Page 17 of Gabriel
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.”
