Page 23 of Gabriel

“How aboutMidnight?” I asked.

She clapped once. “We were born for this.”

“No,” I said, meeting her gaze. “If we make a mistake and get caught, we’ll cause a war. We have to be careful, Elira.”

Mother Liana never taught us to be weak or soft. She taught us to be capable of walking into any room and walking out with the deed to the place. And when that didn’t work, we were taught how to burn the place down. But she also taught us never to act recklessly.

“Okay,” I began. “We sail for Colombia.”

Her brows lifted. “Can you at least admit this is exciting? Much better than dealing with the Syndicate and all the business bullshit.”

“No, it isn’t,” I assured her. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, but we have to at least try. If Santos is trying to kill Jet, he’ll have a war on his hands. I don’t know how the hell those two got to that point, but we’ll have to figure it out and help Jet because it’s obvious he’s in trouble.”

A beat passed. Elira nodded.

“I’ll move the money through my account,” she said.

“And I’ll do the same,” I replied. “I’ll handle the yacht.”

I looked out the window.

Somewhere, Jet was running and Gabriel was watching. And right here and now, Elira and I were planning.

Amara

Two Weeks Later

We hadn’t heard from Jet since his cryptic message in Paris.

Midnightrocked gently beneath my feet as I stood on the teak deck, the salty breeze biting at my skin. The sun had just slipped below the jagged horizon, staining the sky a bruised purple and orange. We settled on a sleek, matte black yacht in the end, and it moved silently except for the faint hum of the engine below.

I still couldn’t believe we’d pulled off buying it without alerting our families. Both Mother Liana and my biological parents had a pulse on everything going on in the underworld, but we’d somehow managed to keep this yacht purchase under the radar.

We bought it in a shadowy port just outside Monaco, registered under a fake shell company no one in our family—or government agencies—could trace. We hired a crew known for two things: their discretion and their exorbitant fees. As long as the money kept flowing, they wouldn’t ask questions.

They sailed us to Colombia.

Meanwhile, our families believed us to still be in the midst of backpacking Europe, snapping artsy photos of narrow streets and overpriced cappuccinos.

I pulled out my phone when it vibrated and opened the group chat with my college friends.

It was where adulting—and this mission—took a backseat and chaos reigned. Most of the girls were now happily married, posting ridiculously romantic photos on Instagram and flaunting their healthy,maturerelationships. I couldn’t even fathom it.

Penelope: Doing a romantic weekend getaway with my hubby. Preparing for our anniversary and a weekend marathon of getting laid.

I rolled my eyes, but a grin tugged at my mouth. Penelope was now happily married and getting laid plenty, much to her delight.

Me: Isn’t your anniversary Christmas Day? That’s ages away.

Penelope: It’s a rehearsal for our anniversary. Gotta keep the spark alive, you know? What about you, Amara? Met any devastatingly handsome locals on your glamorous backpacking adventure?

Me: Nope, no handsome men around, but I am about to go backpacking through the mountains.

Technically true. Except the “mountains” were in South America and probably deserved their own list of triggers. I hatedlying, but there was no way I was telling my girlfriends that I was about to trek through the cartel-adjacent wilderness.

Anya: That sounds like the setting of a romance novel.

Me: Do you know of any?