Chapter 17

• The dawn sun cut through the penthouse curtains, gilding the skyline as Milan stretched beneath them. Isandro Moretti lay awake, body still bruised and mind racing. Beside him, Kieran slumbered every breath measured, every crease of muscle familiar.
• Isandro traced a fingertip along Kieran’s jaw, backlit by morning light his touch discreet, reverent. The softness clashed with the harshness of their last confrontation: the battle at the warehouse, the declarations before their families, the endless war they’d become.
• Were they really together? Isandro’s mind whispered, though the warmth of the bedspread and the steady thrum of Kieran’s heartbeat spoke another truth.
• Kieran stirred and opened his eyes.
• Isandro leaned forward. “Morning.”
• “Morning,” Kieran murmured, voice husky. He reached for Isandro, pulling him close.
• They lay like that forehead to forehead genuine connection still rare and fragile in their world.
• Kieran shifted, eyes serious. “Tonight.”
• Isandro blinked. “The safehouse in Sofia.”
• A companion for another operation as if their lives could resume in a different city, a new mission.
• Kieran’s hand brushed Isandro’s chest. “Together.”
• Isandro nodded. “Always.”
• They finally untangled, each bruised physically but closer than ever, unified by mutual purpose and protection.
• ⸻
• Departure for Sofia
• Later, they boarded the private jet again this time for more than confrontation: the dismantling of the O’Donnell Brigade had set them on a path deeper into Grey’s remnants. Sofia was next. Eastern Europe had emerged as a hub of illicit transition for arms and digital trafficking.
• "You’re sure about this?" Isandro asked as they buckled in.
• Kieran nodded, checking his matte-black handgun. “Grey’s last safe node before global distribution. We cut it here.”
• The plane rumbled down the runway, anticipation tight in their chests.
• ⸻
• Arrival in Sofia
• Night cloaked the Bulgarian capital by the time they landed at a discreet airstrip. Snow-powdered sidewalks reflected streetlights like cold stars. They were met by Doyle contacts working overseas, their presence small and covert.
• Inside the hotel safehouse, Kieran and Isandro studied the layout once again hand-in-hand. Security cameras, blind spots, and entry points mapped across digital blueprints.
• Kieran pointed to the basement. “That's where the servers are digital crossroads.”
• Isandro nodded. “And the holdouts?” The O’Donnell resistance had already been their sharpest challenge yet; now they were bargaining across national lines.
• “One,” Kieran said. “With information we need.”
• Their eyes met.
• Time to move.
• Late in the evening, they moved into position. Doyle enforcers flanked them; laptops, files, and tactical gear at the ready. The warehouse stood silent-a brick monolith with opaque windows.
• Isandro and Kieran split: Isandro to breach the main entrance, Kieran to infiltrate the rear server room. Their movements were choreographed skills honed not by trust but by necessity, now guided by something more fragile.
• The door exploded inward: Isandro led with a low-silenced shot. Guards collapsed.
• At the back, Kieran navigated narrow corridors toward the main server bank. His breath slowed, adrenaline sharp.
• The red LED glow of server lights illuminated Kieran’s face as he stepped into the cold vault of machines. Rows of humming units stretched into darkness. Whispered footsteps echoed behind him.
• “VPN keys are here,” he murmured, kneeling at the main console.
• A guard slipped in silent as a ghost. Kieran turned before the man raised his weapon, tackling him with precise force. A snap of metal, a quick chokehold. The guard crumpled.
• “The keys,” Kieran whispered into the console, fingers flying.
• Isandro heard gunfire sharp, distant and paused. He raced toward Kieran’s direction. The corridors were a blur of blood and hardware.
• They met at a junction under the glow of exit signs, breathless.
• “Kieran,” Isandro rasped.
• He nodded toward the server room. “I heard you.”
• Together, they entered: Kieran unlocking encrypted files, Isandro standing guard, gun at the ready. Minutes stretched packets of data pulled across screens, names, accounts, calls, countries.
• “We have it,” Kieran said, shutting down the final server.
• Outside, alarms screeched Doyle enforcers shouting that reinforcements were closing in. They needed to move now.
• They sprinted into the night, sirens and red lights flooding the alleyway. Wordless, they darted through the labyrinth of streets to the extraction point. But someone had sabotaged their car—laser-cut cables left it lifeless.
• Kieran extracted a flared whisper into Isandro’s coat pocket. “Drone’s moments away.”
• They ducked into an abandoned tram station, dust and graffiti lining walls. Every step echoed.
• A patrol turned the corner. Five men in bulletproof vests. They opened fire.
• Isandro shielded Kieran, stepping forward as bullets pelted around them. He returned fire with calculated bursts, buying only seconds.
• Kieran pulled a flash-bang and tossed it. The explosion rocked the station. The patrol staggered. They ran.
• Outside, the drone’s whirring rotors hummed as it deposited a new car with an open door. Kieran sprinted for it, Isandro close behind.
• ⸻
• Back in Milan
• Hours later they landed in Milan, rain slicked streets reflecting neon. Exhausted, bloodied, but victorious.
• They entered the compound through a guarded entrance. Matteo met them, face pale.
• “You got it?” he asked.
• Kieran just nodded.
• Lina arrived soon after, holding printed lists of names leaked from the Sofia server covering traffickers, complicit ministers, Silk Road higher-ups.
• “It’s over,” she said softly.
• Over the next week, their leaked files shattered Grey’s network across three continents. Trials began. Governments collapsed. The media carried their raid journeys not as criminals, but as agents of reckoning.
• Isandro and Kieran were hailed globally: the mafia heirs who’d brought down a crime syndicate in alliance with an ex-operator. Their faces carried both admiration and scorn.
• They continued to sustain operations: raids, exposure, support for survivors. The world had changed and Italy, Ireland, and Eastern Europe were watching.
• Late one night, in Isandro’s suite, they sat together in front of a silent fire, exhaustion fracturing into quiet vulnerability.
• Kieran leaned against Isandro, fingers intertwined. “What do you feel?”
• Isandro tilted his head, brushing their hands gently. “Hope. Fear. Love.”
• Kieran exhaled. “Me too.”
• They reached for each other with gentle touches, lingering kisses. Their intimacy had evolved no longer urgent or desperate, but weighted with depth and tenderness.
• They spoke little.
• Too much had been said through battles and alliances.
• Morning arrived with soft light. Through the window, Milan awoke again. Traffic, birds, new hopes.
• Isandro stood, pulling on his shoes.
• Kieran followed. “New raids tomorrow,” he said.
• Isandro nodded. “And afterward…”
• He pulled Kieran into a tender kiss. “We rebuild.”
• Kieran responded with a smile that held everything promise, love, redemption.
• They stepped out together heirs no more, lovers always. The world they’d created awaited, and they were ready.