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.

  Amara

  Élan’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 maître 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.”

  Gabriel

  Sailor 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.