Chapter 19

• Morning light crept through frost covered windows of the Belfast safehouse. Isandro awoke to the sight of Kieran asleep beside him, one arm draped protectively over his chest. The soft glow illuminated bruises on Kieran’s wrist tender reminders of the previous night’s confrontation.
• Isandro traced a finger over the scarred skin, heart tightening. Every battle they’d fought left echoes on their bodies and souls. But he'd carry those scars if it meant carrying Kieran through.
• He stood quietly, dressed, and stepped outside. The city lay silent except for distant church bells withered awake. In the courtyard, Siobhan tended to pots of rosemary and faded flowers.
• “Morning,” Isandro greeted her quietly.
• She looked up, guarded eyes softening. “He’s peaceful.”
• Isandro nodded. “Thanks to you.”
• She gave a slow smile. “His ghosts were well practiced. Few can put them to rest.”
• He stepped closer. “Will Belfast ever heal?”
• Siobhan’s gaze drifted to broken concrete walls beyond. “Maybe not fully. But if we keep choosing life rather than old grudges we can rewrite the scars.”
• Isandro absorbed that. It was truth borrowed from two complex halves one Irish, one Italian falling into union.
• Back inside, Kieran stirred. Isandro returned to their room.
• “Morning,” Kieran whispered, voice soft.
• “Morning,” Isandro replied, touching his cheek.
• Kieran winced as he flexed the wrist Isandro had treated. “Still sore.”
• Isandro kissed the bruised spot: “Let me.”
• They shared a quiet moment simple, healing, grounded.
• They moved to the living room map-lined, files stacked, cold coffee in both their hands.
• Siobhan had compiled reports on Maguire’s network and potential holdouts. Names like Connor, Daniels, O’Reilly lit the map.
• Kieran exhaled. “More ghosts.”
• Isandro placed an arm around him. “We’re not alone.”
• Siobhan nodded. “They have to answer.”
• They plotted a plan: quietly intercept remaining operatives, secure evidence, and work with Belfast police vetted by Kieran’s allies.
• Isandro watched Kieran slip out later visiting his old street, reconnecting with community leaders, calling in old debts redeemed. Isandro trailed behind him at a distance.
• They reached a memorial for victims of gangland bloodshed. Kieran knelt, eyes wet.
• “Did I ever say I’m sorry?” he murmured.
• Isandro emerged quietly, kneeling beside him. “For what?”
• “For leaving you.” Kieran traced the names etched in stone. “For running with shadows.”
• Isandro reached across, brushing Kieran’s fingers. “You had to survive.”
• Kieran’s whispered confession: “But I should’ve survived with you.”
• Their hands pressed against cold stone.
• The wind picked up as Kieran and Isandro stood in front of the stone memorial, their hands still pressed together against the cold granite. The list of names carved into it stretched long, too long, and each letter seemed to cut into Kieran’s chest anew.
• “I put some of these names here,” Kieran whispered, voice barely audible over the breeze. “I don’t know how to come back from that.”
• Isandro tightened his grip, not letting Kieran pull away. “You don’t have to come back. You only have to move forward. That’s all we can do.”
• Kieran let out a shaky breath. “I thought this place would break me.”
• “It didn’t,” Isandro said, gently turning Kieran’s face toward him. “You’re still standing. And you’re not standing alone.”
• The kiss they shared wasn’t urgent or fiery this time it was soft, bruised with memory, but laced with hope. When they broke apart, Kieran’s eyes were clearer. There was weight in them, but also resolve.
• “Come on,” Kieran said quietly, brushing the last of the tears from his cheek. “There’s someone else I need to see.”
• The next stop was a modest brick house at the edge of East Belfast. The garden was wild but well-kept, daisies and foxgloves growing in unruly harmony. An elderly woman, sharp-eyed and straight backed despite her age, met them at the gate.
• “Mrs. Devlin,” Kieran greeted softly.
• The woman squinted at him, then let out a dry laugh. “Kieran Walsh. Back from the dead.”
• “Something like that.”
• She motioned them inside without another word. Isandro followed silently, sensing the heavy history here.
• Mrs. Devlin poured tea in chipped porcelain cups and sat across from them. “If you’re here, it’s not for social calls.”
• Kieran nodded. “The Brigade… someone’s stirring it again. We’re trying to cut it off before it spreads.”
• Her lips pressed into a thin line. “And you think I have the names.”
• “You always did.”
• She stared at him for a long beat before sighing. “Old wolves don’t change stripes, Kieran. The Brigade’s bones were never buried deep. There’s a man Colum Shaw. He’s the one lighting fires under Maguire’s feet. You stop him, you stop this.”
• Isandro scribbled the name. “Where?”
• Mrs. Devlin gave a thin smile. “You won’t find him on the streets. He’s in the old textile mill outside Antrim. Pays men to keep eyes open. You’ll need more than fists to get close.”
• Kieran’s gaze darkened. “Then we bring more.”
• Back at the safehouse, Siobhan, Matteo, and Liam gathered around the battered table as Kieran laid out the plan.
• “We hit the mill at dawn,” Kieran said, tracing the map with his good hand. “Minimal casualties. We take Shaw alive. We end this clean.”
• Isandro added, “And we do it together. No solo plays.”
• For a moment, Siobhan gave Kieran a knowing look, and something unspoken passed between them—an old pattern breaking, replaced by something steadier.
• “Together,” Kieran echoed.
• As the team dispersed to ready weapons and logistics, Isandro and Kieran returned to the upstairs room. The sky outside was a quilt of indigo and silver, the moon casting pale light across the floorboards.
• Kieran sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense.
• “Talk to me,” Isandro murmured, sitting behind him, hands kneading the tight muscles along Kieran’s back.
• “I’m scared,” Kieran admitted. “Not of dying. Of slipping. Of becoming who I was before you.”
• Isandro leaned forward, resting his forehead against Kieran’s neck. “That man died the night you saved me. You’re not him. You never will be.”
• Kieran turned, catching Isandro’s mouth with his own, the kiss slow but fierce. They sank back against the bed, bodies fitting together with aching familiarity. Hands mapped over old scars, soft moans filled the space between them, but even as desire sparked, the emotion running beneath it was rawer: love, fragile and defiant.
• Later, tangled in the sheets, Kieran whispered, “After this… I don’t want to keep running.”
• Isandro kissed his temple. “Then let’s stop.”
• And for the first time in years, Kieran allowed himself to believe it could be true.
• The sun was just breaking the horizon when the convoy pulled onto the muddy road outside the abandoned mill. A thin fog clung to the trees. The stillness was unnerving.
• Kieran adjusted the holster under his coat, exchanging a glance with Isandro.
• “You ready?” Isandro asked softly.
• Kieran’s jaw tightened. “With you? Always.”
• Siobhan took point. Matteo and Liam fanned out, silencers affixed. The group moved like a single living organism silent, lethal.
• The mill loomed ahead rusted metal, shattered windows, and the smell of old oil and rot. Men with rifles patrolled lazily around bonfires, unaware of the storm about to hit.
• With precise efficiency, they breached.
• The fight was short but brutal. Kieran dropped two men with silenced shots before they could raise alarms. Isandro tackled a third, breaking his wrist clean before dragging him unconscious into cover.
• In the center of the mill, Colum Shaw stocky, bald, with a twisted sneer waited with a shotgun.
• Kieran stepped forward, gun steady.
• “End of the line, Colum,” Kieran called.
• Shaw laughed. “You think you’re any different from me? You think you’re clean, Walsh? You’re filth. Just in nicer suits.”
• “Maybe,” Kieran said coldly. “But I’m not hiding behind blood anymore.”
• Before Shaw could fire, Isandro moved fast, brutal, disarming him with a clean blow to the throat. The man crumpled.
• They cuffed him. Silent.
• It was done.
• As sirens approached police on their side this time Kieran stood in the dawn mist, breathing hard, hands trembling. Isandro came to his side, steadying him.
• “It’s over,” Isandro whispered.
• Kieran exhaled. For the first time, the air didn’t feel poisoned.
• “It’s over,” he echoed.
• They stood in the rising light, fingers intertwined, the ghosts of Belfast watching as two men once enemies, now something far more dangerous refused to fall back into darkness.