the oddball of our little family, the only one without a conventional legal job so to speak.

I head Leonotti Corporation, overseeing construction, imports, real estate—the works. Rafael’s the big shot in hospitality, with chains of resorts, hotels, casinos, and restaurants under his belt. Then there’s Romero—the legal eagle. His law firm is one of the best, not just in the city, but probably in the entire Northeast region.

But Michael—well, most simply, he’s an IT genius with a Fortune 500 tech company that churns out everything from the nation’s go-to social media platforms and addictive video games to cutting-edge cloud storage solutions and mobile phones. Hell, the guy is even developing tablets now. It’s like he never sleeps.

His career means his net worth rivals that of Rafael, the richest among us. But here’s the kicker—it also means he doesn’t have to deal with nearly as much legal red tape as the rest of us. So, when it comes to looking respectable, he gives zero fucks.

His hair is shaved clean on the sides and back, leaving a mop of dirty blonde hair in the middle of his head. And don’t even get me started on the ink. After we all got our first tattoo together, he caught the bug bad. Now he’s tatted up from head to knuckles, even the damn skin under his hair.

He’s the wildest looking and perhaps the most unhinged. And trust me, that’s saying a lot.

Michael smirks at me, his icy blue eyes glinting as he also leans closer to his screen, turning the side of his nose just enough to show off the black hoop. “Like what you see, Maxo? I have more in less… public places. Want a peek?” He throws in a wink for good measure.

Crazy motherfucker. “Jesus Christ, no,” I mime gagging, earning a chuckle from Romero.

“Enough.” Rafael’s voice cuts through our banter.

Time for business.

We dive into updates, each of us sharing what’s been brewing in our boroughs. And surprise, surprise—looks like I’m not the only one dealing with an infestation of Albanians. They’re spreading through the richest, most tucked-away parts of the city, multiplying like the rats they are.

“Why are they leaving Long Island to infiltrate our territories?” Michael asks, casually flicking some lint off his shirt. “I vote we smoke them out, bomb them in their nests. Nothing says ‘fuck off’ like a few well-placed explosives.”

“No,” Rafael shoots him down. “We need to handle this carefully.”

He’s right, much as I hate to admit it. The Albanians got into an alliance with the Bratva a few weeks ago—the singular force strong enough to oppose the Cosa Nostra. Their boss in Long Island City even sold off his daughter to the ancient Bratva Pakhan to seal the deal.

And it doesn’t stop there. Now word on the street is, they’re trying to get in good with the Irish too. That would explain their newfound balls to creep out of Long Island and sniff around our turf. Confidence can make you stupid, though.

“If they’re truly in talks with the Irish, declaring war on the Albanians could mess with our alliance,” Romero adds, tapping his pen against a stack of legal papers. “We have them cornered for now. Given enough time with their backs to the wall, they might give up and fuck off on their own.”

“Or they could get desperate and strike first,” Michael counters. “I doubt the Irish would care all that much about us wiping out a few pests crossing a boundary in our cities.”

But that’s the thing. They haven’t crossed any boundaries. Not really. Moving into our territories and trying to smuggle weapons through our roads isn’t enough to justify wiping them out. Not in the eyes of our allies, at least.

“Once they attack, though, all bets are off.” A sinister smile crosses Rafael’s face. “If they fire the first shot, we’d be well within our rights to retaliate, and nobody can say shit. But until then, we wait. We can’t be the one attacking first.”

And just like that, the unspoken rule hangs between us. They make the first move, or we sit tight and let the pressure build. Either way, it’s only a matter of time before someone snaps.

The conversation moves to other parts of our operations—like the shipment of high-tech weapons we’re importing from China through my company.

“You got it handled?” Rafael asks me.

I nod. “Of course. Everything is going smoothly, and delivery is on track to arrive as scheduled.”

“Good.” Romero glances at his watch for the millionth time. “I think that wraps things up. See y’all’s ugly mugs next week. Same time and pla⁠—”

“Wait!” Michael interjects. “I have something to add. I’ve been digging into Emily’s disappearance, and I think I might be getting close to her trail, and⁠—”

“Don’t.” Rafael’s voice drops into a low growl, his impassive face clenching tightly. “Let it go and stop looking into her.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to cut with a knife. Michael’s jaw works furiously, clearly chafing at being told what to do. But the fact is, even though we’re all bosses in our own right, we wouldn’t be where we are—wouldn’t have this power—without Rafael. He’s our leader, and we owe him our loyalty.

To me, Michael, and Romero, Emilia Rossi is a sorellina. Our little sister by choice and shared trauma. But to Rafael, she was something else entirely. Whatever went down between them ten years ago must’ve been nuclear, because he’s banned even mentioning her name. No one talks about her. No one looks for her.

I miss her. I’m sure Michael and Romero do too. Rafael had more time with her back then, while we only had that one brief interlude, playing Michael’s first video game, before everything went to hell.

I feel cheated, robbed of her presence. But if Rafael’s asking us not to look into her or even mention her name, he has a good reason. The man was fucking obsessed with her, talking about making her his wife and shit. It’s hard to believe that it never actually happened.

“Whatever. Goodbye,” Michael grits out, and his screen goes black. He left the meeting.

“Well, I have that case to prep for, so…” Romero trails off, giving a half-hearted wave before he too vanishes from the call.

It’s just Rafael and me now. I study the man who’s probably my best friend, noting the cracks in his usually impenetrable mask. “You’re unraveling, man.”

“Don’t start that shit with me, Maxim.” He rubs a tired hand across his eyes. “I heard about the girl in your restaurant yesterday.”

I roll my eyes. The Cosa Nostra gossip network puts a pair of old ladies at tea to shame, and with Rafael’s men everywhere, I’m not even surprised the news has traveled to him. “We’re not talking about me.”

He chuckles softly. “We are now. What gives?”

For some reason, I hesitate to spill the beans about my latest discovery—that my mysterious woman might be an enemy in disguise. Maybe I just don’t want to appear weak in front of him, I’m not sure. I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Nothing. Yet.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I snort. “That doesn’t leave much off the table, does it? Can’t think of a single thing you’d balk at.”

He smirks, but a shadow lingers behind his eyes. “Just be careful. Women can be… deceitful snakes.”

There’s a bitter edge to his voice that makes me want to dig deeper, but before I can question it, my phone pings with an incoming message.

My heart does a traitorous somersault when I see my mystery woman has replied. “Hold that thought, Raf. We’ll talk about it later. Gotta go now.” I quickly exit the meeting window, then turn my full attention to my phone.

My Burner: Why did you slip your phone into my jacket pocket?

She ignored my command to meet up to ask her own question. Ballsy. I smirk as I reply.

Me: Why would I drop my phone into your pocket? The more logical conclusion would be that you stole it.

Almost immediately, three bobbing dots appear on the screen as she types her response.

My Burner: That literally makes no sense. You gave me more expensive gifts, why would I grab this ancient phone unless someone–you–slipped it into my pocket while I wasn’t paying attention?

I chuckle at the sass in her tone, then catch myself. What the fuck am I doing? She’s in enemy territory, possibly a mole. I need to pull my head out of my ass and focus.

Me: Bring my phone back to my restaurant, you little thief.

My Burner: A of all, I didn’t steal this phone, so I object to being labeled a thief. B, I can’t meet you to return your phone even if I wanted to, so I guess you’ll have to let it go.

Me: Once something is mine, I never let it go, piccola rossa. And why can’t you meet me even if you wanted to?

My Burner: What does that mean?

My Burner: Nevermind, I checked it on thessius. A little redhead, really?

A surge of pride runs through me at the name of Michael’s search engine. It means she’s using his phone because, for now, Thessius is only available on Celtros—his phone brand.

I shoot a text to Michael.

Me: Hey bigshot, I think I just discovered someone other than the guys and us who uses your phones. That’s a total of what, five people now? Very soon, you might even become a household name.

His reply is lightning-fast and predictably irritated.

Michael: Fuck you. Over seven hundred thousand people and counting have purchased the Celtro A1 and A2 alone.

I grin and send a thumbs up, knowing it will piss him off even more. Then I reply to my mysterious woman.

Me: Don’t try to evade my question. Why can’t you meet me?

My Burner: Nosy much? Ugh, fine, I’ll tell you so you don’t think I’m trying to avoid returning your phone to you because I didn’t steal it.

I can’t meet you because, well, I actually can’t. I’m not allowed to leave.

Her response sends my mind reeling. Not allowed to leave? What the ever-loving fuck does that mean? She left yesterday, didn’t she? Before I can release the barrage of questions building up, my door swings open and Dante storms in.

“Maximo, you might want to see this.”