Page 139 of Devil's Tulip

“I was just about to call you, Mr. Moretti. It seems Miss Rossi has managed to pull a Houdini on her captors. Slipped right out of that little brownstone they were keeping her in. I’m following her trail now, but I’m afraid she’s got at least a dozen seriously pissed-off Irishmen on her heels.”

“Where are you right now?” I demand as I get into my car, connecting my device to the Bluetooth so I can talk to him as I drive.

“I’m on the move. I’ll share my location—just follow me.” A pause. “Come with backup.”

I end the call without telling him there’s no backup.

It’s just me and Lorenzo, who gives me a flat, unimpressed look. “Are you sure about this? You risk turning Neil into an enemy. And for what? Some woman who betrayed you years ago and seems to have an unending vendetta against us all? Rafael, this isn’t you, I?—”

“Shut the fuck up or get out of my fucking car.” The words rip from my throat as I tear out of the parking lot. Lorenzo grunts as he grabs hold of the handlebar, but he wisely keeps quiet.

The engine roars as I push it well past any legal limit, weaving through traffic like a man possessed. And maybe I am—possessed by the ghost of what Emilia and I once were, by the demons of what we’ve become.

Bryan’s text flashes on my phone.

SHE’S SURROUNDED. THEY’RE HERDING HER WEST

Lorenzo sees it too, and I feel his stare burning into the side of my face before he speaks. “She’s being herded that way for a reason, Rafael. It’s a trap. We can’t just waltz in there.”

He’s right. Of course, he’s right. I know it’s a trap.

If I were in Neil’s shoes and discovered an FBI agent investigating my business, I wouldn’t let her escape. I’d make damn sure she never left my city alive to tell her bosses what she learned.

“Fuck!” My fist slams into the steering wheel, and the car jerks into the opposite lane with a squeal. An oncoming truck’s horn blares, but I barely flinch as I yank us back on course.

“Mother of God,” my asshole second-in-command mutters, gripping the handlebar tighter.

I should forget about her. Turn this car around, go back to New York, and let Gallagher deal with her however he damn well pleases. She fucking betrayed me. Ripped my heart out andstomped on it with her dainty little feet—then had the nerve to act like I’m the villain in our story, likeshewas the one wronged. She’s fucking tripping. I need to find a way to cut myself loose from this twisted, toxic, love-hate mess before it drags me under.

But I can’t.

I just need to fucking understand—once and for all—what her issue is. What changed? What made her turn on me like a rabid dog after everything we shared? That question has haunted me the past five years, ever since I kicked her out of my penthouse. I should never have let her go. I should have fucking locked her away, somewhere safe, until my wounded rage subsided enough for me to get my answers.

Maybe then I wouldn’t be stuck in this endless cycle—hunting for answers, sending investigators after her, chasing her around the fucking country like some lovesick dog. Which I most definitely am not.

“Please tell me you have some kind of plan beyond storming in and getting us both killed.” Lorenzo breaks the tense silence.

I glance down at my phone, slowing the car as I realize Bryan’s stopped moving—we’re right behind him. His latest text makes my stomach drop.

HER CAR BROKE DOWN. SHE’S NOW ON FOOT.

I’m out of the car before it comes to a complete stop, scanning the area with narrowed eyes. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and figure something out, genius?”

EMILIA

“Fucking piece of shit junk car,” I grumble viciously under my breath, glancing over my shoulder briefly as I weave through thecrowd at the park. I earn a few weird looks, so I slow my sprint down into a light jog.

Did I lose them? Somehow, I doubt it. I can still feel eyes on me. Those Irish thugs are persistent motherfuckers.

Up ahead, I spot a thick line of trees—perfect. Less populated. A good place to lose my tail. One last glance behind me, and I nearly choke on my tongue. Damn it! There they are, faces I’ve memorized during my captivity, now twisted with murderous intent. To hell with appearances.

I break into a run again and rush through the thick foliage, ignoring the stinging pain of the branches scraping against my skin and snagging at my clothes.

Once I’m safely past the worst of it, I drop into a crouch, moving silent as death towards a massive oak tree. The sound of pursuit closes in—low curses and snapping twigs. I press my back against the rough bark, hardly daring to breathe, as the men chasing me burst through the foliage like a herd of enraged buffalo. They barrel right past my impromptu hiding spot without so much as a sideways glance, and it takes all I have not to let out a victorious laugh.

I’m about to blow out a relieved sigh when a hand suddenly clamps over my mouth from behind. Panic surges through my veins with the force of a tsunami, and I thrash wildly, kicking back at my captor’s shin. But it’s useless—I barely manage more than a weak tap, nowhere near enough to do any real damage. Every self-defense technique I know rendered useless by the iron grip around my waist.

“Shhh, it’s okay,piccola.It’s me.” The deep, masculine voice washes over me, and despite everything, my body betrays me—I go slack, melting into his familiar heat. But the moment I realize what I’m doing, I jolt upright, stiffening as I wrench myself away from him with a muffled curse.

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