Page 12 of Wicked Mistletoe

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EMILIA

“You want me to investigate Rafael?” I blurt out, my mind still spinning, struggling to process Stacey’s request. She knows about my history with him—how the hell could she ask this of me? Wouldn’t it be a conflict of interest? The very thought of spying on Rafael fills me with a sinking sense of dread.

Stacey’s eyes, usually warm and understanding, harden with resolve. “Flip the pages.” She nods toward the folder in my hand that I’m now clutching so tight, my knuckles turn white.

Something primal within me screams not to look, to toss the damn thing away and run. But I can’t. I’m rooted to the spot, my trembling fingers betraying me as they flip the page.

And I instantly regret it.

Oh, God…

Grotesque images assault my senses—bodies mutilated beyond recognition, flesh torn and twisted in ways bodies should never be. My stomach churns, and I taste bile at the back of my throat.

“All those people were brutally murdered by a group known as the Nightshades,” Stacey says, her voice oddly detached. “There’s more.”

I don’t want to see more.But I swallow and flip to the next page. The wave of nausea that hits me is so strong I nearly double over.

Little kids—girls, murdered with their limbs hacked off, and their middle sections gape open, showing missing organs. I feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead, and a strangled gasp escapes me. “W–what the hell?”

“Keep going.”

My fingers, numb and clumsy, fumble with the next page. The photos here are blurrier, like they were snapped from far away. But I’d recognize those faces anywhere.

Rafael Moretti, Michael Hart, Maximo Leonotti, and Romero Lombardi.

My saviors.

Men I consider family, even though they must hate me now.

They’re sitting across from each other in what looks like a rooftop garden, surrounded by flowers I know all too well. Nightshade. My lips part as recognition dawns. Those flowers aren’t just pretty—they stand for something.

Freedom. Revolution. Revenge.

Beneath the image, a scrawl of handwriting catches my eye:‘the nightshades’ first meeting.’

“No,” I breathe, shaking my head in denial. “This can’t be right.”

“That meeting happened two months ago, Emily. Since then, the city has been turned upside down. Numerous deaths of the previous ruling mafia families. Massacres. Slowly but surely, the men in that picture took over New York, a borough at a time. They are the Cosa Nostra now. They rule the city. And Rafael… he is their leader.”

“You’re wrong.” I insist. “They would never?—"

“There’s more,” Stacey cuts me off. “Flip.”

I shake my head again. I don’t want to see. But Stacey doesn’t give me a choice. She leans over and flips for me. The first picture shows an elderly man, on his knees, staring down the barrel of a gun. The picture is grainy, probably pulled from surveillance footage, but I know the man holding the gun.

I kissed him last night. I made out with him. And I wanted to do more. So much more.

In the next picture, the elderly man is sprawled on his back, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. Dead. Executed.

More pictures follow, each one more brutal, each one featuring Rafael, Michael, and Maximo. I try to reconcile these images of cold-blooded killers with the boys I once knew, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

The folder slips from my numb fingers, scattering its gruesome contents across the floor. My hands fly to my ears, clamping down hard, as if I could somehow shut out the cacophony of thoughts screaming through my skull. It’s pointless, I know. It never works—never has. But old habits die hard.

With monumental effort, I force my hands down from my ears, just like my therapist drilled into me. Stay in control. I close my eyes and focus on counting my breaths.

In. Out. In. Out. Slow and steady.

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