Page 25 of Gabriel
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.
