Page 13 of Gabriel

I believed in her.

What I didn’t believe in was leaving her in Albania, especially not in a place Jet had ties to. That’s what unsettled me. But voicing that concern would be like lighting a match in a room full of gasoline. Raphael wouldn’t hesitate to burn down the entire Tijuana Cartel, not just for daring to look in Anya’s direction but for the ghosts they stirred. Ghosts that looked far too much like what happened to Sailor when they first got married.

My encounter with Jet eight months ago in the dark hallway of Revelation had made me slightly paranoid.

Which is why, since that night, I’d kept a close watch on Anya, Amara, and her infamous adoptive siblings—Jetmir and Elira Volkov Tijuana. The title of the Satan twins wasn’t just fitting; it was dead-on, and I knew it better than anyone else.

Jet would one day inherit the Volkov and Tijuana empires since they were the children of the late Santiago Tijuana, a cruel and sick bastard. Much like their father—and mother, Liana Volkov—the twins were a terror on this earth, neither one even bothering to disguise their bloodthirsty nature. Jet had earned himself a reputation with his torture methods, and Elira had a tendency to dismember her lovers. At least, those were the rumors.

Bottom line, their reputations preceded them, and those two were individuals you never really wanted to meet.

I was sorely tempted to give them a taste of their own medicine because when Satan’s twins found out I was interestedin their sister—who, coincidentally, wasn’t even blood-related to them—they made it their mission to warn me off.

I still recall the first time I ever met them, eight years ago.

They showed up in front of the New York restaurant at dusk, late. Because apparently nobody as dramatic as them ever made an entrance at a reasonable hour.

I was halfway to my car, thinking about dinner, when the shadows rearranged themselves.

Jet and Elira.

They didn’t walk so much as glide, perfectly in sync. They reminded me of those cheesy movies Anya used to watch, with the vampires appearing out of thin air. She’d made me sit through them so many times I couldn’t even watch a baseball game without thinking about those pale freaks running at the speed of sound.

“Gabriel Santos, we finally meet,” Jet said, all smug confidence. “I knew we’d have a meeting one day.”

“I wouldn’t call this a meeting,” I retorted casually. “And I think I’m okay not crossing that bridge.”

He ignored me. “Got a minute?”

“Only if you’re not here to sell me on a cult,” I replied, leaning casually against my car door. “Though honestly, you two seem more like the ceremonial knife-and-chanting type.”

Elira smiled, slow and sharp. She didn’t bother speaking, instead busy spinning her butterfly knife once, twice, as though punctuating her brother’s words.

Jet took a few steps closer, hands still in his pockets. “We want to talk about Amara.”

“Ah,” I said. “Your baby sister. The moral compass amid a dozen broken ones.”

Elira laughed, but it was a cold, detached sound. “Funny.”

“Always.”

Jet’s expression soured a touch. “We’ve noticed you hovering.”

“I don’t hover,” I said. “I orbit. Smoothly. At a respectful distance.”

“Too close,” Elira cut in, stepping forward, her eyes narrowing. “You’re getting attached. She’s getting… ideas. That’s a problem.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You always threaten men who talk to her? Or just the most charming ones?”

Jet didn’t smile this time. “We protect her from lesser men delusional enough to think they have a chance.”

“Newsflash,” Elira added. “You don’t.”

“You two always speak in riddles, or is this your version of a friendly PSA?”

“No riddles,” Jet said, tone flattening. “Just facts. Stay away from her before something breaks.”

“And by ‘something,’ do you mean my legs? My spine? My winning smile?”