Devil’s Lily: Chapter 25

The insistent ringing of my phone jolts me awake, and I blink blearily around the guest bedroom as my hand automatically snags the device from the nightstand, muscle memory taking over before my mind fully surfaces. “What?”

The frantic voice on the other end snaps me fully awake. My pulse kicks up as I process the information, already rolling off the bed. “Alright. I’m on my way.”

I end the call and make my way to my bedroom, opening the door as quietly as possible so I don’t wake Elira. The urge to barrel through is strong, but I tread lightly, slipping into the closet to swap my sweats for something more presentable. My fingers rake through my hair—messy as hell, but there’s no time to fix it now.

As I walk back out through the bedroom, my gaze drifts to the sleeping figure on the bed, and despite the urgency thrumming in my veins, I find myself drawn closer. She’s sprawled on her stomach, the blanket half off her body, revealing the soft rise and fall of her back as she breathes.

Something in my chest constricts painfully as I recall the hurt in her eyes when I walked out earlier. God, I hated that look. My fingers move on their own, gently pulling the blanket back up to her shoulders. I brush those unruly curls off her face, tucking them behind her ear, and for a moment, I let myself simply watch her.

She’s so beautiful.

Even like this—or perhaps especially like this—relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted as she snores softly. She’s beautiful. Peaceful. Completely untouched by the storm brewing outside this room.

I shake my head and force myself to turn away before I can do something stupid like climb in beside her. It kills me to leave her, but there’s no choice. Easing the door shut behind me, I jog down the hallway, down the stairs where Dante is pacing as he waits for me.

We share a loaded look and quietly make our way towards the elevator. “How bad is it?” I ask once the doors seal us in.

“Pretty bad. Two of our warehouses are completely incinerated. The third is barely standing.”

My hands curl into fists at my side, jaw clenching until it aches. Fucking Përmeti. I don’t have proof yet, but my gut says he’s behind this, and I fucking trust my gut. “Any casualties?”

“So far, four men dead, six badly injured, and three with only minor wounds.”

Each number lands like a punch to the gut. These are my men. My responsibility.

Why now, though?

The timing nags at me, following me from the elevator to the lobby and all the way to the waiting car, where Perro is already behind the wheel, the engine purring.

I understand setting bombs on my warehouses as retaliation. But Afrim’s had plenty of opportunities to strike back since I kidnapped—married—his daughter. Since the mess at old Howard Beach a week ago—even though that was his fault. I wouldn’t have had to kill any of his men if he hadn’t been acting suspicious. Why wait till now? What changed?

I stare out the window, fingers drumming on my knee, as the city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadows.

After my conversation with Rafael last night, I’ve been on high alert and planned to reach out to the damn man in the morning to find some sort of middle ground. After all, his daughter is now my wife and will remain my wife. Fucking impatient bastard couldn’t wait a few more hours?

We pull up to the first warehouse, and the sight sets my teeth on edge. The worst of the fire is out, but the aftermath is a fucking warzone—blackened beams, melted steel, and piles of charred rubble. I shove the car door open before Perro can, the acrid scent of burnt wood and chemicals hitting me instantly. “Any problems with the cops?” I ask Dante as he follows me out.

“Just one overzealous detective, but he’s been handled. The rest know better than to get involved.”

Good. I don’t funnel millions into their department every month for them to stick their noses where they shouldn’t.

My men are all slouched on the ground, ash clinging to their faces and clothes, mixing with sweat and blood. They look like hell. When they see me, a few scramble to stand, but I wave them back down. “Be at ease, soldiers.” They’ve been through enough tonight.

I assess them, one by one. The critical cases are already at our pocket hospital, too severe for Ethan to handle alone. The rest stayed behind to try and salvage what they could from the wreckage.

Helpless rage burns in my gut as I take in their haunted expressions. Every fiber of my being screams to retaliate, to rain hell down on whoever did this. It won’t bring the dead back or erase the trauma from the survivors’ eyes, but it would taste like justice.

Usually, this would be simple. Someone hit us, we hit back harder.

But now… I can’t even do that. Because it’s Afrim Përmeti. My wife’s father.

Elira and I are finally moving in a good direction, and even though I’m still fucking pissed at her, I know hitting her father where it would really hurt him—like killing his precious son and heir—would destroy our relationship and her.

Fucking hell, since when did I give a fuck about all that?

I acknowledge each man with a nod that feels wholly inadequate before moving to inspect the ashy remains of my warehouse, frowning at the damage.

“What do you think?”

I direct my frown at Dante. “What do I think?”

“About the bombing of the warehouses. It’s too coordinated. Feels like a distraction.”

Lead fills my gut, because now that I think about it, it clicks into place. The reason Afrim waited this long to retaliate. This is a distraction. But from what?

What is my father-in-law up to?

My gaze snags Perro’s, who’s still standing by the side of the car. He shakes his head grimly before jogging over. “Sir, you need to see this.” He hands me his phone, where a video is playing. “It’s a live feed from the port. I just got a call from one of the men stationed there.”

The footage turns that lead in my gut to a solid mass of tungsten. A little over a dozen heavily armed men in black tactical gear and masks are herding a bunch of frightened-looking girls off one of the cargo ships towards a black, nondescript van. As I watch, understanding dawns with sickening clarity.

Human trafficking. On my turf.

“Fuck, we won’t make it to them in time to stop them.” Dante’s curse echoes my thoughts as he watches over my shoulder.

“Have Giorgio run a check on the license plate. And find out where the hell that boat came from, what time it docked at my port, and who approved their docking,” I order Perro, returning him the phone. He nods, his fingers already flying across the screen when I turn to face Dante. “How many men do we have at the port? Enough to intervene?”

His wince tells me everything. “Just two. Everyone else was redirected to help at the bombed warehouses when we got the news.”

“Of course,” I mutter under my breath. “So, the bombing was a distraction after all.” I feel the anger bubbling inside me, shifting from simmering frustration to full-blown rage. A distraction—just so they could smuggle those girls into my city without a hitch. Without my fucking interference.

The truth sits bitter on my tongue: we’ve been played.

There’s no way in hell we can make it to the port in time. It’s too far, and without our usual security presence stationed there, there’s nothing anyone can do to stop them now.

“I didn’t realize the Albanians now dabble in the fucking skin trade.” I barely hold myself together as I issue orders. “We need a copy of that feed. And tell one of the men at the port to discreetly follow the van.” At least if we can’t stop them at the port, we can ambush them later and put a goddamn end to it.

My voice cracks despite my effort to steady it. What kind of scum of the earth traffic humans? Especially girls, teenagers. The absolute bottom of the fucking barrel. “We need to know where they’re going,” I continue. “Who they’re meeting, every contact they make.”

I brush an impatient hand through my hair as I try to think what else we can do. There has to be another way to get ahead of this. “What about Heath? He still hasn’t cracked?” It’s been a little over a week since we got the distribution manager in our clutches. Dante’s regretful headshake makes my teeth grind. “That’s it. Perhaps it’s time I go remind him who the fuck he’s dealing with.”

The drive to the office in East Flushing passes in a blur of barely contained violence, and we arrive in record time. Perro and Dante trail behind me as I storm towards the elevator and take it down to the basement level.

My men stationed outside the interrogation room stiffen as we approach. Incompetent fucks couldn’t even break a civilian. I’ll deal with them later.

Matteo, the only brave one amongst the others, steps forward. “Boss, we heard about the attack on the warehouses and⁠—”

“What about our guest?” I interrupt him.

Matteo hesitates. “We had to let him rest today… so he doesn’t pass out or die too quickly.”

Disgust twists my face as I push past him. Rest? For him? One of the men quickly gets the door for me, and as I enter the dim room, the stench hits me—blood, sweat, piss, terror. My eyes adjust slowly to the dimness, finding Heath’s slumped form hanging from his chains.

Matteo speaks again, quieter now. “Boss, I think whoever we’re looking for has threatened someone Heath cares about. He’s been holding on for too long; I doubt we can keep him alive much longer.”

Heath stirs at the words, and his head lifts slowly, terror flooding his dark eyes as I approach. Good. He’s not completely broken yet. “Mr. Leonotti, I⁠—”

My fist smashes into his face, cutting off whatever pathetic plea he had planned. His scream echoes off the walls as he swings back on the chains holding his hand up. When momentum brings him back, I meet him with another punch, then another, his head snapping sideways, body swinging with each impact.

When I step back, shaking out my fist, Heath is gasping, a mixture of blood and saliva dripping down his mouth.

“Get me the cutting pliers. It’s time Mr. Davis lost the rest of his fingers,” I order Matteo, my gaze narrowing on the mutilated stump where Heath’s ring finger used to be. The man whimpers pathetically, more fluid escaping his mouth as he tries to squirm away from me.

I grab his shirt and yank him closer, forcing his glassy, terrified eyes to meet mine. His breath reeks of copper and desperation, and it makes my nose curl. “Do you have any idea what kind of inconvenience you and whoever you’re working for have caused me?” My voice is conversational—almost mocking. “First it was fucking with my shipment and now bombing my storage warehouses? Weapons, drugs, millions in product reduced to ashes, just like that.” I snap my fingers for emphasis, then roll up my sleeves and accept the pliers from Matteo.

“Cut him down and tie him to the chair.”

Matteo has to go call two of the men outside to help him cut down Heath, who struggles weakly as he’s cuffed to the metal chair. I crouch down in front of him, holding the pliers up so he can see them clearly. “One of two things is going to happen tonight, Heath; you tell me what I want to know, and I’ll end your misery quickly. Or…” I let the pliers snap threateningly. “I start cutting off the rest of the fingers on your pathetic hands. Slowly. While keeping you alive so you can feel every single ounce of pain. And once I’m done with you, I’ll run the prints; use those filthy fingers to find every person you’re protecting. Then, I’ll bring them here and give them exactly the same ‘care’ you’ve been enjoying.”

The color drains from his face as I lean in closer. “By the time I’m done with them, they’ll curse your name, Heath. And you’ll hear their dying screams as a lullaby.”

He shakes his head wildly, then leans forward gagging pathetically like he’s going to vomit, but nothing comes out. “So, what’s it going to be, Heath? Your choice.” I snap the pliers in the air for good measure. “Tick tock.”

Tears spill down his swollen, bruised cheeks as he starts to sob miserably. “I’ll–I’ll tell you what you want, but please… my daughter. She’s only six. I was told if I ever said anything to anyone, she’d be killed.” His voice cracks, the fear in it almost pitiful. Almost.

I glance back at Dante. He arches a brow but doesn’t comment, his silent approval enough for me. Turning my attention back to Heath, I allow a sliver of softness to slip into my tone. Just enough to give him hope. “What’s your daughter’s name? Where is she? We’ll make sure she’s protected.”

He whimpers her name and her location through his tears, and I nod at Dante, who’s already pulling out his phone to reach out to some of our men to go get the girl. “Now, tell me everything.”

“I don’t really know much. I never met the woman who ordered me to reroute the shipment,” he starts, and I frown at him. Woman? “She was very careful when she reached out to me. Called once to grab my attention, then sent a link to chat with her on the dark web. After that, she called again to warn me my identity may be compromised and to leave the country with my daughter. And if I told you or anyone else the little I know…” He trails off, swallowing hard. “She swore my daughter and I would suffer… slowly.”

“Did she tell you why she wanted the shipment rerouted to Singapore?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. She said it was better if I didn’t know why and to just do what I was told like ‘a good boy’. But…” Fear and hesitation wrestle in his eyes. “She did make a slip. She muttered something in Italian. I don’t think she realized I could understand.”

So, she’s Italian? My frown deepens as I try to connect the dots. “What did she say?”

Heath’s voice drops to a whisper. “‘I’m going to make him pay.’ She sounded… furious. Like she really meant it.”

Make him pay? The words bounce around my head. Who the hell is him? Me? Michael? Rafael? Romero? I swear to God if this is some chick with a vendetta against Romero for breaking her heart, I’m going to kill him myself.

I slowly start to get up from my crouch, but Heath’s frantic words halt me. “Wait! I—I have more. Please, listen!”

I pause, letting my silence speak.

He swallows hard, licking his bloody lips. “I know you said you’re going to kill me, but—but what if I have other information you need to know?”

A dry laugh escapes me. “Trying to trade information for your life? Bold. Let’s hear it.”

“Will… will you let me live?”

My lips curl up as I answer, “No. But your daughter could be adopted by a loving, wealthy family and not have to go through any struggle in her life again. I’ll personally make sure nothing happens to her,” I vow.

His face crumbles up at the reminder of his imminent death and pathetic tears roll down his cheeks. I let out an impatient sigh and start to get up again when he blurts out, “The 9th of August!”

That’s today’s date. I narrow my eyes on him. “Yes? Go on.”

“The day after I approved rerouting your shipment, I got a call about a cargo ship coming in on the 9th of August and was offered a million dollars to look the other way during unloading.”

My heart races as I realize it’s probably the man who orchestrated the trafficking of those girls. “Oh?”

“I can give you the ship’s information so you can check through it when it arrives. I’m sure you’ll find something incriminating, even though I don’t know what that might be.”

“Today is the ninth, Heath. If you had opened your mouth earlier, we could have saved the people on that ship, but alas.” I shrug carelessly as I get to my feet. “Unless you have more information?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps. “The man who called—he had a strong accent. Not New York. Definitely not Italian or Russian or Irish—I know those.” He rushes the words, sensing my impatience. “It could be… southeastern Europe maybe? But I’ve never heard it before.”

I take out my phone and scroll through the audio files until I find the one I want. An old conversation between an Albanian rat and I. One of the first few who came into my city and lost his life thereafter.

I click play and increase the volume. Heath’s head snaps up, eyes widening. “Yes! That’s the accent.”

So it’s confirmed. Albanians. My suspicions solidify, and molten rage floods my veins. Përmeti. What the hell is he playing at? Human trafficking doesn’t fit his profile. Did I misjudge him? I stop the audio and tuck my phone into my pocket.

As I leave the room, Heath’s broken plea chases after me. “Please… protect my girl.”

I pause to give him a reassuring nod. “Do what must be done,” I tell Matteo as I walk out.

The moment I’m in the hallway, I spot Perro pacing feverishly, his phone clutched so tightly his knuckles are bone-white. His head snaps up at the sight of me, his face lined with something close to panic as he waves the device frantically. I reach for it, but before I can, my own phone starts ringing. With a quick nod, I gesture for him to hand it to Dante instead while I pull out mine.

My heart clenches when I see who’s calling.

Marco.

And I just know. I know it’s bad.

I answer to chaos. “We’re under ambush! I repeat, we’re under ambush!” Marco’s voice roars through the connection, nearly drowned out by the deafening crack of gunfire.

My blood runs cold for a split second before the adrenaline kicks in. I spin around wordlessly and start running towards the elevator, my long strides eating up the distance, Dante and Perro right behind me.

“Elira?” I ask as I get into the elevator. That’s the only thing that matters right now. If anything—anything—fucking happens to her, I’ll scorch the earth. Turn this goddamned city into rubble and make Afrim regret trying to distract me with this bullshit scheme of his.

“I’m on my way to lead Mrs. Leonotti to the safe room and⁠—”

“She’s still in the bedroom, and you’re wasting time on the phone with me?! Fucking hell, Marco. Get off the line and go to her! Move!”

I hang up just as the elevator doors slide open, and I’m off again, sprinting to the car. When I reach it, I practically throw myself into the driver’s seat. Perro falters, halfway to the door, but I’ve already slammed it shut and started the engine. Dante barely gets the passenger door open before I’m peeling out of the garage.

The tires shriek in protest as I whip the car onto the road, the backend fishtailing slightly before I wrestle it under control. My foot stays glued to the accelerator, the engine roaring and my horn blaring as I force my way through the sluggish traffic. Red lights streak by, but none of it registers. Nothing matters. Not laws. Not rules. Not even collateral damage. Only her.

“Do you think it’s Afrim?” Dante asks.

God, I hope it’s Afrim. What better time to attempt a rescue of his daughter than now, with my men spread thin, putting out fires all over the city, and me away from home? If it’s him, at least I know he wouldn’t hurt his own daughter. But if we’re dealing with some unknown force—fuck—that would mean Elira is in grave danger.

Dante curses harshly as I yank the wheel, the car lurching into a sharp turn towards the apartment block. His hand shoots up, gripping the overhead handle like it’ll save him from my driving. “You trying to kill us before we get there?” he snaps, voice half-wobbling.

I don’t answer. My mind is locked onto a single, unrelenting truth:

I can’t lose her.