Page 16 of Gabriel
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.
