Chapter 16

• Milan’s dawn was gilded gold and steel. The city carried quiet promise, but shadows waited in the alleyways. Isandro and Kieran stood side by side in the Moretti study, matching briefcases open, lines of intel spread across the table.
• Their war with the O’Donnell Brigade was about to begin and unlike Grey’s empire, this threat hit close to home.
• Outside the compound, early‑morning traffic trickled past black SUVs. Isandro and Kieran rose from the table, guns holstered but eyes alert.
• “Teams are ready,” Matteo announced. “Dublin cell is active tonight. We strike simultaneously: placate the public here, destroy the Brigade there.”
• Kieran looked at Isandro. “Your move.”
• Isandro nodded, steel in his eyes. “We stop this now.”
• High above the emerald sea, their private jet sliced through dawn clouds. Isandro studied the documents again: names, addresses, hierarchy within the O’Donnell Brigade, and most dangerously ties to politicians allied with Grey’s old network.
• Kieran leaned forward. “So… we pull the plug now and expose everything?”
• Isandro closed the file. “We eliminate the brigade first. Then we spill names to the press.”
• Kieran’s jaw hardened. “Then we burn the rest down.”
• Isandro’s hand found Kieran’s on the leather armrest. “Together.”
• They landed at a small airfield outside Dublin, stepping onto concrete smeared with rain. Local Doyle contacts greeted them with nods and curt hushed explanations. Within minutes, they were en route to a safehouse Doyle enforcers shadowing every doorway.
• In the safehouse living room, a whiteboard listed Brigade leaders. The map marked three locations for tonight’s operations: one to trap the inner circle, one to secure weapon stockpiles, one to find the sniper who attacked Kieran.
• Kieran met Isandro’s gaze. “We split up?”
• Isandro paused. “I’ll take the townhouse. You take the sniper hideout.”
• Kieran nodded. “We converge at the warehouse.”
• Isandro moved like a ghost through the gloom. The townhouse was crumbling outwardly, but inside, lamps cast warm pools. He glided through the living room, gun drawn, silence broken only by distant radio chatter.
• He cleared room after room. In the master bedroom, he found a man in a gray jacket one of the third-tier brigade. Isandro pressed the gun to his temple.
• “Name. Location of O’Donnell’s second” he didn’t finish.
• The man’s eyes flicked wide. “Barron’s kid”O’Donnell’s son“in the old mills by the canal. That’s where they bury…” He choked.
• Isandro squeezed. “Answer.”
• “Then you’ll kill me,” the man spat.
• Isandro hesitated old habits warred with necessity. Finally, he released him. “Live. Tell me everything.”
• Meanwhile, in a suburban bungalow, Kieran crouched behind a sliding door. Moonlight filtered through cheap blinds. The sniper lay stretched in an upstairs corner, sidearm on coffee table, glass of whiskey half‑finished.
• Kieran whispered into his comm. “Isandro, I’ve got him.”
• Isandro replied, voice pinpoint. “Sweep the house. I’m on the kid.”
• Kieran signaled. “Freeze. This is your one warning.”
• The sniper stirred, gun in hand.
• Kieran didn’t hesitate he moved like a wolf. A choke hold, a sharp elbow. The man collapsed.
• “Name?” Kieran demanded.
• “Sean O’Donnell,” he gasped. “He wanted me to silence you. For the Rainbow.” He faltered. “He...he loved him too.”
• Kieran’s heart sank. “Sean’s dead.”
• He cuffed the sniper. “Go home.”
• They met at the canal‑side warehouse as the rain turned fierce. Doyle forces moved with precision around them.
• Inside, three Brigade leaders scarred, vicious, defiant were cornered. One pulled a weapon. Isandro’s pistol cracked, smoke swirling. Kieran leaped in knives, fists, rage.
• The fight was brutal but fast.
• When it ended, only the trio lay bleeding, wounded, captured.
• Kieran knelt beside one, whose name—Patrick O’Donnell he didn’t need to hear.
• He whispered: “Your war costs you everything.”
• Patrick spat blood. “You betrayed your blood.”
• Kieran pressed the blade against the man’s throat. “I found new blood.”
• He stepped back as police sirens wailed. Isandro flicked a gaze at him pride mixed with something deeper.
• Back at their hotel, Isandro and Kieran finally faced each other across the bed.
• “You’re trembling,” Isandro observed softly.
• Kieran swallowed. “Just adrenaline.”
• Isandro reached across the space, fingers brushing cheek. “Then let me steady you.”
• Kieran shut his eyes and leaned in. “Stay with me.”
• Isandro curled his hand at the back of Kieran’s neck. “Always.”
• They met in silence, bodies entwined as rain hammered the windows. Two men, a battlefield beneath them, and a fragile peace lit only by trust.
• Next morning, they issued a joint statement of pictures taken at the warehouse, hands bound, weapons seized. Kieran’s healed bruise from the earlier attack featured, his defiance captured in press flashes.
• They flooded media outlets: exposés on Grey, barrages on O’Donnell’s cell they named names, shut down networks, and revealed the continuum of power that bound organized crime with politics.
• The world listened.
• At the Milan compound, Isandro and Kieran stood before their families Don Vittorio Moretti and Kieran’s mother among the crowd addressing them in neutral tones. They justified their actions under banners of redemption.
• But not everyone approved.
• A hardened uncle spat: “You piece of shit Irish don’t forget where you came from.”
• Isandro’s cold gaze slowed his voice. “I remember.” He looked to Kieran. “But we choose our path.”
• Kieran’s mother glared. Tears streaked her cheeks. “You have my blessing if you stand with him.”
• Kieran squeezed Isandro’s hand. “I always will.”
• Later, on the penthouse balcony, they leaned shoulder to shoulder.
• Isandro exhaled. “We’ve crossed the line.”
• Kieran turned. “But not back.”
• They kissed gently no urgency, just promise.
• Below, Milan prepared for sunrise.