Page 5 of Devil's Tulip

“I sent a brief to your email. There’s a missing girl I need you to look into,” Rafael answers, getting straight to the point—exactly how I like it.

“A missing girl,” I repeat slowly.Oh, he fucking didn’t.

“I know you don’t like these kinds of jobs, which is why I’ve kept this off your radar until now. But it’s important.She’simportant. She’s Aldo Cabello’s niece, and she’s been gone for two months.”

Ah. Now it makes sense. Aldo Cabello is one of the very first men to swear fealty to Rafael, and by extension, to all of us. So whenever he has a request, Rafael bends over backward to accommodate it. After all, if there’s no reward for loyalty, what will keep these dangerous men as our allies?

I let out an irritated sigh. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do about it.”

Truthfully, I could track down the girl before sunrise if I cared enough to try. But I don’t. Aldo’s loyalty—and the rest of the capos’—doesn’t mean shit to me, not the way it does to Rafael. She’s already been missing for two months; if Aldo’s men are too incompetent to find her, he can wait another goddamn week.

“I appreciate it,fratello,” Rafael says, though he sounds a little distracted. He must be quite busy on his end as well.

“Yeah, whatever.” I hang up and glance out the window, watching my city blur past.

“Who are we looking for?” Lorenzo asks, twisting in his seat to get a read on me.

I don’t answer him. My gaze stays glued to the moving buildings outside, but my curiosity burns about the mystery girl. She ran away from Aldo—one of the most feared capos aftermy brothers and me—and hasn't been caught after two months?How?

Either she’s incredibly lucky, or there’s more to her that’s worth paying attention to.

My phone glows faintly in my hand, my thumb hovering over the mail icon. But instead, I lock the damn thing and push all thoughts of her out of my head. Not now. Business first. “Marcos, take me to the warehouse.”

He nods and turns towards East Harlem. When we reach the quiet 119th Street, the car slows and comes to a stop in front of our commercial building—just another warehouse to unsuspecting eyes. I pocket my phone as I get out, Lorenzo trailing close behind me. Marcos heads straight to the steel door, knocking in a practiced rhythm—once, twice, then three quick raps.

Rocco pulls the door open within seconds and steps aside to let us enter. I breeze through the front area, making my way towards the back, past the men at the counting machines tallying the money made so far.

At the supply door, I pause. This barrier of reinforced steel yields to only four men in the world—Rafael, Maximo, Romero, and me. I lean in for the retinal scan, the machine humming softly as it reads my eye. There’s a low click and the hundred-ton door opens with a snick, expelling a controlled burst of chilled air that raises the hairs on my neck.

The supply room is kept cold for a reason—some of the medications here need strict temperature control to stay effective. It feels like a damn icebox, but the drugs don’t care about comfort. Shaking off the chill, I get to work, inspecting the shelves stacked with precisely cataloged inventory, while Lorenzo scrolls through the list on his tablet.

“Everything is as it should be,” he confirms after our walkthrough.

“Good. You need to clamp down harder on the people we supply to.”

This isn’t just business—it’s personal. The whole reason my brothers and I started smuggling these meds was to cut through the bullshit big pharma throws at people. The corporations drive up prices, making life-saving treatments like gabapentin and opioids scarce and out of reach for anyone who isn’t filthy rich. So, we filled the gap. We bring in the stock, sell it cheaper, and still make a profit.

Not charity, but justice. Romero is more passionate about it than any of us. He still carries the grief of his mother’s death—two decades and counting—because she couldn’t get the medicine she needed in time.

That’s why I see red when I find scumbags buying from us, mixing the product with addictive garbage like benzodiazepine, Percocet, and cocaine, then selling it back to my community. That shit won’t fly in my city. Jake and his idiot friend learned that lesson.

Lorenzo nods. “Of course. I’ve already given the order to the men. We’re narrowing our seller list to those we’ve vetted. No exceptions.”

I give the shelves one more pass before I leave the warehouse.

Back in my car, I finally surrender to temptation. The email opens, and—fuck me.

My breath catches at my first glimpse of the missing girl. She’s gorgeous. Pin-straight black hair falls like liquid ink to her waist, lush pink lips curve in the faintest frown, and those eyes… Christ. They’re amber, hypnotic pools framed by long, dark lashes that could drive a man to madness. My cock stiffens embarrassingly fast, and I curse under my breath.

Being pretty isn’t all that special. This city is full of gorgeous women—hell, I’ve had my pick more times than I can count.

But her… there’s something else about her, something in the way she holds herself in the picture. A sad hopelessness in those whiskey-gold eyes that calls to a dormant instinct inside me.

I lick my lips as I scroll down.

Gianna Tulipa Cabello. Tulipa. A fucking tulip.

I stare at the name, lost in thought. My mind spirals. Then, with a sharp inhale, I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket. One more stop at the club to check the accounts before heading home. I can conduct my research on her then—there’s no rush, no need to?—

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