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 Hôtel 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.

  Amara

  One minute, Paris was offering you champagne and a three-course meal, the next it was coughing up smoke and secrets.

  We left Élan in the back of a stolen ambulance because Jet, in all his brilliance, had disappeared, leaving only wreckage and a single cryptic text, like he thought we’d be fine sorting through a bomb scene in designer shoes and soot-filled lungs.

  The air outside the restaurant still stank of gunpowder and melted wiring. Sirens wailed in overlapping directions, echoing off the stone buildings. Cops. Medics. Fire crews. Cameras. Civilians.

  Too many eyes.

  We’d slipped through the smoke easily, cutting down a side alley behind a shuttered flower shop. My legs were trembling and my lungs burned, but Elira didn’t slow down. She disposed of her heels almost immediately and broke into a sprint, dress torn, face streaked with ash and stained with blood.

  Elira spotted the ambulance first.

  It was half concealed behind a boulangerie, still idling, doors flung wide like someone had left in a hurry. No crew. No stretcher. No lights.

  Just keys swinging from the ignition like an invitation.

  I hesitated. She didn’t.

  She climbed into the driver’s seat, fingers already flying over the controls, adjusting mirrors and ripping off a lanyard from the dash that might’ve belonged to someone still inside Élan.

  “Get in,” she droned as she turned the engine over. “Now.”

  I did as she said, the vinyl seat catching against my scraped palms. The sirens were getting louder again as we took off around the corner.

  Two minutes later, we were swallowed by the backstreets of Paris, red taillights bouncing off wet cobblestone like a pulse.

  We didn’t speak for a while.

  The city blurred around us, fractured and flickering, as if Paris itself were trying to forget what had just happened.

  And maybe we were too.

  “You can tell me if you were responsible, you know. I can handle the truth,” I muttered, gripping the overhead bar as she swung us through a maze of alleyways, her hands steady on the wheel.

  She smirked. “Wouldn’t have used that much smoke. Too dramatic. We’d be dead if it were me.”

  “You have issues.”

  Elira’s sunglasses were back on, even though it was pitch-black through the windshield. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  The back of my throat still tasted like plaster dust and panic. We were bleeding adrenaline and guessing at every turn.

  But one thing was clear: Jet had known something was coming and he hadn’t warned us.

  “Do you think Jet anticipated the explosion?” I questioned.

  Elira flicked me a glance before focusing back on the road. “He seemed paranoid. Almost as if someone was coming after him. The explosion must have something to do with Santos.”

  My brows furrowed. “That’s kind of far-fetched, don’t you think? Santos is in Albania with his sister.”

  “His sister is there, but Santos left Albania. We need to find that man. Jet said he’s the key,” Elira said coldly.

  “Yeah, the key, not the killer.”

  “Same damned thing,” she retorted dryly. “We have to find Santos and question him.”

  I scoffed. “About what?”

  “His dealings with Jet. The explosion. Everything.”

  I stared at my sister’s profile in disbelief. It wasn’t like Elira to jump to conclusions or act peculiar, yet I couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something off about her. She was being kind of cagey.

  “Do you know something I don’t?” I asked her slowly.

  “No, why?”

  I let out a breath. “Because you seem so sure that Santos is the answer, although I’m unsure to what.”

  “Well, we were almost killed. Jet sent us a note, saying that Santos is the key. It seems natural to go after him.”

  “Maybe, but we shouldn’t jump to conclusions and accuse him of anything until we’re sure of whatever it is that Jet’s accusing him of.”

  “Okay, but what would you say if I told you that Gabriel Santos tried to kill our brother before?”

  “What?” I asked, shocked to my core.

  “Yes, your admirer has threatened him on several occasions and even tried to murder him. Our own brother.”

  As her words sunk into me, so did the anger. No wonder Jet had disappeared. His life was in danger because that Colombian asshole was after him. And it certainly made sense now that Santos stopped pursuing me. He was trying to kill my brother. Over my dead body.

  “The backpacking trip certainly ended with a bang,” I hissed, fury simmering in my chest. “So now what? Do we go after Santos first or look for Jet?”

  “If Jet doesn’t want to be found, we won’t find him,” she deadpanned.

  “Santos it is,” I said resolutely, picturing his lifeless body in a pool of blood. Shit, why did it bother me so much? He was just a nuisance. Over the years, Gabriel Santos had lurked around me. At D’Arc, he was always there—in the hallways, front and center at gala dinners. He was my polished shadow even before I noticed him. Persistent and annoying.