Page 18 of Gabriel
Luis exhaled. “Sí, it was the same one he used to escape us in Colombia a month ago. And considering there was nobody else connected to him in the restaurant aside from Amara and Elira, I think we can assume he planted the bomb that wouldn’t seriously harm anyone.”
I was so fucking close to killing him when I got alerted to his presence in the Colombian jungle, but that bomb he’d set off gave him just enough time to vanish. It was at that moment that I knew without an ounce of doubt that all the whispers and rumors about him were true.
“That sick fuck,” I grumbled.
“Very much so,” he echoed my sentiment. “You and Anya really have a knack for attracting the wrong people.”
“Anya shouldn’t be on his radar,” I hissed. “And Amara… She’s not like him, but she’s blind to those two spawns of Satan.”
“Whatever you say, jefe,” Luis drawled, his voice soaked in sarcasm. “So… what now?”
I stared out at the city, the hum of sirens in the distance like a warning bell no one else could hear.
“Jet’s planning something,” I said, my voice as cold and sharp as broken glass. “And my gut’s telling me it has everything to do with Anya.”
“Or maybe he’s setting you up, tempting you to take Amara so he can kill you,” Luis suggested.
Possibly, but I didn’t think so.
Considering how violently opposed Jet had been to me even looking at Amara all those years ago—like she was some sacred relic under lock and key—his sudden willingness to parade her out like a party favor the moment he set his sights on Anyareeked of strategy, not sentiment. And Elira? She was cut from the same, cold cloth. I wouldn’t put a single goddamn thing past either of them.
My memory flickered, unbidden, back to the second time he and Elira cornered me three years ago.
They came for me, just as I was leaving the D’Arc gym reserved for faculty, tucked away from the main campus. Secluded. Quiet. Unfortunately, perfect for Jet and Elira.
Apparently, even a peaceful workout was too much to ask for these days.
One moment, I was unlocking my car. The next, a sharp, blinding pain shattered through my ribs as something hard and fast slammed into my side.
My body slumped to the pavement and the smell of motor oil and blood—mine, it would seem—clouded my senses.
A boot pinned my shoulder down, grinding me into the asphalt.
“Evening, lover boy," a voice crooned, crouching beside me. His breath smelled like sugar and smoke. "Remember me?”
I scoffed. “As if I could forget such an ugly face.”
“Well, this ugly face came here to warn you off. Again, since you seem to have a problem with your memory, old man.”
His tone was almost playful, but not quite.
“Let me guess,” I drawled, choosing to ignore his jab. Jet was younger than me, but only by a few years. “Stay away from your sister.”
From the corner of my eye, I could see his twin that looked nothing like him. Elira leaned against my car, arms folded, her butterfly knife catching the last of the sunlight.
She flicked it open and closed in rhythm, like a metronome ticking down to something terrible.
“She's not even your real—” I tried to say, but the next hit came fast. Jet’s fist snapped my head sideways.
“She’s not even what?” Elira asked sweetly, stepping forward. Her bootheels clicked on the pavement like gunshots. She knelt beside me, all coiled grace and razor edges, her knife now hovering inches from my face. “Not our real sister? Not our blood? Does that mean you think she’s up for grabs?”
“Are you hard of hearing, Gabriel?” Jet’s voice was silk soaked in gasoline. “We said stay away from our sister.”
“She’s our baby sister,” Elira said, her voice so soft that it made your skin crawl, like you were being told a bedtime story in the middle of a murder scene. “And you’re getting far too close.”
Jet’s hand connected with my cheek, making my head fly and blood spurt from my mouth.
“You hit like a drunk cheerleader,” I taunted, blinking through the haze.
