Page 15 of Gabriel

Liana Volkov wasn’t my birth mother, but if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have survived the first few years of my life. I loved her fiercely, even after my parents found me. They’d turned out to be incredible, and although my home base was mostly New York and Las Vegas while Mother Liana’s was Boston, she remained a cornerstone in my world. Some bonds didn’t break, no matter how tangled the roots.

It was how I ended up tied to these two: Elira with her fire and swagger, and Jet who embodied ice and precision. Both were the center of my world.

“But why refuse the painting?” I pressed. “It’s a flex.”

Elira shrugged one shoulder and said casually, “Because I set it on fire. He doesn’t know yet.”

Jet barked a laugh while my jaw hit the pristine tablecloth. “Youwhat?”

“If he had painted himself naked though,” she mused, dabbing her lips with her napkin, “I’d hang that over my bed. Proudly.”

She and I were still laughing about smoke alarms and singed egos when I noticed Jet had gone quiet. His shoulders were stiff and his gaze kept flicking to the window. Jaw clenched. Eyes shadowed.

“Jet?” I asked, lowering my fork. “You okay?”

He blinked. “Yeah,” he said too quickly. “Just… a lot going on.”

Elira leaned in, her posture shifting subtly. Alert now. “That’s not vague at all.”

Jet exhaled, tapping a rhythm into the stem of his wineglass. “Business.”

I felt a pang of guilt. Elira and I had been traveling Europe on a backpacking adventure while Jet had already begun to take the reins of Mother Liana’s empire.

“With Gabriel Santos?” Elira asked, and just like that, the whole mood in the room snapped.

My head jerked toward her. “Seriously?”

Jet’s hand froze mid-drum. He didn’t look at us. “Maybe.”

“You and him working together is bad news.”

“It’s not what you think,” Jet muttered.

“Isn’t it?” I pressed, arching a brow. “Because I could’ve sworn I’ve heard you say—on more than one occasion, mind you—that you can’t stand the Colombian asshole.” I even threw in air quotes for dramatic flair on the last two words. “Unless, of course, you’re planning some grand alliance between the Tijuana and Santos Cartels?—”

“By marriage or some shit like that,” Elira cut in, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I let out a sharp scoff.

“Yeah, sure. A marriage alliance. Right after hell hosts a ski tournament.” I didn’t add that sweet little Anya wouldn’t last five minutes with Jet. That’d be like pairing tiramisu with Tabasco. Why would anyone do that?

“It’s complicated,” he snapped, dragging a hand through his hair like the weight of the world was tangled in it. “And it’s not like an alliance is a bad thing in today’s world. Besides, you two wouldn’t understand what I’m trying to do.”

“Try us,” I said, leaning back and folding my arms.

He waved a hand, clearly annoyed. “Just know I’m expanding the business. It’s got everything to do with Colombia and… its jungles.”

I let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Right. Because ‘Colombia and its jungles’ sounds totally legit. Are you practicing for a TED Talk, or are we in the middle of a drug-fueled nature documentary?”

Jet glanced around the restaurant, his gaze sharp.

“You’re acting like you’re being watched,” Elira said quietly, eyes narrowing as she nodded toward his untouched duck confit. “You haven’t even poked that overpriced pigeon.”

Jet’s gaze drifted back toward the window, just for a second, but this felt like more than the standard unhinged paranoia I was used to from him.

“There are eyes everywhere in this city,” he murmured.

That was when we heard it.