Devil’s Lily: Chapter 14

“What do you mean, the rerouting was approved? Approved by who?”

My fist connects with the desk, making the pathetic excuse for a man behind it jump like I just set off a bomb, eyes blown wide behind his glasses. Good. He should be scared. He should be very, very scared, because my anger is on a precipice right now, and it will only take a single wrong word to trigger it.

“I–I—” His glasses slip down his nose as he stammers, his hands now shaking violently. “I don’t have—I–I don’t⁠—”

“Stop stammering and tell me already!” The roar tears from my throat, and he squeaks—actually squeaks—like a toy being stepped on.

“Maximo.” Dante’s quiet voice behind me slices through the red haze of my rage. One word, loaded with meaning. Control yourself. This isn’t the way. I curse in disgust as I glance back at him. He just shakes his head slightly.

He’s right, damn him. It isn’t this man’s fault that the shipment we’re expecting got rerouted and is now on its way to Serangoon Harbor in fucking Singapore instead of my dock. But I still need some fucking answers.

I rake a hand through my hair, feeling each strand pull against my scalp as I try to rein in the storm brewing inside me. “Answer me—” My eyes shoot to his nametag, “—Paul. Who approved the rerouting?”

“I don’t have the access to see who approved it, sir.” His lips quake as he speaks, voice trembling. “I–I called as soon as I was alerted.”

Yes, he fucking did. Called and called and called, while my phone sat silenced to unknown numbers because I was too busy playing husband with my new bride. So he had to go through Rafael to reach me.

Fuck, this is all such a mess.

I storm out of the warehouse, fists clenched. Outside, the wharf sprawls before me, lined with various ships. Even at this ungodly hour, workers scurry about unloading cargo. My ship should have docked right there one month from now. Instead, several millions worth of firearms are headed to the wrong fucking continent, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Do you think the Albanians did this?” Dante asks as we weave between containers. “Do they know we have their daughter?”

I almost laugh at that. “No. They don’t have nearly enough power to execute something this clean, even with the Russians as their ally. And I doubt even they would fuck with that shipment without making contact first.”

Because the cargo on that ship wasn’t just mine. It was a collaboration between Rafael, Michael, Romero, and me. And what our enemies fear more than each one of us alone, is all four of us united. And fucking with our business is practically a declaration of war against not just us, but the entire Cosa Nostra.

They wouldn’t dare.

My phone buzzes, and I take it out of my pocket to see an incoming group meeting with my brothers. Fuck me. I don’t have an answer for them yet, but they aren’t going to wait.

I slide into the car’s backseat as I accept the call. One by one, my brothers’ faces pop up on screen like a gallery of barely contained rage. They don’t waste time.

“Any update?” Rafael asks.

I meet each of their gazes, hating the answer I have to give. “No. Nothing yet. I’ve tried to reach out to the nav officers and crew, but they’ve gone dark. According to my intel, when they got the order to switch route to Singapore, they were warned about potential sabotage and told to cut off their communications with our city’s port.” Their radios are off too.

I refuse to believe they were gullible enough to have done that without touching base with me first. Someone with relative power must have given them the go-ahead. But I keep that suspicion to myself for now. No need to add fuel to this particular fire until I’m certain.

Romero and Rafael curse colorfully. With the ship’s comms down, no one will be able to get in contact with them until they arrive at Serangoon Harbor weeks from now, meaning the shipment will be delayed for two more months. In our world, that’s a fucking eternity.

“I’ll try to hack into the system, force a backdoor message, see if I can turn them the fuck around,” Michael says, though a flicker of doubt crosses his face. After all, he created that system with the sole purpose of being unhackable, in case anyone got the wild idea to get back at us by sabotaging our shipments.

I don’t know all the intricacies, but I remember when he created the system years ago—he was so proud when he tried to hack it and even he couldn’t get in. We were confident the only way to sabotage us was by hacking the system. Hell, the culprit probably tried that first before getting cocky enough to reroute the whole damn shipment.

“I’m having my guy trace the comms chain between the man who gave the order and the ship, but it might take a while,” I add.

Romero sighs, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “Sounds like there’s nothing to do but wait for now.”

“I also tried to trace that line as soon as I found out. You know I hate waiting.” Michael’s frustration bleeds through. “But It only led to a dead end. I couldn’t find shit. Whoever we’re dealing with isn’t just some random player. It’s either the Bratva, the Albanians, the Irish—or…”

“The Greeks,” Rafael says, picking up the thought.

Michael nods, grim. “Maybe even all of them, somehow united, pooling their power to take us down. You know, the enemy of my enemy and all that bullshit, which I seriously doubt because the Greeks are our staunch ally.” He pauses, his jaw tightening as he lets the thought settle. “Or… it’s a higher power. Like Uncle Sam.”

I inhale sharply. The thought had brushed my mind, but I waved it off. Now, though? If even Michael—who once hacked NASA for shits and giggles—can’t find out who sent that order, it’s definitely either government-level interference or every underworld power we know banding together against us like he said. Neither scenario is one I want to entertain.

“We’re just making assumptions right now,” Romero, ever the voice of reason, interjects. “We have no solid evidence to back anything up. Let’s cool off—relax—and I’ll have one of my contacts dig into it, see if Uncle Sam truly is interested in meddling in civilian activities.”

“When isn’t the government meddling?” Rafael’s bitter question grabs our attention, and when we give him questioning glances, he just waves a hand. “I mean, we’re no longer just some civilians. We’re on their radar, and we have been for years now.”

“How do you know that?” Michael’s question mirrors my own thoughts.

Rafael shrugs, but there’s something in his eyes I can’t quite read. “Just don’t be surprised if it’s them. They’re like fucking sea ticks—cling to you when you go into the ocean and refuse to let go. Parasites.”

I frown at him. Sea ticks? Parasites? What the hell is he talking about?

“Anyways, it’s late. Try get some sleep if you can. We have a long day tomorrow.” Without waiting for any replies, Rafael abruptly ends the call.

The rest of us sit in silence for a beat, then Michael and Romero both raise their brows at me.

I throw my hands up. “Don’t look at me. I have no idea what that was about.” I pause, grimacing. “I’ll look into things some more in the morning and let you know what I find.” If I find anything, I add silently, exiting the meeting as well.

Dante, who just finished a call while I was in the meeting, slides into the driver’s seat. “Ready to go home?”

“Yes.” The word carries the weight of this endless fucking day as I recline my head back in the seat, tired as hell.

From tripping the fire alarms in Përmeti’s compound, to following Elira to the park, spending the day with her there, then stealing her away to Vegas and marrying her, nearly having her… and now this entire shipment mess blowing up in my face. It’s been twenty-four hours that feels like a goddamn lifetime.

“Who was on the phone?” I ask through closed eyes, more out of habit than interest.

“Marco. Mrs. Leonotti seems to be settling into her new home nicely.” Something in his tone—is that amusement?—makes me crack one eye open. There’s a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth that I don’t like one bit.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s just say you have a surprise waiting for you at the penthouse,” he answers cryptically, pulling out of the port’s parking lot.

Before I can demand clarification, my phone pings with a text from Romero.

ROMERO: I’m going to reach out to the DA in my city, feel her up and try to see if she knows anything or knows someone who might. You should do the same. I’ve told Michael and Rafael as well.

ME: Yeah, that wouldn’t hurt. I’ll pay him a visit in the morning.

I exit the texting app to find my inbox flooded with new emails. As I start firing off replies one after the other, Dante’s weird behavior gets pushed to the back of my mind, and before I know it, we’re pulling up in front of my apartment building.

We exit the car together and make our way into the lobby, taking the elevator up to the penthouse. The moment the doors slide open into the hallway that leads to my front door, my brows pull together in confusion. “Where are the men?”

The usual security detail is conspicuously absent, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up like it always does when something’s not right.

Dante snickers next to me, and the sound is so foreign coming from him that I actually do a double-take. In the nine years since I’ve known the man, I don’t think I’ve heard that sound pass his lips. Something is definitely up here.

My frown deepens as I lengthen my strides down the hallway and yank the door open, bracing myself for whatever chaos lies within. I swear, if I find my men cozying up to my wife, there will be hell to pay.

I hear the voices first—deep husky tones that unmistakably belong to my men, mingling with a softer, more feminine one that can only be my wife. My hands form fists at my sides as possibilities flash through my mind. I’m already prepared to be thoroughly displeased when I pass through the foyer’s glass doors, and I’m not disappointed.

The scene that greets me makes my blood pressure spike to dangerous levels.

My wife—my wife—is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the large screen TV, and behind her, my men are crowded on and around the large sofa like teenagers at a sleepover. Some are even leaning over the shoulders of others, all attention focused on whatever’s happening on the screen.

“No!” Elira exclaims, hunching forward with the kind of fierce concentration I’ve only seen her direct at me, her thumbs flying over the game controller in her hands.

“You’re dead meat,” Perro says with unholy glee, leaning down from the couch to punch her shoulder playfully, and I see red.

She’s completely dressed, still wearing my shirt and dress pants from the plane ride. But it doesn’t fucking matter.

How dare he put his filthy hand on my wife?

“What the fuck is going on in here?” I bellow, making my men jump up from the couch like they’ve been electrocuted. The ones leaning over the back straighten up so fast I’m surprised I don’t hear spines cracking, and they all turn to face me with expressions ranging from deer-in-headlights to oh-shit-we’re dead.

Elira glances back at me, and a light of disdain fills her hazel eyes as she slowly gets to her feet with all the grace of a queen addressing a peasant. “Maximo, relax. We were just playing a game.”

Her words, probably meant to bank the fire of my anger, only stoke it higher. I sweep my gaze over my men, each look promising future retribution as I say as calmly as I can, “Get out. All of you.”

Like they’ve only been waiting for my permission to flee, they scramble out of the penthouse, the front door slamming behind them.

And then it’s just Elira and me.

“Of course. Here comes the wild dragon of the West, ruining the fun. You’re like a black cloud who only knows how to do one thing—be angry.” She rolls her eyes and spins around to leave.

Her words strike hard, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m moving. Two long strides and I’m right behind her, grabbing her arm with enough force to make her gasp. “Not you, wife. You, stay.”

She glares back at me with pure impertinence. “Unfortunately, I do not want to stay. I’ve spent more than enough time with you to make me sick.”

My eyes narrow to slits, the thread of my control fraying rapidly. “Shut the fuck up, Elira.” Every single word that leaves those perfect lips only seems to make the frustrations of the day coalesce into something dangerous, something primal.

“Or what?” she demands, and anticipation, anger, arousal—all slam into me in dizzying waves. I tighten my grip on her and forcefully drag her to the dining area, towards the tall dining table.

It’s high time I teach my little wife exactly what happens when you challenge a dragon.