Chapter 18

• The night flight from Milan to Belfast was quiet too quiet. In the cabin, Isandro Moretti stared out the small oval window at the dark sea below, the city lights of Northern Ireland shimmering faintly. Beside him, Kieran Walsh watched him with those forest‑green eyes, deep pools that spoke of loyalty and lingering grief.
• “Home,” Kieran murmured.
• Isandro’s grip on his seat tightened. "This time, it's different."
• Kieran slid his hand over, Isandro’s steady, sure. “Not alone.”
• They landed at the small private terminal outside Belfast. A pair of armored SUVs awaited, engines idling low. Doyle syndicate operatives flanked them with tense assurance, but Kieran’s Belfast roots ran deeper, and more dangerous, than any of Milan’s steel.
• The convoy wound toward Kieran’s old safehouse in the Shankill area abandoned now, cobwebbed with memories of betrayals and brutal violence. He sat silent as they pulled into the courtyard, where a single streetlamp flickered in the drizzle.
• The quiet was deafening.
• Kieran led Isandro through hallways thick with memory. Dust covered floorboards, and old Gaelic graffiti peeled from walls. He paused before two barred rooms where he’d once trained fighters, held prisoners, nearly lost himself.
• He pushed open the door to what had served as his command center. Maps gnarled from cigarette burns, photographs of rival bosses, targets in chalk symbols of hatred and blood.
• “This was all I knew,” Kieran said softly.
• Isandro stepped beside him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “You chose more.”
• Kieran looked up at him, voice tight. “Yeah.”
• A knock rattled the door behind them. Matteo entered, flanked by Liam.
• “We found someone,” Matteo said, voice low.
• A young woman stood in the doorway shoulders hunched, pain in her eyes. Kieran’s breath caught as recognition blinked in his expression.
• “Siobhan,” he whispered.
• She hadn’t changed: fierce jaw, auburn hair, same defiant spark. They’d grown up in the same streets once allies, sometimes enemies. She’d vanished years ago into either loyalty or betrayal.
• Siobhan stepped forward, eyes flicking to Isandro. “I heard you were back,” she said. Voice raw.
• “Why?” Kieran replied. His tone was flat, distant.
• “Grey’s head wasn’t the end,” she said. “Someone's reassembling the Brigade. People are turning up dead again, whispering your name. They say the wolf is back in Belfast.”
• She stepped aside for Liam to produce photos: burned-out flats, riddled cars, bodies left for cameras. Graffiti tagged with a skull and the letters “O’D” a warning.
• Kieran’s fists clenched. He looked at Isandro. “They’re trying to scare us out.”
• Isandro put a steady hand on his chest. “We face them. Together.”
• Siobhan’s eyes flicked between them. “I can help.” She swallowed. “People still owe me favors. I know where they gather. Haven’t moved fast enough.”
• They moved at midnight. Under low clouds and drizzle, they drove toward a disused bar in West Belfast. Lights were off but music thumped faintly within. A narcotics tie they kept for cover.
• Inside, they found shadows beneath neon adverts for Guinness and cheap whiskey. Kieran recognized faces as familiar threats, low-tier Brigade soldiers, bruised with alcohol and bitterness.
• “Doyle!” shouted a man near the bar.
• Spotlights flicked on.
• Isandro raised his hand.
• No guns.
• He stepped forward, voice calm. “We’re here for answers.”
• Silence stretched before the barkeep sagged forward. “You Irish blood traitor,” he spat.
• Kieran moved at light speed, a cold hand grabbing the man’s collar and pulling him forward. “Name him.”
• The crowd stiffened.
• Isandro joined him, stepping closer. “No one gets hurt tonight.”
• They spaced themselves to show of control. Kieran leaned forward. “Who’s collecting the bodies?”
• The barkeep hesitated. Others murmured. Finally, a young man spoke: “They answer to someone called Maguire.”
• Kieran’s lips tightened. “Maguire’s old Walsh. Speaks of old blood.”
• He turned to Isandro. “This hits home.”
• Isandro nodded. “Then we go there.”
• Within hours, they'd mapped the Maguire safehouse: a fortified terrace at the edge of the city, cameras flickering red. Doyle reinforcements arrived. Belfast’s fog thickened.
• Weapons were silent. Plans were quiet.
• They breached after warning no grenades. Kieran’s voice echoed: “We want no blood if possible.”
• Inside: stacked arms, body bags, photos of Kieran and Isandro marked with crosses. Maguire’s men froze.
• Kieran pressed his gun to the chest of the supposed lieutenant. “Where is he?”
• “Upstairs,” the man gibbered. Then spittle: “He wants you for blood.”
• They moved upstairs. Maguire stood there middle-aged with dead eyes, wiry. Rage threatened to swallow room.
• “You left us,” he snarled. “Brigade lay in pieces. But when I saw the photos seeing you with him, I knew you might come back. I waited.”
• Kieran’s jaw stiffened. “The Brigade is finished.”
• Maguire sneered. “Maybe. But not me.”
• Isandro stepped between them, gun leveled. “Tell them to stand down. This is your choice, Maguire.”
• Maguire’s chest heaved. “You gave it away your blood. Then you walk away?”
• Kieran firm: “You’ll release your claim or we’ll dismantle you piece by piece.”
• Maguire locked gazes. Then exhaled long and cold. He stepped away. “I’ll stand down.”
• They exfiltrated Maguire’s men quietly, cuffed and disarmed. Belfast shivered under early morning light and news of the crackdown.
• In the garage, Isandro wrapped Kieran’s shattered wrist—bruised from Maguire’s men. Kieran winced.
• Isandro kissed the injury. “Silent wounds.”
• Kieran smiled. “Thanks.”
• They stood together in the rain bastards bound by war and love.
• Back at the safehouse, Siobhan prepared tea. “You handled that well.”
• Kieran took a cup. “You sure?”
• Siobhan nodded. “I saw something in you.” She focused on Isandro. “You hold him with conviction.”
• Kieran’s eyes softened.
• Siobhan’s gaze hardened: “But make no mistake Belfast’s ghosts are harder to quiet.”
• They nodded.
• They stepped outside despite the cold. Belfast’s rain swirled around them like forgiveness and threat.
• Isandro pulled Kieran close, hands braced at his waist. Kieran’s breath fogged between them.
• “I trust us,” he said.
• Isandro chose the cradle of his neck. “And they will understand.”
• Kieran tilted his face up. “Our ghosts aren’t simple.”
• Isandro whispered into his hair: “We’ll carry them. Together.”
• They kissed in the rain no urgency, only solemn promise.
• Above them, Belfast’s broken heart beat again fragile, defiant, and alive.