Page 14 of Gabriel
Elira took another step, her perfume full of violets and threats invading my personal space. Damn woman, she better realize she wasn’t my type. I wanted to keep my balls intact, thank you very much.
“We mean all of you,” Elira purred, staring at me with an ice-cold gaze. “Because when it comes to Amara, we’ll stop at nothing to protect her.”
I met Jet’s unflinching gaze. “She’s not yours to keep in a cage, no matter how gilded it might be.”
“No,” he allowed, sending a nod to his sister. “But she’s ours to keep safe.”
They turned in unison.
I stood there a moment longer, brushing invisible dust from my jacket, heartbeat steady but mind spinning.
So that was the warning.
Now the question was: what the hell was I going to do with it?
Needless to say, I didn’t let their little performance stop me. Nothing did, until Jet met me in Revelation suggesting that cursed, fucked-up “trade.” Jet’s proposition for Anya was a shock even now, not only because my sweet niece was all wrong for him, but also because Jet was so adamant to keep me away from Amara.
“¿En qué piensas?”Raphael asked, studying me, trying to figure out what I was thinking about.
Sailor and Anya had already made their way inside the house while the two of us stood by the gate.
“Que esto no me gusta,”I stated, again reminding him I didn’t like this. “We never know when shit can hit the fan, and Anya shouldn’t be so far away from us.”
He nodded.
“I know, but even if it does, Kian’s got it under control. He’d never let innocent people get caught in the crossfire. It’s the only reason I agreed.” He let out a humorless laugh. “For fuck’s sake, he even saved Liana Volkov.”
I tensed at the name.
I’d never met the woman, but I didn’t need to. Any woman who managed to rise from the ashes and survive the fallout of Santiago Tijuana wasn’t just formidable, she was danger wrapped in a designer coat. Liana was a living myth, a femme fatale by birthright. She was a mobster in her own right, with a body count to rival any man in the game. Fearless and lethal, she was the kind of woman you never saw coming until the blade was already in your gut. Her children, Jet and Elira, were very much like her in that regard.
My jaw clenched. I hesitated—just for a second—wondering if I should tell him about Jet’s interest in Anya. I was still reelingfrom it myself. The worst part? From everything I’d dug up, the two had never even met.
No messages, no sightings, not even a trace of overlap. I’d tried to fish for something—casually, in conversation with Anya—but got nothing. No flicker of recognition. No alarm.
And that made it worse.
Because if Jet wanted her, it wouldn’t matter how well she knew him.
He didn’t chase. He claimed.
Amara
Élan’s flickering candlelight, polished brass, and linen-covered tables overlooking the cobbled heart of Le Marais was so exclusive that securing a table here meant waiting months—or slipping a bundle of cash into the maître d’s
hand. Outside, Paris was alive, the late summer night sky still pink with twilight. The streets beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows hummed with street performers and the occasional horde of boisterous tourists. It was strictly hushed elegance within the restaurant’s walls, with its crystal chandeliers swaying lazily and casting golden halos across the space. The air smelled of butter, saffron, and expensive perfume. If heaven had a dress code, this was it.
I twirled my fork into a nest of truffle tagliatelle, the scent rich and mouthwatering, though I wasn’t paying attention to the food. Across the table, my brother and sister stared at me with matching expressions of mild amusement and practiced boredom—but I knew them too well. They were listening.
“I’m just saying,” I began, stabbing my pasta a little too hard. “If someone buys you a painting worth more than your car, you say thank you. Not ‘it’s too much.’ Right, Jet?”
Elira took a long, slow sip of her rosé, her earrings catching the light with every tilt of her head. “That painting was ofme, Amara. Naked. It’s weird.”
Jet made a sharp sound in his throat and dropped his fork. “Why the fuck are you lounging naked for French painters, Elira?”
“Cut the shit, Jet.” She didn’t even flinch. “I’m a grown woman. If I want to swing off my balcony naked, I will. Luckily for the art world, I decided to pose instead of traumatizing the neighbors.”
I let out a snort of laughter, unable to help myself. She had always emanated that shameless energy—the kind of woman who could command a room barefoot in a silk robe. It was a trait she inherited straight from Mother Liana.
