Page 9 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)

Gabriel

S ailor and Raphael had taken the jet back to the States once we got Anya settled in Albania.

Something was off, and I couldn’t put a finger on what, but I’d bet my life it had everything to do with Jet.

But speculations were for naught here. I certainly couldn’t set up a meeting with Liana Volkov and demand her son stay away from Anya without concrete proof.

I’d detoured to Paris on the rumor that Jet had surfaced here. The moment he spoke my sister’s name like it belonged on his tongue, I had gone out of my way to know his location at all times. Sometimes that proved challenging, but I wasn’t the giving-up type.

And now, the three—Amara, Jet, and Elira—were meeting at a restaurant.

I pushed open the balcony doors and the warm Parisian air curled around my collar while I kept my narrowed gaze on the restaurant in which those three were meeting. I knew exactly where Luis Orlando—my right-hand man—was stationed: under the striped awning of the chocolatier across from élan.

And just then, an explosion shook the city. For a moment, I stood frozen as Paris burned with soft lights, its beauty interrupted by chaos and explosions.

Then realization sunk in at its source: the very same restaurant where Amara was meeting Jet.

I bolted from my hotel room, the door banging against the wall as I sprinted out.

My loafers struck the marble floor with frantic urgency, echoing down the pristine hallway.

The elevator blinked at me, far too slow, so I veered toward the emergency exit and threw the door open.

I took the stairs two at a time, nearly stumbling in my haste.

I hadn’t seen Amara in months, not since Revelation.

But no amount of distance and time had dulled the memory of her.

I missed her smile, rare and hard-won. I missed the way her laughter slipped out when she forgot to be guarded.

I even missed the glares, the arguments, the way her words could cut through me like glass.

And now all I could think was: please let her be alive.

I had just pushed through the hotel’s glass doors and hit the hot pavement when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out without breaking stride, sweat already gathering at the base of my neck.

It was from Luis, who was currently my eyes in Paris. He’d been tailing Jet all week while I’d been stuck in Albania. And by extension, he’d been watching Elira and Amara too. Especially Amara.

Luis: Amara’s fine. Don’t come here. Cops are everywhere.

I stopped dead in my tracks, the world tilting slightly. My heart didn’t agree with my feet—it pounded forward, screaming for motion, for answers, for her.

Then another message buzzed through, harsher this time.

Luis: There’s nothing you can do. Jet disappeared before the explosion. Don’t fucking come, you love-stricken Colombiano. I promise you, Amara is alive, well, and very much gone from this disaster.

Every part of me still burned to run toward the fire, but I knew Luis was right. Charging in now would only make things worse. The most important thing was that Amara was safe. Alive. Breathing.

Reluctantly, I exhaled and typed back.

Me: Fine. But when I get my hands on you, Colombiano, we’re going to have a long talk about your reckless use of the word “love.”

A second later, I added:

Me: Also, stop calling me love-stricken. I’m emotionally layered.

Five minutes later, I was back in the penthouse of the H?tel de Crillon, and from the balcony, I watched smoke unfurl into the night sky, assured Amara wasn’t harmed.

Sirens howled in the distance, weaving through the narrow arteries of the city, scattering civilians like startled ants. Down below, the restaurant—élan—looked like it had taken a punch straight to the lungs. Windows were blown out and chaos dominated the street.

I paced back and forth before reaching for the unfinished drink I’d started earlier. My fingers tightened around the glass, swirling the amber liquid in my glass.

I couldn’t get rid of the tightness in my chest as silence bent around me, broken only by the tick of the Cartier clock behind me.

I despised the protection my location afforded me while Amara was out there, but I knew Luis was right.

It wouldn’t do any good to go to the site of the explosion with Amara gone.

Yet, the restlessness and worry refused to cease.

I downed the drink, then pulled my phone out to type a message to Luis.

Me: I want evidence that Amara is fine, or I’m coming.

My phone instantly vibrated with his response.

A photo and an unnecessary caption.

Luis: She’s with her sister. Both are fine.

I let out a heavy exhale, relieved that I could see Amara was indeed unharmed, although she looked shaken up. Elira, on the other hand, looked to be very much in her element.

I didn’t wish death on people, not really. But Elira and Jet had a unique talent for testing my limits. And for one heartbeat-long moment, as I read Luis’s text, a flicker of shame slid through me as I imagined the world without them.

Me: Do we know what caused the explosion?

Luis: I think it was the prick.

The prick being Jet. I hit the dial and Luis answered immediately.

“She’s safe,” he said before I could speak. “She and her sister took shelter when the second charge went off.”

“What makes you think it was the prick?” I asked.

“The type of bomb. It’s the very same one he uses when he hunts for people and wants to inflict harm but not kill.”

I let out a hum as I pressed up against the railing. “So he can torture them properly.”

Luis exhaled. “Sí, it was the same one he used to escape us in Colombia a month ago. And considering there was nobody else connected to him in the restaurant aside from Amara and Elira, I think we can assume he planted the bomb that wouldn’t seriously harm anyone.”

I was so fucking close to killing him when I got alerted to his presence in the Colombian jungle, but that bomb he’d set off gave him just enough time to vanish. It was at that moment that I knew without an ounce of doubt that all the whispers and rumors about him were true.

“That sick fuck,” I grumbled.

“Very much so,” he echoed my sentiment. “You and Anya really have a knack for attracting the wrong people.”

“Anya shouldn’t be on his radar,” I hissed. “And Amara… She’s not like him, but she’s blind to those two spawns of Satan.”

“Whatever you say, jefe,” Luis drawled, his voice soaked in sarcasm. “So… what now?”

I stared out at the city, the hum of sirens in the distance like a warning bell no one else could hear.

“Jet’s planning something,” I said, my voice as cold and sharp as broken glass. “And my gut’s telling me it has everything to do with Anya.”

“Or maybe he’s setting you up, tempting you to take Amara so he can kill you,” Luis suggested.

Possibly, but I didn’t think so.

Considering how violently opposed Jet had been to me even looking at Amara all those years ago—like she was some sacred relic under lock and key—his sudden willingness to parade her out like a party favor the moment he set his sights on Anya reeked of strategy, not sentiment.

And Elira? She was cut from the same, cold cloth.

I wouldn’t put a single goddamn thing past either of them.

My memory flickered, unbidden, back to the second time he and Elira cornered me three years ago.

They came for me, just as I was leaving the D’Arc gym reserved for faculty, tucked away from the main campus. Secluded. Quiet. Unfortunately, perfect for Jet and Elira.

Apparently, even a peaceful workout was too much to ask for these days.

One moment, I was unlocking my car. The next, a sharp, blinding pain shattered through my ribs as something hard and fast slammed into my side.

My body slumped to the pavement and the smell of motor oil and blood—mine, it would seem—clouded my senses.

A boot pinned my shoulder down, grinding me into the asphalt.

“Evening, lover boy," a voice crooned, crouching beside me. His breath smelled like sugar and smoke. "Remember me?”

I scoffed. “As if I could forget such an ugly face.”

“Well, this ugly face came here to warn you off. Again, since you seem to have a problem with your memory, old man.”

His tone was almost playful, but not quite.

“Let me guess,” I drawled, choosing to ignore his jab. Jet was younger than me, but only by a few years. “Stay away from your sister.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see his twin that looked nothing like him. Elira leaned against my car, arms folded, her butterfly knife catching the last of the sunlight.

She flicked it open and closed in rhythm, like a metronome ticking down to something terrible.

“She's not even your real—” I tried to say, but the next hit came fast. Jet’s fist snapped my head sideways.

“She’s not even what?” Elira asked sweetly, stepping forward. Her bootheels clicked on the pavement like gunshots. She knelt beside me, all coiled grace and razor edges, her knife now hovering inches from my face. “Not our real sister? Not our blood? Does that mean you think she’s up for grabs?”

“Are you hard of hearing, Gabriel?” Jet’s voice was silk soaked in gasoline. “We said stay away from our sister.”

“She’s our baby sister,” Elira said, her voice so soft that it made your skin crawl, like you were being told a bedtime story in the middle of a murder scene. “And you’re getting far too close.”

Jet’s hand connected with my cheek, making my head fly and blood spurt from my mouth.

“You hit like a drunk cheerleader,” I taunted, blinking through the haze.

Jet laughed, dark and amused. “You still got jokes. That’s cute.”

I didn’t respond. His boot lifted from my shoulder just enough to twist hard. Ignoring the searing pain in my ribs, I drove my elbow straight into his knee. Jet staggered back, and I jumped to my feet fast. My fist caught his jaw with a sickening crunch.

He reeled, stumbling backward, and Elira moved in, but I was faster.

I kicked her leg out from under her, sending her sprawling with a snarl, her knife skidding across the pavement.

“Stay down,” I growled. “I’d hate for you to be the first woman I have to hit.”

I turned to Jet, driving him against the side of my car and slamming his spine into the door, then smiled as I warned, “Try this shit again, Jet, and you’re a dead man. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but definitely soon.”

I shoved him toward his sister who was standing now. The two shared a look, communicating silently, and then they left as inconspicuously as they came.

“Thanksgiving dinners will be awkward as fuck,” I muttered to myself, brushing dirt off my pants before I got into the car.

“Do you think all three of them are up to something? I wouldn’t be surprised with how close they are,” Luis asked over the line, dragging me out of the memory.

“No, something’s telling me Jet’s doing this alone. Or with Elira,” I answered as I watched chaos and evacuations down below. From my vantage point, I could see where the authorities had set up a barricade.

Jesus Christ, this would probably be all over the news if it wasn’t already. I reached for my burner phone while still talking to Luis, and typed a message to Raphael.

Me: Explosion in Paris. Nobody was hurt. Tell Sailor not to worry.

My brother would read between the lines and inform Nico. The last thing I needed was that man sniffing around too, sending Raphael and Sailor into a panic.

“We might have better luck if we snatch the women and question them,” Luis suggested, just as I threw the burner phone onto the table.

“Don’t even think about touching Amara,” I gritted. “She’s off-limits.”

“ Cálmate, caramba,” Luis snickered. “ Solo fue una sugerencia .”

“Don’t fucking suggest it again,” I snapped, annoyed that he thought he could tell me to relax and make asinine recommendations about Amara.

“And Elira?” he questioned. “I’m guessing your protectiveness doesn’t extend to her.”

“No, it doesn’t, but Amara’s close with her, and she’d never forgive me if we went after her sister.”

Luis went quiet.

“Keep an eye on Amara and Elira,” I said. “But stay invisible. They can’t know you’re there.”

“And if they’re in danger?”

“You step in.” My voice hardened. “They don’t get hurt. Not a scratch. Understood?”

A beat passed before he sighed. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Gabriel. You should just put the cards on the table with Liana Volkov about her son, and include your brother. We’re getting nowhere with Jet, and whatever he’s up to… It’s bound to end badly.”

“Not if we can easily snatch Elira for leverage,” I pointed out.

He snickered. “But not Amara. Jesus, you really have it bad for that woman.”

“It’s not about me, and definitely not about Amara,” I replied smoothly, although it was a known fact that the woman fascinated me. However, I wasn’t willing to risk Anya’s safety. Not for anything, and that included Amara.

Luis let out a low breath. “You really think Jet’s actually interested in your sister?”

“He’s made it clear he wants Anya.”

“I just can’t see that those two could ever mesh,” he muttered. “Besides, after eight months of silence, don’t you think he’s moved on? A normal person would.”

I didn’t answer. The image of Jet that night at the club—smiling like a man already inside the house—haunted me more than I wanted to admit.

“Firstly, Jet’s not normal. Secondly, he was too casual when he asked about her,” I said eventually. “And even more casual when he accepted my denial. It was almost as if he’d already made the decision and coming to me was an afterthought, a twisted courtesy of sorts.”

“Well,” Luis muttered, “let’s hope you’re right.”

“I’m confident I am,” I replied, draining the rest of my glass. “And if I’m wrong, it won’t matter. I’ll correct the mistake with blood.”

Luis said nothing else. The line went dead.

I stood in the darkened suite, letting the hush settle around me. Outside, the city still smoked.

Somewhere behind that mess, Amara was breathing. And Jet might be running. Plotting.

But I had men in every district of Paris. I had his scent now.

And when the time came, Jet would learn the truth.

Nadie se mete con un Santos y vive para contarlo. No one messes with a Santos and lives to tell the tale.