Penelope: Ditto. And if you get kidnapped, send a picture of yourself with a badly drawn smiley face taped over your mouth. That can be our secret code.

  I laughed, my heart a little lighter.

  Me: Why am I not surprised you girls are onto me?

  Penelope:

  Elira glanced over my shoulder, smirking. “You and your college nerds. They’ll blow our cover.”

  “They’re just being idiots,” I told her. “They have no idea that we’re not in Europe.”

  “What do these emojis mean?”

  I shrugged. “I’m assuming that our secret is safe with them?”

  “What secrets? You didn’t tell them anything.” She arched a perfectly shaped brow. “Did you?”

  “I didn’t, but they still have my back.”

  Besides, it wasn’t as if I had something important to tell my friends. We didn’t know what the hell Jet was up to or what we would find in the jungle.

  “Do you want me to drive you?” she offered.

  “No, I’ll have one of the crew handle it.” We had limited staff on board, and best of all, they were discreet and trustworthy. Their only job was to ensure we were fueled up and we had more than enough supplies while we traveled the oceans.

  “I’ll call you to arrange the pickup for me once I’m ready,” I continued when Elira didn’t object. “In the meantime, you hold down the fort—well, the yacht, I guess.” My attempt at humor landed with a thud. “I’m leaving tonight. The drive’s nearly a full day, and I still need to pack my weapons.”

  “Okay,” she said, a little too easily.

  I blinked. Elira was usually a control freak—protective to the point of smothering. Letting go wasn’t her style. But this time, she just… let it happen.

  She held my gaze as I said, “If you don’t hear from me in forty-eight hours⁠—”

  “I know, I know. Call Kian,” she finished.

  “Exactly.”

  Gabriel

  The moment Amara set foot on Colombian soil, my phone lit up.

  One quiet ping. That was all it took.

  She had vanished in Paris alongside Elira, but I’d cast a wide net, weaving digital threads across continents and setting up algorithms to track her. Facial recognition from a shuttered customs checkpoint outside Buenaventura had finally tripped the alert. Too quiet to be intercepted by anyone else. Loud enough for me.

  A second later, Luis called and I answered the phone.

  “Did you see it?” he asked without preamble.

  “I did.”

  “I’m about an hour out. Want me to intercept?”

  “No,” I said, cutting him off with a tone sharp enough to slice through his worry. “I’m already here. I’ll follow her myself.”

  “Alright. Be careful.”

  The line went dead.

  I left a half-smoked cigar curling wisps of blue gray into the warm air and two untouched glasses of twenty-year rum on the table, signaling the abrupt end to a meeting with one of my most volatile distributors. His face had contorted with confusion when I stood, phone in hand, and walked away without explanation. I didn’t owe him one. Not when Amara was on my territory.

  Amara was a woman wrapped in strength and fire with a legacy that royalty would be envious of. But none of it mattered to me. The only thing that fascinated me was the woman underneath it all, with deepest blue eyes and full, soft lips that tempted me.

  And now she was in Colombia.

  My home.

  I pulled up the interface synced to my local surveillance net. My men had already triangulated her position. A dusty road on the fringe of la jungla near the Valle del Cauca. Someone had dropped her off at the edge of the jungle and she was now on foot heading inland.

  She’d been clever bypassing checkpoints, likely rotating SIMs and using false documentation when docking her yacht. But clever wasn’t enough. Not here. Everything that happened on this territory got reported back to me, including the visitors that were trying to stay under the radar.

  I started the Jeep, the engine growling to life beneath me, and followed her pin along the winding dirt roads that snaked through the underbrush. The scent of loam and petrol soaked into my collar. A storm was crawling across the mountains and the wet season clung to everything.

  Ten minutes later, I watched her dot disappear from the road and veer into the forest.

  The girl must’ve ditched her bag before crossing the tree line.

  My phone buzzed again.

  Luis: Don’t touch that backpack. Could be rigged.

  Luis: I should be there, but I know you want her all to yourself.

  Me: I’m not trying to marry her, Luis. I just want to know why the hell she’s here.

  Luis: Maybe she missed your pretty face. Beauty aside, don’t touch the pack. Could be a bomb.

  Me: I’m not an idiot.

  Luis: You’re a man. That’s dangerously close.

  Me: And what does that make you? Keep texting and I’ll leave you in a shipping container with a bag of expired plantains.

  Luis: Generous.

  Me: I’m going dark. Keep tracking Jet. And don’t do anything stupid.

  Luis: That’s your job.

  Me: Love you too.

  Luis: Go get her, tiger. Try not to get shot.

  I smirked, slipped the phone into my thigh holster, and parked at the edge of the path.

  The jungle greeted me like a beast with open jaws—humid, dark, and alive. The air tasted like wet moss and decomposing leaves. Crickets whined in the distance and sweat bloomed across my spine as I moved low and fast, boots silent against the soft mulch.

  I reached the backpack and crouched beside it.

  No tripwire. No pressure plate. Just dirt, duct tape, and a hand-stitched patch that said Property of Amara. She’d left it behind not because she was careless, but because she didn’t want to be weighed down. What is she planning?

  Gunfire cracked the humid air like a whip, and I dropped to my haunches.

  I was moving before the shots’ echo died, pushing deeper into the brush, thorns dragging at my sleeves, vines slapping my arms. The canopy darkened overhead. I could barely hear my own breath over the pounding in my chest.

  She was close.

  I forged ahead, tunneling my vision, and burst into the clearing seconds later.

  The scent of copper hit first, followed immediately by carnage.

  Four bodies on the ground—throats opened and bullet wounds leaking blood into the packed earth. Their guns were scattered like bones, and beside them, a rusted shipping container with its doors flung wide stood empty.

  I saw chains. Broken manacles. The scene felt fresh.

  Human trafficking was like a hydra. You cut off one head and two more slithered out of the dark. You didn’t win. You just delayed the next monster. And dammit, sometimes it felt like the monster was winning.

  And in the middle of it all was Amara, standing like the final act in a Greek tragedy.

  Blood streaked across her shirt, fingers still curled around her gun. Her chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. Her eyes were glazed over, not with fear, but adrenaline.

  She didn’t see me at first. Her mind was still inside the violence, her body still humming from the kills.

  And for a moment, I didn’t move.

  I just watched her in the way one might watch a rising fire and wonder whether to douse it or let it burn the world down.

  Then she turned. Ever so slowly. The barrel of the gun lifted with the instinct of a soldier, not a civilian. Not that it surprised me, considering her lineage and training.

  Her eyes locked on mine and froze.

  And still, I smiled.

  Not because I liked her looking bloodied, feral, and magnificent, but because I knew, in that instant, she would rather have faced a battalion than me.

  Amara

  The jungle didn’t hide secrets. It buried them alive. But no secret stayed buried forever.

  I found the location Elira had pinned, and scouted the area. It didn’t take me long to run into something. It was Jet’s Berkin bag, his initials still visible on the leather. I recognized it instantly because it was the same one I had. It was Elira’s gift to us—and herself—for last Christmas. Of course, Jet had moaned and groaned that no sane man would ever use that bag, but apparently he’d been using it.

  Inside it, I found Jet’s satphone.

  I didn’t have time to power it up, nor did I want to alert anyone of my—or my brother’s—location, so I rushed to shove it all into my backpack and clear out of here before being spotted.

  I was just about to leave when I heard faint voices drifting through the air. For a moment, I stood undecided whether to check it out or not. Curiosity got the best of me, and I followed it, my feet soundless against the ground. Until I saw it and I froze.

  Young girls. Containers. Men who laughed and antagonized as they ushered women into the steel prisons.

  It was a goddamn camp for human traffickers.

  Fury slithered down my spine, and I knew there’d be no leaving now. I couldn’t turn my back and pretend I didn’t see this. Instead, I watched as they opened the container, then men attempted to load girls into it. Some girls obeyed, others fought.

  The September heat made the air humid. I could feel sweat sticking to my skin as well as a plan I began to conjure in my head.

  I lowered my backpack to the ground. Its weight would make it hard to fight these men. Instead, I pinned its location using my phone, then dug out my weapons and continued moving around, searching for the best angle to attack.

  I was wary of a team guarding the perimeter, but I refused to let anything or anyone stop me. I crouched low, knees aching, sweat and dirt slicking my hands. My breath came slow and shallow as I watched four men shove a dozen screaming girls into a shipping container. The door slammed shut, bolts locking with a metallic finality.

  They laughed as the girls whimpered and cried.

  The sun bled orange through the canopy of trees, but the heat clung to everything. My skin burned under dried sweat and mosquito bites.

  I didn’t know what the hell I was planning to do.

  And yet, I couldn’t look away.

  One of the men—bald, thick-necked, sweat-soaked shirt open to reveal a gold chain—spat on the dirt and lit a cigarette. The others passed around a bottle, their words a blur of Spanish too fast for me to follow. But I caught enough to understand their jokes about “gringa meat.”

  My grip tightened around the knife in my hand just as the container door creaked open.

  The youngest of the men dragged a girl out who couldn’t be older than fifteen. She wore a dirty dress, her limbs thin, face hollow with shock. Her hair was matted, her feet bare.

  Something in me broke.

  I moved before I could think.

  I was on the bald one first. The blade slid up under his jaw, clean and fast. His gasp was soft, but it echoed through my skull like a tolling bell. I grabbed the pistol from his waistband before he hit the ground.

  The second man turned, eyes wide. I shot him in the gut. He crumpled, screaming.

  Gunfire erupted behind me.

  I dove behind the container as bullets tore through the metal, and I prayed the girls knew to lie flat.

  My ears rang, but I didn’t hesitate. I slid along the far side, rose up just enough, and fired. The first shot missed, but the second didn’t. The third man dropped.

  The last one ran, shouting. I caught him before he hit the trees.

  We struggled; he was stronger. He slammed me into a trunk, snarling in Spanish with both hands on my throat. I headbutted him, stars flashing behind my eyes, then drove the knife into his side. Again. And again.

  He fell in a twitching heap.

  And just like that, the jungle exhaled.

  No gunfire. No shouting. Just the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of life.

  The girls were gone. They’d scattered like deer, vanishing into the green. I could only hope they knew the layout better than I did.

  I stood there, panting, while blood soaked into my jeans. My hands trembled and silence pressed into my chest louder than screams.

  My thoughts scattered. I couldn’t breathe.

  Was Jet involved with this shit? Was Santos?

  I couldn’t believe it. Our organizations were strictly against it, and knowing what Mother Liana had gone through, Jet would never—fucking ever—get involved with it. Right?

  My mind clawed for a reasonable explanation, but all I felt was a crack opening inside me and swallowing me whole.

  Then I heard footsteps behind me.

  I spun, gun raised, finger tight on the trigger.

  And stopped, taking in Gabriel Santos’s bright smile that had no place in this setting.

  “¡Qué manera tan interesante de darte a conocer en Colombia!” he said in smooth, unhurried Spanish. English was his native language, but you never guessed it by the way he rolled his r’s.

  I rolled my eyes. “English, please.”

  Yes, I knew a bit of Spanish, but I wasn’t proficient enough to converse and understand it all. Especially when he rolled his “r” in that sexy, cursed way.

  “Interesting way to introduce yourself to Colombia,” he repeated in English. “I’m very pleased to see you here.”

  I’d bet my life that he didn’t just run into me. No way, no how.

  “I thought you gave up stalking,” I hissed, eyeing him suspiciously. I had to buy some time so I could gather information on Jet’s whereabouts.

  He stepped out of the trees, calm and otherwise spotless in a tailored shirt and black slacks. A luxury watch gleamed on his wrist.

  “I never give up, Amara.” He glanced at the bodies, then at me. “You should know that about me by now.”

  I didn’t lower the gun.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  He moved closer, slow and controlled.

  “Colombia is my territory. I know everything and everyone on my territory. And as you eloquently put it, I’ve been stalking you, so I’ve always known where you are.”

  I scoffed. “Creep.”

  “Your creep.”

  “Certainly not mine,” I muttered, feeling my body heat.

  “Let’s discuss that some other time,” he purred, then nodded toward the bodies again. “I should thank you. You cleaned up an unfortunate mess. Saved the girls. I’ll have my men get rid of the bodies and find the girls so we can get them medical care and then reunite them with their families.” He eyed his suit. “And you managed to save me the trouble of dry cleaning.”

  I paused and tilted my head. “They weren’t working for you?”

  He frowned, visibly taken aback. “No. Trafficking goes against everything we stand for. My brother worked hard to wipe it out. Sailor—the woman I consider my mother—was nearly killed by men like that. I’d never touch that filth.”

  I let out a quiet breath, relief washing over me. Strangely, I believed him.

  But that didn’t mean I trusted him. And it didn’t answer the hundred other questions burning in my mind—questions I wasn’t ready to ask.

  “Who the hell wears a suit in the jungle?” I grumbled instead.

  “Who backpacks through the jungle and hunts traffickers?”

  Pleased that he didn’t seem to be questioning my motives—or planning to bring sanctions down on the Kingpins of the Syndicate for trespassing—I nodded. “Touché.”

  He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t yet solved.

  “Do your parents know you’re here?” he asked. “Last I heard, you were still in Europe.”

  Only then did I see he was holding the backpack I abandoned what felt like hours ago.

  “Last I heard, my business wasn’t yours.” I snatched it from him, lowering my gun by an inch. “And aren’t you too old to be stalking?”

  He smiled again. Lazy. Unapologetic.

  “Like I said, you’re on my territory now, Amara,” he stated, voice low and even. “Everything you do is my business.”

  Gabriel

  Surrounded by bodies and blood-soaked dirt, I stepped closer to the woman who had fascinated me from the moment she started at D’Arc.

  Her breaths were still sharp and ragged, blood smearing her cheek. Her hands trembled slightly, but I’d witnessed firsthand how steady and lethal she was when in motion. She was dangerous, not only due to her skills but also because of who she was.

  As Killian Cullen and Emory DiLustro’s only child, and adoptive daughter to Liana Volkov, nobody sane would fuck with Amara Cullen.

  It was a good thing I wasn’t exactly sane.

  We locked eyes, and she stared back at me with that stubborn chin tilted up.

  Amara was unlike any woman I’d ever met and had been the subject of my fascination. Or, as she called it, stalking.

  Until her cursed brother involved Anya.

  “Put the gun down,” I said quietly, careful not to startle her. “We both know you won’t kill me.”

  Alas, it wouldn’t be because she valued my life, but rather to avoid a war between our families.

  In our world, loyalty was a currency more valuable than gold and as rare as diamonds.

  “And I won’t kill you,” I added.

  Her eyes narrowed as she lowered her gun, letting it hang by her side. “As if I’d ever have a chance.”

  I gestured behind me, back in the direction I’d come from. “We should get going. You’re covered in blood, and if someone shows up, trouble is bound to find you.”

  She laughed. “I think it already has.”

  I held out a hand, but she looked at it like it was a snake.