Page 8 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)

Amara

é lan’s flickering candlelight, polished brass, and linen-covered tables overlooking the cobbled heart of Le Marais was so exclusive that securing a table here meant waiting months—or slipping a bundle of cash into the ma?tre d’s

hand. Outside, Paris was alive, the late summer night sky still pink with twilight.

The streets beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows hummed with street performers and the occasional horde of boisterous tourists.

It was strictly hushed elegance within the restaurant’s walls, with its crystal chandeliers swaying lazily and casting golden halos across the space.

The air smelled of butter, saffron, and expensive perfume.

If heaven had a dress code, this was it.

I twirled my fork into a nest of truffle tagliatelle, the scent rich and mouthwatering, though I wasn’t paying attention to the food. Across the table, my brother and sister stared at me with matching expressions of mild amusement and practiced boredom—but I knew them too well. They were listening.

“I’m just saying,” I began, stabbing my pasta a little too hard. “If someone buys you a painting worth more than your car, you say thank you. Not ‘it’s too much.’ Right, Jet?”

Elira took a long, slow sip of her rosé, her earrings catching the light with every tilt of her head. “That painting was of me , Amara. Naked. It’s weird.”

Jet made a sharp sound in his throat and dropped his fork. “Why the fuck are you lounging naked for French painters, Elira?”

“Cut the shit, Jet.” She didn’t even flinch. “I’m a grown woman. If I want to swing off my balcony naked, I will. Luckily for the art world, I decided to pose instead of traumatizing the neighbors.”

I let out a snort of laughter, unable to help myself. She had always emanated that shameless energy—the kind of woman who could command a room barefoot in a silk robe. It was a trait she inherited straight from Mother Liana.

Liana Volkov wasn’t my birth mother, but if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have survived the first few years of my life.

I loved her fiercely, even after my parents found me.

They’d turned out to be incredible, and although my home base was mostly New York and Las Vegas while Mother Liana’s was Boston, she remained a cornerstone in my world.

Some bonds didn’t break, no matter how tangled the roots.

It was how I ended up tied to these two: Elira with her fire and swagger, and Jet who embodied ice and precision. Both were the center of my world.

“But why refuse the painting?” I pressed. “It’s a flex.”

Elira shrugged one shoulder and said casually, “Because I set it on fire. He doesn’t know yet.”

Jet barked a laugh while my jaw hit the pristine tablecloth. “You what ?”

“If he had painted himself naked though,” she mused, dabbing her lips with her napkin, “I’d hang that over my bed. Proudly.”

She and I were still laughing about smoke alarms and singed egos when I noticed Jet had gone quiet. His shoulders were stiff and his gaze kept flicking to the window. Jaw clenched. Eyes shadowed.

“Jet?” I asked, lowering my fork. “You okay?”

He blinked. “Yeah,” he said too quickly. “Just… a lot going on.”

Elira leaned in, her posture shifting subtly. Alert now. “That’s not vague at all.”

Jet exhaled, tapping a rhythm into the stem of his wineglass. “Business.”

I felt a pang of guilt. Elira and I had been traveling Europe on a backpacking adventure while Jet had already begun to take the reins of Mother Liana’s empire.

“With Gabriel Santos?” Elira asked, and just like that, the whole mood in the room snapped.

My head jerked toward her. “Seriously?”

Jet’s hand froze mid-drum. He didn’t look at us. “Maybe.”

“You and him working together is bad news.”

“It’s not what you think,” Jet muttered.

“Isn’t it?” I pressed, arching a brow. “Because I could’ve sworn I’ve heard you say—on more than one occasion, mind you—that you can’t stand the Colombian asshole.

” I even threw in air quotes for dramatic flair on the last two words.

“Unless, of course, you’re planning some grand alliance between the Tijuana and Santos Cartels?—”

“By marriage or some shit like that,” Elira cut in, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I let out a sharp scoff.

“Yeah, sure. A marriage alliance. Right after hell hosts a ski tournament.” I didn’t add that sweet little Anya wouldn’t last five minutes with Jet. That’d be like pairing tiramisu with Tabasco. Why would anyone do that?

“It’s complicated,” he snapped, dragging a hand through his hair like the weight of the world was tangled in it. “And it’s not like an alliance is a bad thing in today’s world. Besides, you two wouldn’t understand what I’m trying to do.”

“Try us,” I said, leaning back and folding my arms.

He waved a hand, clearly annoyed. “Just know I’m expanding the business. It’s got everything to do with Colombia and… its jungles.”

I let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Right. Because ‘Colombia and its jungles’ sounds totally legit. Are you practicing for a TED Talk, or are we in the middle of a drug-fueled nature documentary?”

Jet glanced around the restaurant, his gaze sharp.

“You’re acting like you’re being watched,” Elira said quietly, eyes narrowing as she nodded toward his untouched duck confit. “You haven’t even poked that overpriced pigeon.”

Jet’s gaze drifted back toward the window, just for a second, but this felt like more than the standard unhinged paranoia I was used to from him.

“There are eyes everywhere in this city,” he murmured.

That was when we heard it.

A low thud. Dull, distant, but wrong. The kind of wrong that makes your spine straighten before your brain catches up. Our wineglasses shivered faintly on the table. Cutlery stilled. Conversations faltered.

Jet stood abruptly, knocking his chair back. “Stay here.”

“What was that?” I asked, standing too, suddenly cold all over.

“Jet, what was that sound?” Elira echoed, voice tight.

But he was already moving. Shoulders tense, he cut through the hushed restaurant like a blade.

And then the second explosion hit.

A bone-deep boom that made the chandeliers swing wildly, their crystal teardrops raining onto the floor. The windows imploded inward, glass slicing through the air like shrapnel. Tables overturned. Plates crashed to the floor. Screams erupted.

I hit the ground hard, my shoulder slamming into something solid. Smoke filled my nose and mouth, and my ears rang like sirens. Elira dropped beside me, coughing, and grabbed my wrist.

“Was that a gas line?” I shouted, barely able to hear my own voice.

“I don’t think so,” she rasped. “Get up—get up, Amara?—”

She hauled me up and dragged me behind the marble-topped bar. We crouched behind shelves of liquor and broken glass, my heart slamming against my ribs.

“Where the hell is Jet?” I gasped, clutching a shaking fist to my chest. “Where did he go?”

Before she could answer, our phones buzzed simultaneously.

I fumbled for mine, hands shaking.

Jet: I’m safe. I need to lie low for a bit. Santos is the key.

Red and blue lights flashed outside, painting the broken glass on the floor in kaleidoscopic patterns. The sound of sirens now matched the shriek in my ears.

I looked at Elira. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she scanned the wreckage. Her nails dug grooves into the wooden bar structure like she wanted to claw through it.

“What has he gotten himself into?” I whispered. “If Santos hurt Jet, if he’s behind this in any way, he’s a dead man.”

Elira didn’t respond.

She was looking past me—past the wrecked light fixtures and overturned tables, past the smoke that bled in from the street through the window frames.

Then, as if she heard something I couldn’t, she whispered, “This won’t end well.”