Page 10 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)

Amara

O ne minute, Paris was offering you champagne and a three-course meal, the next it was coughing up smoke and secrets.

We left élan in the back of a stolen ambulance because Jet, in all his brilliance, had disappeared, leaving only wreckage and a single cryptic text, like he thought we’d be fine sorting through a bomb scene in designer shoes and soot-filled lungs.

The air outside the restaurant still stank of gunpowder and melted wiring. Sirens wailed in overlapping directions, echoing off the stone buildings. Cops. Medics. Fire crews. Cameras. Civilians.

Too many eyes.

We’d slipped through the smoke easily, cutting down a side alley behind a shuttered flower shop. My legs were trembling and my lungs burned, but Elira didn’t slow down. She disposed of her heels almost immediately and broke into a sprint, dress torn, face streaked with ash and stained with blood.

Elira spotted the ambulance first.

It was half concealed behind a boulangerie, still idling, doors flung wide like someone had left in a hurry. No crew. No stretcher. No lights.

Just keys swinging from the ignition like an invitation.

I hesitated. She didn’t.

She climbed into the driver’s seat, fingers already flying over the controls, adjusting mirrors and ripping off a lanyard from the dash that might’ve belonged to someone still inside élan.

“Get in,” she droned as she turned the engine over. “Now.”

I did as she said, the vinyl seat catching against my scraped palms. The sirens were getting louder again as we took off around the corner.

Two minutes later, we were swallowed by the backstreets of Paris, red taillights bouncing off wet cobblestone like a pulse.

We didn’t speak for a while.

The city blurred around us, fractured and flickering, as if Paris itself were trying to forget what had just happened.

And maybe we were too.

“You can tell me if you were responsible, you know. I can handle the truth,” I muttered, gripping the overhead bar as she swung us through a maze of alleyways, her hands steady on the wheel.

She smirked. “Wouldn’t have used that much smoke. Too dramatic. We’d be dead if it were me.”

“You have issues.”

Elira’s sunglasses were back on, even though it was pitch-black through the windshield. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

The back of my throat still tasted like plaster dust and panic. We were bleeding adrenaline and guessing at every turn.

But one thing was clear: Jet had known something was coming and he hadn’t warned us.

“Do you think Jet anticipated the explosion?” I questioned.

Elira flicked me a glance before focusing back on the road. “He seemed paranoid. Almost as if someone was coming after him. The explosion must have something to do with Santos.”

My brows furrowed. “That’s kind of far-fetched, don’t you think? Santos is in Albania with his sister.”

“His sister is there, but Santos left Albania. We need to find that man. Jet said he’s the key,” Elira said coldly.

“Yeah, the key, not the killer.”

“Same damned thing,” she retorted dryly. “We have to find Santos and question him.”

I scoffed. “About what?”

“His dealings with Jet. The explosion. Everything.”

I stared at my sister’s profile in disbelief. It wasn’t like Elira to jump to conclusions or act peculiar, yet I couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something off about her. She was being kind of cagey.

“Do you know something I don’t?” I asked her slowly.

“No, why?”

I let out a breath. “Because you seem so sure that Santos is the answer, although I’m unsure to what.”

“Well, we were almost killed. Jet sent us a note, saying that Santos is the key. It seems natural to go after him.”

“Maybe, but we shouldn’t jump to conclusions and accuse him of anything until we’re sure of whatever it is that Jet’s accusing him of.”

“Okay, but what would you say if I told you that Gabriel Santos tried to kill our brother before?”

“What?” I asked, shocked to my core.

“Yes, your admirer has threatened him on several occasions and even tried to murder him. Our own brother.”

As her words sunk into me, so did the anger. No wonder Jet had disappeared. His life was in danger because that Colombian asshole was after him. And it certainly made sense now that Santos stopped pursuing me. He was trying to kill my brother. Over my dead body.

“The backpacking trip certainly ended with a bang,” I hissed, fury simmering in my chest. “So now what? Do we go after Santos first or look for Jet?”

“If Jet doesn’t want to be found, we won’t find him,” she deadpanned.

“Santos it is,” I said resolutely, picturing his lifeless body in a pool of blood.

Shit, why did it bother me so much? He was just a nuisance.

Over the years, Gabriel Santos had lurked around me.

At D’Arc, he was always there—in the hallways, front and center at gala dinners.

He was my polished shadow even before I noticed him. Persistent and annoying.

But something shifted after our encounter at Revelation last year.

He stopped showing up, stopped circling.

It should’ve been a relief. I should’ve felt free now that he’d finally granted me my wish.

But instead, it left this hollow, aching silence behind.

Like missing a fight you’d been training for.

Like reaching for an enemy and finding empty air.

It was stupid and shallow and just complicated enough to keep me up most nights.

I told myself it was better this way—cleaner, simpler—but never in a million years had I fathomed that he disappeared because he had murderous intentions toward a member of my family.

“Let’s ditch this transport,” I suggested. “We’re too visible in this.”

“Agreed.”

By the time we ditched the ambulance and broke into an abandoned perfume warehouse near the Canal Saint-Martin, the moon was still high in the sky. The city didn’t sleep. Neither did we.

We didn’t talk until we were safely inside and the door was bolted behind us.

Elira turned to me, eyes sharp. “We need to get out of France.”

“Agreed.” I pushed my hand through my disheveled hair. “Do we know where Santos is?”

She pulled out her phone, her eyes skimming over her screen. “Colombia.”

“Jesus, why couldn’t he be closer?” I muttered.

“We’ll have to find a way in,” she declared. “Off-grid. No airports. No hotel check-ins. Untraceable.”

“Boat,” I said.

She blinked. “I like where your head’s at.”

I nodded. Elira and I were rarely at odds, and those disagreements usually came in duos. Right or wrong, Jet and Elira would always have each other’s backs first and foremost.

When they entered my life, they immediately took me under their wings.

Even though they were only three years older, they took their older-sibling status to extremes.

We’d been a tight trio ever since, spending as much time together as we could until the two of them went to study abroad.

And even then we’d remained in constant contact.

Yes, sometimes they could be overwhelming and overprotective, but they did it with the best intentions.

“We can vanish for a while,” I stated pensively. “We find Santos and figure out what’s going on. We just have to locate him.”

The Santos family’s home base was split between Miami and Colombia. That was, when he wasn’t lurking as faculty on the D’Arc campus. Either way, it was hard to figure out where he was at any given time.

Elira began pacing the warehouse floor. “We should start with Colombia.”

My brows furrowed. “It would probably be easier to start with Miami, don’t you think?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think so. There’s a spot deep in the Colombian jungle that Jet had been to visit multiple times in the past. It’s the best place to start.” When I remained silent, she added, “Unless you have a better plan?”

“I don’t.” I loved Jet to death, but he never shared his dealings with anyone, not even Elira. “How do you know his movements?”

Elira shrugged. “I put a tracker on him.” Surprise rolled through me. “Don’t tell Jet.”

“But why?” I asked. The twins trusted each other blindly, and putting a tracker on Jet seemed to violate that trust.

“He’s been acting stranger than usual,” Elira explained.

My brows furrowed. “Why haven’t you mentioned it before?”

“Never came up.” I studied her, but before I could question her further, she added, “So it’s settled. We’ll go to Colombia.”

“Okay, let’s retrace his steps. Maybe we’ll find some information or clues.”

She nodded. “Agreed.”

“We buy a yacht,” I said, my voice steady. “Not a flashy one.”

“But it needs to have comforts,” Elira retorted wryly. “I’m not suffering through some shitty accommodations while battling the sea.”

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes while shaking my head. “We’ll register it to a holding company out of Malta. Or Gibraltar. Something buried deep.”

Elira gave me a slow, wicked smile. “Shell company?”

I nodded. “Name it something boring.”

“ Westpoint Navigation . Or Bellridge Holdings ,” she recommended, a playful smirk on her face.

“How about Midnight ?” 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.