Page 23 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)

Amara

T he restaurant Santos picked whispered class and romance with its gold accents, polished marble, and a string quartet playing something soft.

I strode through the restaurant, locking my sights on the table in the VIP section and the man seated at it who traced my every move with a hooded gaze.

He looked good in a crisp shirt, tailored jacket, and an expression made of granite. He wore his clothes the way most men wore bulletproof vests—sharp and controlled. I spotted the telltale holster under his jacket. Same as mine strapped around my thigh.

My silk dress was midnight blue and backless, with a slit high enough to make a bishop blush. It cost more than it was worth, but I liked the way it moved when I walked. I paired it with heels and earrings that I borrowed from Elira.

His eyes tracked me like I was a loaded weapon until I came to a stop in front of him.

“Wow,” he said, setting down his wine and standing up to pull out a chair for me. “You dressed up for me. That’s thoughtful.”

I slid into the seat across from him with an innocent smile. “I dress up for me , Santos. You just happen to have a front seat to it. Besides, I wanted to look good after you had to witness me wearing grime and dirt.”

He chuckled. “You looked good wearing that too.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip from the already filled glass next to my place setting. “Cheers to Colombian smooth talkers.”

He leaned back into the chair. “Do you have something against Colombians? Because if that’s the case, I can resort back to my American heritage.”

I scoffed. “But what would be the fun in that?”

“Agreed. We need to embrace all of our heritage.”

The waiter brought out lobster grilled in citrus butter, arepas stuffed with cheese, and a ceviche so overdressed it looked like it belonged at Fashion Week.

I ignored the food, feeling slightly disappointed that tamales weren’t on the menu.

“My apologies,” the waiter appeared again. “Here are the tamales prepared specifically to your instructions, Mr. Santos.”

Gabriel nodded his head in acknowledgement. “It’s for the lady.”

Surprise shot through me as the waiter placed the plate in front of me, then disappeared again.

“You remembered,” I breathed, gushing like a silly schoolgirl. If Elira saw me right now, she’d smack sense back into me.

“Of course I did,” he drawled. “I remember everything you say. I hope you like it, it’s our family recipe.”

I arched my brow. “Wow, I’m flattered.”

“You should be,” he deadpanned, cutting into the lobster. “I don’t regularly share our family’s tamales.”

Our eyes met, and I felt the heat rush to my cheeks. This effect he had on me was maddening. This fluttering, this pull… It was unfamiliar territory, and I had no idea how to navigate it.

But then I remembered the plan, the fact that Gabriel was behind the explosion in Paris, and Jet’s disappearance.

The attraction chilled instantly, like a bucket of ice water down my spine.

I picked up the silverware and started cutting into my food, then chewed it slowly. My taste buds exploded and I couldn’t hold back a slow moan.

He grinned. “Like it?”

“It’s good.”

“That’s the understatement of the century.”

It was, but I wouldn’t admit it. For the next few minutes, we ate in silence. He savored his lobster while I ate my tamales like it was my first and last meal.

Then Gabriel broke the silence and my food porn session with tamales.

“So, what are you up to, Amara? You show up on my turf, kill a few men, and now you’re dressed like vengeance. Why can’t I help but think there’s more to this than just a romantic dinner?”

“It’s not romantic,” I said, lying through my teeth. “And I was hungry.”

“Right. And the yacht out back?” I shot him a blank look, feigning ignorance, and he smirked. “Planning a sailing trip?”

“Maybe.”

“Who all is on that yacht?”

I smiled again and repeated, “You know, family and such.”

He tilted his head, studying me with those eyes that seemed to sink deep into my soul.

“That means Elira since the rest of your family is blissfully unaware of your endeavors and thinks you’re still in Europe.”

I never stopped eating, but I did manage a small grimace. “I see you’re back in full stalking mode.”

He flashed me a charming smile. “At least I do it with morals and respect your boundaries.”

“Stalking, morals, and boundaries don’t belong in the same book, never mind the same sentence,” I retorted dryly.

“You like me stalking you, Amara. You just don’t want to admit it.”

His confidence was hard to resist. Most men trembled when they learned of my connections to Mother Liana, my own parents, and Kian. But not Gabriel.

He set down his silverware, his eyes never wavering and his confidence never faltering. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re about to do something reckless and morally questionable. Are you, Amara?”

My lips curved into a half-smile as I reached for my glass. “That’s just my face, and if I were, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.”

He took his own wineglass between his strong fingers, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip before putting it down.

It was dangerous how normal this moment felt. Almost as if we’d done this a thousand times.

He leaned in slightly, voice low. “You’re not going to start more trouble here, are you, preciosa ?”

“Of course not,” I lied.

He cocked a brow. “You’re not that good a liar.”

I leaned back in my seat and folded my arms. “I guess I’ll need more practice, then.”

“I like the way you move,” he said, suddenly changing subjects. “You walk like you own the world and everything in it. Confidence looks sexy on you.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me, Santos,” I said, tilting my head.

“It isn’t flattery if it’s true,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“Then thank you for the compliment. You’re sexy too.” I mentally slapped myself for flirting.

He laughed again—real this time, warm and a little dangerous. The kind of laugh that had me wondering what his mouth could do besides talk.

“If you weren’t so damn complicated, stubborn, and related to pathologically sick twins,” he said, swirling his wine, “we could’ve ruled a small country by now. We could be living like royalty. Be the kind of force nobody has ever seen.”

I raised a brow. “Just one country? You dream small for a man with such big… ambition.”

“You don’t believe in humility, do you?”

“I believe in theatrics. And right now, I’m giving you drama and tension… I mean, this is practically a Shakespearean play.”

He threw his head back and laughed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, heat suddenly plummeting to the spot between my thighs.

“Let’s toast to that,” he announced, and we clinked glasses. He took a long drink. So did I. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward. “To theatrics and betrayal.”

I tensed, my instincts flaring. But no, he couldn’t possibly know of my plans. I was just being paranoid.

“So, what’s next for you?” he asked. “Another city or jungle you can get lost in? Or will you strictly stick to the seas?”

“By the way, have you shared the fact that I have a boat with anyone?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Are you asking me if I told your family?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes.”

“No, Amara, I didn’t. After all, that’s your business.”

I smiled, hiding my relief. “Yes, it is. Still, I appreciate your discretion.”

He leaned forward, interest flickering in his eyes. “Are you hiding things from your family?”

“No,” I said, lying shamelessly before I asked, “Are you?”

His smile twitched, then faded. “I’m protecting my family from certain things, so yes, you could say I’m hiding some things from them.”

“Like what?”

He didn’t answer, but the way he watched me—eyes sharp with knowing—only deepened my suspicion. It made me want to squirm in my seat, but I held myself rigid, refusing to give in to the urge.

“Do you want to get out of here?” I asked suddenly, my voice low and husky, heart pounding like a drum against my ribs.

The scrape of his chair was all the answer I needed. He tossed a stack of bills onto the table and held out his hand.

I hesitated—just a flicker—before I placed my fingers in his firm and steady hand.

“Are you okay?” he asked when I didn’t stand up immediately.

“I’m fine,” I ground out, rising from my seat. We moved through the restaurant together, the low thrum of music and laughter dimming behind us.

Outside, the air was thick and electric, the city lights painting the sky. The harbor glistened in the distance, quiet and waiting.

My gaze flicked to the dark alley a block from the restaurant. I had studied the area well before I met him tonight—mapping out every street, alley, exit—and I knew that alley would be the best place to carry out my plan.

His hand was still in mine as I led him toward it. He followed without question. Neither one of us spoke, but with every step, a weight pressed heavier on my chest. There’d be no turning back from what I was about to do.

Once we reached the mouth of the alley, he finally broke the silence. “Now what?”

I stopped and turned to face him. My heart thundered in my chest like it was trying to warn him.

His eyes searched mine, waiting, almost as if he were trying to solve a puzzle.

I rose onto my toes—slowly, deliberately—and let my mouth brush against his. His scent overwhelmed me, intoxicating every fiber of my being. As my lips pressed to his, heat rose within me and set my skin on fire.

It was just a whisper of a kiss. Barely there. But it was enough to feel the heat of him, the pull, the history we never had. One second, two seconds… or was it minutes? I wasn’t sure because time slowed and the pulse drummed in my ears violently.

A heaviness settled between my legs just as his breath hitched, caught between surprise and instinct.

He didn’t move or pull away.

His gaze burned as I gripped his forearms, eyes locked on his. He looked at me like I was his woman, but I wasn’t just that. I was the woman who was about to rewrite every line in his story.

There was something fragile and fierce in that gaze. It was the look of a man who understood that whatever came next wasn’t just a choice, but a turning point. A moment carved out of fate and fire.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered against his lips, my voice softer than it had any right to be, considering what I was about to do.

The tranq’s syringe slid from my sleeve, and I jabbed it into his neck.

He staggered. “Amara?—?”

“I got you,” I said, catching him as he crumpled into me.

Out of the shadows stepped Elira with an attitude twice her size.

She looked at Gabriel slumped against me, then me as she rolled her eyes.

“You should have just gone with the poisonous lipstick,” she said. “Since you were going to be smooching and all.”

“Stop with that stupid poisonous-lipstick crap,” I muttered, shifting his weight. “Help me get him to the boat.”

She grabbed his legs. “You shouldn’t have let him eat. Now we have extra pounds to carry.”

“I’m so sorry for not jabbing him with a needle in the middle of the restaurant,” I said, sarcasm lacing my tone. Guilt snaked up my chest and wrapped around my throat. This feeling was a novelty, and I hated it. “Besides, we can thank Jet. This is his doing, remember?”

“Ah, yes, but Jet didn’t tell you to kiss him,” she pointed out.

“It’s… complicated.”

“I certainly hope you don’t sleep with him because that will make it even more complicated.”

I scoffed. “Are you trying to give me ideas or warn me?”

“Both, I guess.”

We staggered down the dock, Gabriel dead weight between us. I nearly tripped on a broken plank.

“Jesus,” Elira grunted. “What did he eat, cement?”

“Regret and moral superiority, more likely.” I blew a loose piece of hair away from my face. “Honestly, I’m surprised his men aren’t around.”

She shrugged. “He underestimated you. His mistake. But then, men are dumb, so no surprise there.”

We finally reached the yacht and heaved him onto the deck. I turned around and faced the waterfront, searching for signs that we’d been tailed.

Elira wiped sweat from her brow and asked, “You sure he’s not gonna wake up mid-sail and strangle you?”

I didn’t miss a beat. “He’ll probably try.”

Elira snorted as we dragged Gabriel’s unconscious body down the deck. “Just don’t fall for him. Hopefully he won’t develop Stockholm syndrome and fall for you. That would be… unfortunate.”

“What the hell do you know about Stockholm syndrome?”

“Everything,” she deadpanned. “I actually use it as a form of torture.”

I shook my head. “Jesus, Elira. You’re so scary and criminally undervalued. I pity any man who captures your interest.”

“Yeah.” She gave a soft, tired laugh. “Anyhow, let’s focus on you and your lover boy.”

“He’s not my lover boy,” I corrected her, glancing her way. “We should probably cuff him just in case he does try to kill me.”

She went quiet for a moment, our footsteps the only sound on board. We instructed the crew to keep out of sight tonight.

“Do you think this is smart?” she asked, voice lower now, the edge fraying.

“Probably not, but we trust Jet, and Gabriel is definitely hiding something,” I said. “Am I worried? Yeah. Every damn second.”

Elira nodded, jaw tight.

I shifted Gabriel’s weight, mentally going down the laundry list of my “ to-dos” after I handcuff the prisoner: get supplies of clothes and toiletries, and whatever else to ensure our prisoner was somewhat comfortable. After all, he wasn’t just anyone, but the heir to the Santos Cartel.

“I love you, sis,” she whispered, and my head whipped to her. Elira wasn’t the sentimental kind and rarely expressed her feelings.

“And I love you,” I said softly. “You’re my favorite criminal.”

“Wow. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get emotional. We’re still dragging two hundred pounds.”

“I swear to God,” Elira huffed, adjusting her grip on his legs. “Next time Jet recommends we snatch someone, it better be a skinny twig of a man.”

“Get in line.” My arms ached and my breathing heaved. “The yacht is fueled up, right?”

“Yes, everything is ready. Supplies replenished and route set.”

We finally entered the cabin and deposited him onto the mattress when Elira said, “I still can’t believe you kissed him.”

“I was creating emotional dissonance and distraction. It’s a tactic.”

“It’s a kink.”

“Maybe.” I looked down at Gabriel, limp and silent, his breathing steady. I sighed. “Gosh, he really is so beautiful. Such a waste of triceps.”

“Then make him yours,” Elira deadpanned. Maybe our moral compass had gone to shit over the years.

That fleeting kiss played on loop in my mind, reliving every part of it. I’d burned many bridges in the past, but I instinctively knew this one would hurt.