Page 4 of Gabriel

Gabriel

The D’Arc campus sprawled across prime real estate in Connecticut, perched dramatically on a cliff that offered sweeping views of the Atlantic Ocean. It wasn’t just a school. It was a fortress disguised as an elite university. It was a place that attracted heirs and heiresses from criminal empires around the globe.

But its true purpose was more specific: to mold mafia princesses into powerful, self-sufficient women capable of surviving—and thriving—in the dangerous world they were born into. That was why Anya was here. Technically my niece, but in every way that mattered, she was my sister.

My loafers echoed softly against the pavement of the sleeping campus, moonlight hanging high above while Amara and her friends were still lost in the shadows of Revelation, her words slashing my chest. But it was for the best, especially after Jet’s proposition in the hallway back at the club: Anya for Amara.

I refused without hesitation. He was lucky I didn’t kill him right then and there for the suggestion alone.

The dim hallway reeked of expensive perfume, candle wax, and sex. It clung to the air, promising nothing good. Just like the man leaning against the wall near the emergency exit.

Jetmir Thorne Volkov Tijuana, a Satan reincarnate, looked like he belonged in here, wrapped in shadows and wearing a smirk that I would like to wipe off his face. His black suit was perfect, each line pressed into place like he wasn’t capable of chaos. But I knew better.

I stepped into the silence, letting the emergency door click shut behind me.

“What the fuck do you want?” I gritted, tempted to just punch that smirk off his face. “After our last encounter, I thought you’d know better than to fuck with me, never mind call me with some fucking proposition.”

I wouldn’t admit that I was curious, but a knot in my stomach warned that whatever it was wouldn’t be anything good. Nothing good ever came from dealing with Jet.

He didn’t move, just tilted his head slightly with a cold amusement curving his mouth.

“Straight to business,” he drawled. “I like that about you.”

I scoffed. “I fucking doubt it, but as you know, time is currency, and I fucking hate wasting my time with the likes of you.”

He pushed off the wall slowly. “Like my message said… I have a proposition,” he drawled.

“I can’t wait to hear it.” Sarcasm laced my words.

“I’ve been thinking about your interest in Amara,” he said with a lazy smile, ignoring my jab. “And I’m willing to let you have her—on one condition.”

I tensed, his words and the gleam in his eyes making me uneasy. Yes, I wanted Amara. For years, I’d been her shadow, playing a game of cat and mouse while waiting for her to cave in to the clear attraction we both felt. But I wanted her of her own free will, not offered by Jet on a silver platter like a sacrificial lamb.

Still, I asked, “What condition?”

His eyes flickered with darkness and he let a heartbeat pass before he replied, “Anya for Amara.”

“No.” The word was out of my mouth while shock trembled in my chest. “You’ll fucking stay away from Anya, and if I catch you anywhere near her, I’ll fucking kill you. You hear me, Jet? I’ll slice you into pieces and feed you to the dogs, then deliver your bones to your family.”

That wiped that smug smile off his face—only for a second, but I saw it.

“This is between us, and leave my family out of it.” His expression was cold enough to freeze geysers, but it had no impact on me. “It’s a good deal, especially with the dangers of organ trafficking. It’d be an alliance stronger than the Omertà.”

“I don’t give a damn about an alliance. My family will keep Anya protected from organ traffickers and leeches like you. She’ll marry a man she loves, not some sick bastard who thrives on torture and pain.”

He didn’t flinch, but I could see a crack in his mask, the gleam in his eyes sharper and meaner than ever.

“Anya is mine,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “I’ll give her more than anyone else can. Freedom. Empire. And?—”

“You’ll cage her in velvet and call it freedom,” I cut him off. “I’m warning you, Jet. Say her name one more time and I’ll end you right here and now.”

He tilted his head, half amused.

“You want Amara?” he said. “You can have her. Just give me Anya.”

They didn’t call Jet and his sister ruthless for nothing. They didn’t seduce—they devoured. They didn’t negotiate—they bled people dry and called it even.

“I’m not bargaining with my sister’s life,” I scoffed. “That’s not on the table.”