But something shifted after our encounter at Revelation last year.

  He stopped showing up, stopped circling.

  It should’ve been a relief. I should’ve felt free now that he’d finally granted me my wish. But instead, it left this hollow, aching silence behind. Like missing a fight you’d been training for. Like reaching for an enemy and finding empty air. It was stupid and shallow and just complicated enough to keep me up most nights.

  I told myself it was better this way—cleaner, simpler—but never in a million years had I fathomed that he disappeared because he had murderous intentions toward a member of my family.

  “Let’s ditch this transport,” I suggested. “We’re too visible in this.”

  “Agreed.”

  By the time we ditched the ambulance and broke into an abandoned perfume warehouse near the Canal Saint-Martin, the moon was still high in the sky. The city didn’t sleep. Neither did we.

  We didn’t talk until we were safely inside and the door was bolted behind us.

  Elira turned to me, eyes sharp. “We need to get out of France.”

  “Agreed.” I pushed my hand through my disheveled hair. “Do we know where Santos is?”

  She pulled out her phone, her eyes skimming over her screen. “Colombia.”

  “Jesus, why couldn’t he be closer?” I muttered.

  “We’ll have to find a way in,” she declared. “Off-grid. No airports. No hotel check-ins. Untraceable.”

  “Boat,” I said.

  She blinked. “I like where your head’s at.”

  I nodded. Elira and I were rarely at odds, and those disagreements usually came in duos. Right or wrong, Jet and Elira would always have each other’s backs first and foremost.

  When they entered my life, they immediately took me under their wings. Even though they were only three years older, they took their older-sibling status to extremes. We’d been a tight trio ever since, spending as much time together as we could until the two of them went to study abroad. And even then we’d remained in constant contact. Yes, sometimes they could be overwhelming and overprotective, but they did it with the best intentions.

  “We can vanish for a while,” I stated pensively. “We find Santos and figure out what’s going on. We just have to locate him.”

  The Santos family’s home base was split between Miami and Colombia. That was, when he wasn’t lurking as faculty on the D’Arc campus. Either way, it was hard to figure out where he was at any given time.

  Elira began pacing the warehouse floor. “We should start with Colombia.”

  My brows furrowed. “It would probably be easier to start with Miami, don’t you think?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think so. There’s a spot deep in the Colombian jungle that Jet had been to visit multiple times in the past. It’s the best place to start.” When I remained silent, she added, “Unless you have a better plan?”

  “I don’t.” I loved Jet to death, but he never shared his dealings with anyone, not even Elira. “How do you know his movements?”

  Elira shrugged. “I put a tracker on him.” Surprise rolled through me. “Don’t tell Jet.”

  “But why?” I asked. The twins trusted each other blindly, and putting a tracker on Jet seemed to violate that trust.

  “He’s been acting stranger than usual,” Elira explained.

  My brows furrowed. “Why haven’t you mentioned it before?”

  “Never came up.” I studied her, but before I could question her further, she added, “So it’s settled. We’ll go to Colombia.”

  “Okay, let’s retrace his steps. Maybe we’ll find some information or clues.”

  She nodded. “Agreed.”

  “We buy a yacht,” I said, my voice steady. “Not a flashy one.”

  “But it needs to have comforts,” Elira retorted wryly. “I’m not suffering through some shitty accommodations while battling the sea.”

  “Fine.” I rolled my eyes while shaking my head. “We’ll register it to a holding company out of Malta. Or Gibraltar. Something buried deep.”

  Elira gave me a slow, wicked smile. “Shell company?”

  I nodded. “Name it something boring.”

  “Westpoint Navigation. Or Bellridge Holdings,” she recommended, a playful smirk on her face.

  “How about Midnight?” I asked.

  She clapped once. “We were born for this.”

  “No,” I said, meeting her gaze. “If we make a mistake and get caught, we’ll cause a war. We have to be careful, Elira.”

  Mother Liana never taught us to be weak or soft. She taught us to be capable of walking into any room and walking out with the deed to the place. And when that didn’t work, we were taught how to burn the place down. But she also taught us never to act recklessly.

  “Okay,” I began. “We sail for Colombia.”

  Her brows lifted. “Can you at least admit this is exciting? Much better than dealing with the Syndicate and all the business bullshit.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I assured her. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, but we have to at least try. If Santos is trying to kill Jet, he’ll have a war on his hands. I don’t know how the hell those two got to that point, but we’ll have to figure it out and help Jet because it’s obvious he’s in trouble.”

  A beat passed. Elira nodded.

  “I’ll move the money through my account,” she said.

  “And I’ll do the same,” I replied. “I’ll handle the yacht.”

  I looked out the window.

  Somewhere, Jet was running and Gabriel was watching. And right here and now, Elira and I were planning.

  Amara

  Two Weeks Later

  We hadn’t heard from Jet since his cryptic message in Paris.

  Midnight rocked gently beneath my feet as I stood on the teak deck, the salty breeze biting at my skin. The sun had just slipped below the jagged horizon, staining the sky a bruised purple and orange. We settled on a sleek, matte black yacht in the end, and it moved silently except for the faint hum of the engine below.

  I still couldn’t believe we’d pulled off buying it without alerting our families. Both Mother Liana and my biological parents had a pulse on everything going on in the underworld, but we’d somehow managed to keep this yacht purchase under the radar.

  We bought it in a shadowy port just outside Monaco, registered under a fake shell company no one in our family—or government agencies—could trace. We hired a crew known for two things: their discretion and their exorbitant fees. As long as the money kept flowing, they wouldn’t ask questions.

  They sailed us to Colombia.

  Meanwhile, our families believed us to still be in the midst of backpacking Europe, snapping artsy photos of narrow streets and overpriced cappuccinos.

  I pulled out my phone when it vibrated and opened the group chat with my college friends.

  It was where adulting—and this mission—took a backseat and chaos reigned. Most of the girls were now happily married, posting ridiculously romantic photos on Instagram and flaunting their healthy, mature relationships. I couldn’t even fathom it.

  Penelope: Doing a romantic weekend getaway with my hubby. Preparing for our anniversary and a weekend marathon of getting laid.

  I rolled my eyes, but a grin tugged at my mouth. Penelope was now happily married and getting laid plenty, much to her delight.

  Me: Isn’t your anniversary Christmas Day? That’s ages away.

  Penelope: It’s a rehearsal for our anniversary. Gotta keep the spark alive, you know? What about you, Amara? Met any devastatingly handsome locals on your glamorous backpacking adventure?

  Me: Nope, no handsome men around, but I am about to go backpacking through the mountains.

  Technically true. Except the “mountains” were in South America and probably deserved their own list of triggers. I hated lying, but there was no way I was telling my girlfriends that I was about to trek through the cartel-adjacent wilderness.

  Anya: That sounds like the setting of a romance novel.

  Me: Do you know of any?

  Not that I planned on doing any reading. Romance novels and photography were Anya’s thing. I was still trying to discover myself, hence the trip with Elira.

  Anya: No, but I know I need one with 600 pages of pure smut. Like, emotionally scarring levels that will make it hard to function.

  Penelope: Get married and you’ll have smut on demand.

  Anya: No, thank you. Nobody’s putting a leash on this hot bod. I’m the CEO in my world, and I call the shots. I solemnly declare a ban on marriage.

  Me: I’m with Anya. Smut-on-demand sounds suspiciously like marital duty.

  Anya: On that note, I’m going to bed. It’s way too late here.

  Me: I cannot believe you’re in Albania. What the heck spurred that on?

  Penelope: Maybe she was chasing

  Anya:

  Me: You tell her, Anya. Just because Pen chases , it doesn’t mean the rest of us do. We have more important things to deal with.

  Skye: You need to let go of your inner mafia princess, Amara. Expand your horizons. Sexually. Spiritually. Geographically.

  I scoffed at Skye’s text. Ever since she married Nikola Nikolaev, she believed herself to be some kind of enlightened porn star.

  Me: Okay, Mrs. Nikolaev. We get it. You and your hubby have explored the full IKEA catalog of bedroom accessories. No need to go public. Besides, I am exploring. Backpacking, remember?

  Skye: You have such a dirty mind. All I’m saying is, maybe it’s time for an alliance between your and Santos’s family. Hmmm, Gabriel would snatch you up in a heartbeat. After all, he’s had his eye on you for a while now.

  I tensed, not only because subtlety had clearly left the chat, but also because he happened to be the reason behind my current geographical location.

  Anya: An Amara-and-Gabriel romance screams age gap. I love my brother, so obviously I encourage you to give it a try. Plus, he’ll be less focused on me.

  Me: Considering you’re his family and therefore very biased… BTW, how are you liking Albania?

  Anya: So far, I’m loving it.

  Anya: Marry Gabriel, then come and visit me here in Albania. We can be wild and reckless together.

  I wouldn’t marry her brother; I’d kill him the first chance I got. Poor Anya. I loved her, but I could never tell her my plan because her loyalty was tangled up in someone like Santos. Much like my own family.

  Maybe I’d spare him for her sake—certainly not out of mercy, but strategy. I’d keep him alive, hidden away in a basement where I’d force him to call her now and then to assure her he was fine.

  Of course he would be lying, but that was better than being dead.

  Such a shame though, because Gabriel Santos was a fine human specimen—gorgeous, lethal, and built like sin. We’d been playing a game of cat and mouse for years.

  I gave a slight shake of my head, banishing the image of the gorgeous man. There were dozens just as beautiful as him who were smart enough never to threaten my family.

  Besides, being reckless and visiting Albania where my grandfather, Kian Cortes, lived would definitely not earn me any goodwill points.

  My grandfather was a force of a man that didn’t go for anything reckless. He always said that being in a position of power required us to be cautious and responsible, to do the right thing when it mattered. Furthermore, his name could open doors or get you killed before you could knock.

  Hence why I kept my distance from men and only used them to scratch the itch when needed. Most were only drawn to the empire behind me anyway. The family name. The promise of access. It left me constantly second-guessing their intentions. Was it desire or ambition? Love or leverage?

  It was impossible to know for sure.

  And while I tried to lump Gabriel in with every other man on this planet, deep down, I knew he was different.

  He was patience incarnate—just like the word Patience I knew he had inked across his bicep. He was also measured and calculating. Characteristics that only made him more dangerous.

  My phone buzzed with the next message.

  Skye: Yes, marry Gabriel and we’ll be some sort of in-laws. The family tree is too complicated for me to be sure.

  Yeah, Hell would freeze over before I ever married Santos. Especially now that I’d learned he’d tried to kill my brother. The man would be dead when I was done with him.

  Gripping my phone, I typed the next words with a bit more force than necessary.

  Me: Skye, is that your husband typing while drinking artisanal mezcal with the Santos heir? Blink twice if you’re being held hostage in a five-star jungle villa.

  Skye: Hahaha. I sense fear behind those words, Amara.

  I rolled my eyes again. It was less like fear, more like fury.

  Me: Is he with you in New Orleans by any chance?

  Skye: No, I think he’s in Colombia. Nikola said he had some business there.

  Penelope: Why would Amara need an alliance? Her hot grandpa is literally mafia royalty. If my own husband weren’t sculpted like a Roman god dipped in hotness, I’d be climbing that tree. Man’s got silver-fox swagger.

  Me: And he’s married. Pen, does your husband know he’s got competition? If my grandpa ends up dead due to your husband’s jealousy, there’ll be hell to pay.

  Skye: I’m calling it now. This chat thread will be used as primary evidence in a true crime docuseries one day. Probably on Netflix. Or HBO, if we’re classy.

  Anya: Let’s start a “DILF: Mafia Edition” fan club. I know Kian is technically a grandpa, but hey… he can still make the list.

  Penelope: So much for innocent Anya going to sleep.

  I chuckled, shaking my head. These women were unhinged, and thank God for it. For a moment, I forgot I was about to plunge headfirst into a humid, possibly life-threatening unknown. Leave it to this chaos crew to make organized crime sound like a networking opportunity and marriage like a recurring nightmare with benefits.

  Me: You all can thirst over my grandpa without me. I’m out before I need to bleach my brain.

  I shoved the phone back into my pocket.

  Elira was standing against the doorframe, watching me with crossed arms and narrowed eyes. I knew why she had to come. As much as I considered Jet my brother, he shared a womb with her for nine months. There was no version of events where she sat around European cafés sipping cappuccinos while he was in potential danger.

  “If something goes wrong, call Kian,” I said, voice rougher than I intended.

  “Of course. And not to worry, I won’t call your parents,” she scolded. “Although Kian probably will.”

  I mentally slapped my forehead. “You’re probably right, but let’s just start with Kian. Besides, it’ll probably never come to that.”

  I knew it sounded strange—calling my grandfather, the head of the Albanian Mafia, “Kian,” like we were pals. There was a long, messy story behind that, and it wasn’t exactly a Hallmark special.

  As for Liana… Her story was complicated too, and it wasn’t the kind you shared over coffee.

  “He’d probably take a hit out on me before picking up my phone call.”

  “He won’t. We’re his favorites.”

  She snorted, a small, reluctant smile breaking through.

  “Yeah, but you’re his granddaughter by blood. I’m not.”

  I gave her a grim smile.

  “He’s said more than once that you’re family to him. Trust him to help if you ever need it.”

  She looked like she wanted to argue, but the weight of the promise settled between us. I pulled out the folded map and coordinates that Elira was able to pin down, our only lead to finding Jet and figuring out what his business with Santos involved.

  “Alright, let’s see what kind of trouble he’s got himself into.”

  I glanced out at the ocean one last time, feeling the tension coil tight in my chest, then folded the map carefully and slipped it into the inner pocket of my jacket.

  Elira stood by the helm, fingers twitching and grinning darkly.

  “What if you run into Santos?”

  “I’m hoping that doesn’t happen. Ideally I find this location and get lost before Santos or his men spot me.” I tried to keep the worry out of my voice.

  “It is his territory,” she pointed out.

  It was what worried me too, but I didn’t voice that. Instead, I just said, “I need to figure out what Jet was doing with him. If I run into Santos, I certainly hope it’s after I learn whatever Jet wants us to know so I can call him out on it. Although I hope it doesn’t come to it. It would do no good to start a war with the Santos Cartel without facts to back us up.”

  The expression on Elira’s face was lined with worry. “And if you run into Santos before you figure out what Jet was doing?”

  “I’ll have to play coy.”

  Although, being coy with Santos had never been my strength. He seemed to know how to frazzle me and distract me with his words and beautiful mouth.

  My phone buzzed again and I pulled it out, my thumb hovering over the screen.

  Skye: Whatever it is you’re up to, if you need help, just message us on here. We’ll send a rescue squad. Or memes. Probably both, just to be safe.