Page 23 of Jetmir

I trusted Elira explicitly, but I couldn’t risk losing Anya. Elira would know the plan on the day of. I counted on my twin to help; she always did. Then once Anya was back under my roof and in my arms, all the family would learn the plan.

It would be too late by then for anyone to do something about it and get in my way.

“I know that look, Jet,” Elira hissed. “You’re going after her, aren’t you?”

I didn’t deny it, but neither did I confirm it. We were twins, after all, and Elira knew me better than anyone.

Jetmir Thorne Volkov-Tijuana never fucking gave up. If there was one thing I inherited from my biological father—may he rot in hell—it was the talent for manipulation and scheming when it came to getting what I wanted.

“God, please, please, please don’t,” she continued. “We’re finally in a good spot and nobody is threatening to kill anyone.”

I smiled coldly. “It’s not my fault they lowered their guard.”

“I swear to God, I’m going to kill you if you land me on the shit list again.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. Besides, you probably never came off their list. Our last names alone grant us eternal hate.” Elira winced and I instantly regretted my words. Damn it, I needed to get rid of this bitterness. “I’m sorry, sister. Please ignore me.”

She smiled sadly. “I would if it weren’t true.”

“Well, fuck them.”

“Yeah, that,” she agreed. “Still sucks that we’re judged on fucked-up deeds of our family names.”

I shrugged, although I agreed. It was something that hurt when I was a child. Now, it just made me furious, but I refused to show that.

“Nothing we can do about it. We’re stuck with those names for better or worse.”

“I guess so.” She pinned me with her stare. “Now tell me what I need to do to help you.”

“All you have to do is stay out of my way,” I replied vaguely, leaving the rest of the instructions for the day of my plan execution.

“If you so much as look at Anya, the Santos family won’t forgive you,” she protested. “Any of us. They’ll come after all of us.”

I pinned her with a stare. “No, they won’t. And it’s not as if they’ve ever forgiven me for marrying her.”

“Jet, please… whatever your plan, don’t. Mom is really looking forward to having Thanksgiving together.”

“Are you on my side or theirs?” I gritted.

“Yours, brother. Always yours.”

“Good.” I nodded with satisfaction, then shrugged. “Thanksgiving is weeks away. Things will be back to normal by then.”

Elira didn’t look convinced. But she’d also never been in love, so she couldn’t possibly understand.

She didn’t know how fucking much I missed my wife. The way she’d throw her head back after a joke, moonlight-colored hair spilling over her shoulders like silk. Her affinity for tequila.

A faint smile pulled at my mouth.

Most people needed salt, lime, and a few measured breaths to prepare themselves. Anya needed none of it. She’d toss back a shot, barely react, and immediately reach for another while everyone else was still recovering. My wife could drink most of my men under the table.

And then there was her obsession with books. It might’ve made me seethe with jealousy at one time or another, but I’d still buy her every single book on this planet because I loved seeing her eyes light up.

The memory of the day that I surprised her with a visit to a bookstore filtered in, warm and slow, much like the bourbon I was nurturing.

I found her sitting on the steps of the library of the Jean D’Arc university. She chewed the pen cap between her teeth with a dreamlike expression, wholly focused on her Kindle.

“You better be studying and not daydreaming about your book boyfriends,” I said.