Page 7 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)

Gabriel

I wiped the sweat from my brow as my shoes hit the blistering Albanian pavement, the heat rising in shimmering waves around us.

Perched on a slope above the Adriatic, a house gleamed white against the sun, all sharp lines and modern edges. The entire first floor boasted paneled windows, giving off the appearance that it floated between sky and sea.

Behind it, low cypress trees and pale limestone walls framed a narrow garden that clung to the hillside. But the view it offered of the ocean stretching endlessly, its surface dazzling under the midday sun, was what made it unique.

“?Qué puto calor hace!” I grumbled. It was too fucking hot here. “And coming from someone who spends most of his time in Florida and Colombia, that’s saying something.”

“Pffft, tonterías ,” Anya chippered, calling me out on my nonsense. “ El clima es más que perfecto .” It’s perfect weather.

Raphael, my half brother and Anya’s father, stood beside me, looking resigned.

Standing on his other side was his wife and Anya’s mother, Sailor.

She was technically my aunt, but in every way that mattered, she was my mother too.

She’d made sure my childhood was safe, steady, and filled with more love than I probably deserved.

“How could you let her talk you into this?” I added, my mood souring by the minute.

“Kian assured me my daughter would be safe,” Raphael said tightly. His tone, however, made it clear that reassurance wasn’t doing much to calm him down.

“Excuse you all. It took me eight months of begging, bargaining, and borderline blackmail,” Anya quipped, sliding her hand into mine with a playful squeeze.

My sister studied photography, and for some wild reason, she decided Albania would be her muse.

She built her entire portfolio around this country, especially Sazan Island, a former secret military base and prison.

The project never made much sense to me, and the fact that her parents agreed to this lunacy made even less sense.

But agreed to it they did, and so Anya would spend the next twelve months in Albania. Alone! Okay, not exactly alone since she’d have her bodyguards with her, but that was practically alone.

“Is all this because your friends went off and got married?” I questioned, hoping I’d understand her better and find a way to convince her to abandon her crazy idea. “You can get your own place to live in the States. Just say the word and?—”

“I’m going to live here for the duration of my project,” she stated, jutting her chin stubbornly. “Nobody will stop me.”

Her blonde hair, so light it was almost silver, whipped around her face in the breeze, near-shimmering in the sunlight. She was practically vibrating with excitement, her stubborn grin stretched wide across her face.

I returned to look at the house we’d secured for Anya. It sat just a stone’s throw from our mysterious ally Kian Cortes’s coastal estate in Vlore. It was close enough for comfort, but not so close it dipped into surveillance territory.

It would be guarded, of course—discreet but ever-present. Kian had promised to assign a few of his own men as backup. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.

“This is still a terrible idea,” I muttered, half to myself.

Sailor folded her arms and shot us both a look.

“Anya is a nineteen-year-old young woman, in case you all have forgotten. She’s not asking for our permission. She’s asking for our support. And here’s a little newsflash for you two: we either back her or risk pushing her away.”

“Thank you, Mom,” Anya huffed.

“She could’ve just taken photos back home and made Florida her portfolio,” Raphael muttered, gesturing to the glittering coastline in the distance. “Albania’s landscape and beaches look close enough to Miami’s. Stay close to home, snap a few palm trees, and say it’s the Adriatic. No one will know.”

Anya laughed, her blue eyes dancing.

“ No seas tontito, papito.” Anya looked at her dad, begging him to not be ridiculous.

“I need real content for my portfolio, not digital smoke and mirrors. And you said it yourself—Mr. Cortes is your ally. He wouldn’t let anything happen to me.

Besides, Florida doesn’t have Sazan Island, and that’s the star of my portfolio.

Mr. Cortes’s connections will allow me to be one of the first photographers to ever set foot on that island. ”

“I don’t know about Sazan Island, but we have Sanibel Island, and at least that’s closer to me than?—”

“Let her spread her wings, Raphael,” Sailor murmured, cutting him off.

“Yes. Let me.”

“You can do that just fine in the States,” he shot back, exasperation creeping into his voice. “This time zone nonsense is going to make your course load a nightmare to keep up with.”

I rolled my eyes. That was a weak excuse and he knew it. D’Arc’s online program was built for students bouncing between continents and time zones.

Anya glanced up at me, still holding my hand. “You believe in me, right?”

I sighed but gave a reluctant nod.

I believed in her.

What I didn’t believe in was leaving her in Albania, especially not in a place Jet had ties to.

That’s what unsettled me. But voicing that concern would be like lighting a match in a room full of gasoline.

Raphael wouldn’t hesitate to burn down the entire Tijuana Cartel, not just for daring to look in Anya’s direction but for the ghosts they stirred.

Ghosts that looked far too much like what happened to Sailor when they first got married.

My encounter with Jet eight months ago in the dark hallway of Revelation had made me slightly paranoid.

Which is why, since that night, I’d kept a close watch on Anya, Amara, and her infamous adoptive siblings—Jetmir and Elira Volkov Tijuana. The title of the Satan twins wasn’t just fitting; it was dead-on, and I knew it better than anyone else.

Jet would one day inherit the Volkov and Tijuana empires since they were the children of the late Santiago Tijuana, a cruel and sick bastard.

Much like their father—and mother, Liana Volkov—the twins were a terror on this earth, neither one even bothering to disguise their bloodthirsty nature.

Jet had earned himself a reputation with his torture methods, and Elira had a tendency to dismember her lovers. At least, those were the rumors.

Bottom line, their reputations preceded them, and those two were individuals you never really wanted to meet.

I was sorely tempted to give them a taste of their own medicine because when Satan’s twins found out I was interested in their sister—who, coincidentally, wasn’t even blood-related to them—they made it their mission to warn me off.

I still recall the first time I ever met them, eight years ago.

They showed up in front of the New York restaurant at dusk, late. Because apparently nobody as dramatic as them ever made an entrance at a reasonable hour.

I was halfway to my car, thinking about dinner, when the shadows rearranged themselves.

Jet and Elira.

They didn’t walk so much as glide, perfectly in sync.

They reminded me of those cheesy movies Anya used to watch, with the vampires appearing out of thin air.

She’d made me sit through them so many times I couldn’t even watch a baseball game without thinking about those pale freaks running at the speed of sound.

“Gabriel Santos, we finally meet,” Jet said, all smug confidence. “I knew we’d have a meeting one day.”

“I wouldn’t call this a meeting,” I retorted casually. “And I think I’m okay not crossing that bridge.”

He ignored me. “Got a minute?”

“Only if you’re not here to sell me on a cult,” I replied, leaning casually against my car door. “Though honestly, you two seem more like the ceremonial knife-and-chanting type.”

Elira smiled, slow and sharp. She didn’t bother speaking, instead busy spinning her butterfly knife once, twice, as though punctuating her brother’s words.

Jet took a few steps closer, hands still in his pockets. “We want to talk about Amara.”

“Ah,” I said. “Your baby sister. The moral compass amid a dozen broken ones.”

Elira laughed, but it was a cold, detached sound. “Funny.”

“Always.”

Jet’s expression soured a touch. “We’ve noticed you hovering.”

“I don’t hover,” I said. “I orbit. Smoothly. At a respectful distance.”

“Too close,” Elira cut in, stepping forward, her eyes narrowing. “You’re getting attached. She’s getting… ideas. That’s a problem.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You always threaten men who talk to her? Or just the most charming ones?”

Jet didn’t smile this time. “We protect her from lesser men delusional enough to think they have a chance.”

“Newsflash,” Elira added. “You don’t.”

“You two always speak in riddles, or is this your version of a friendly PSA?”

“No riddles,” Jet said, tone flattening. “Just facts. Stay away from her before something breaks.”

“And by ‘something,’ do you mean my legs? My spine? My winning smile?”

Elira took another step, her perfume full of violets and threats invading my personal space. Damn woman, she better realize she wasn’t my type. I wanted to keep my balls intact, thank you very much.

“We mean all of you,” Elira purred, staring at me with an ice-cold gaze. “Because when it comes to Amara, we’ll stop at nothing to protect her.”

I met Jet’s unflinching gaze. “She’s not yours to keep in a cage, no matter how gilded it might be.”

“No,” he allowed, sending a nod to his sister. “But she’s ours to keep safe.”

They turned in unison.

I stood there a moment longer, brushing invisible dust from my jacket, heartbeat steady but mind spinning.

So that was the warning.

Now the question was: what the hell was I going to do with it?

Needless to say, I didn’t let their little performance stop me.

Nothing did, until Jet met me in Revelation suggesting that cursed, fucked-up “trade.” Jet’s proposition for Anya was a shock even now, not only because my sweet niece was all wrong for him, but also because Jet was so adamant to keep me away from Amara.

“?En qué piensas?” Raphael asked, studying me, trying to figure out what I was thinking about.

Sailor and Anya had already made their way inside the house while the two of us stood by the gate.

“Que esto no me gusta,” I stated, again reminding him I didn’t like this. “We never know when shit can hit the fan, and Anya shouldn’t be so far away from us.”

He nodded.

“I know, but even if it does, Kian’s got it under control. He’d never let innocent people get caught in the crossfire. It’s the only reason I agreed.” He let out a humorless laugh. “For fuck’s sake, he even saved Liana Volkov.”

I tensed at the name.

I’d never met the woman, but I didn’t need to.

Any woman who managed to rise from the ashes and survive the fallout of Santiago Tijuana wasn’t just formidable, she was danger wrapped in a designer coat.

Liana was a living myth, a femme fatale by birthright.

She was a mobster in her own right, with a body count to rival any man in the game.

Fearless and lethal, she was the kind of woman you never saw coming until the blade was already in your gut.

Her children, Jet and Elira, were very much like her in that regard.

My jaw clenched. I hesitated—just for a second—wondering if I should tell him about Jet’s interest in Anya. I was still reeling from it myself. The worst part? From everything I’d dug up, the two had never even met.

No messages, no sightings, not even a trace of overlap. I’d tried to fish for something—casually, in conversation with Anya—but got nothing. No flicker of recognition. No alarm.

And that made it worse.

Because if Jet wanted her, it wouldn’t matter how well she knew him.

He didn’t chase. He claimed.