Chapter 21

• The rain in Milan returned with a vengeance.
• It painted the glass windows of the Moretti penthouse in thick sheets, blurring the city’s glittering lights into a watercolor of gold and shadow. The storm, like so many in Kieran’s life, felt both ominous and cleansing. Beside him, Isandro sat at the edge of the bed, his bare back haloed by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. He was tracing idle circles over his knee, lost in thought.
• Neither of them spoke for several moments.
• The newsfeeds had not stopped for days. Corrupt politicians arrested. Arms traffickers extradited. Bank accounts frozen, their names splashed across front pages from Dublin to Palermo. Some headlines painted them as criminals, others as unlikely heroes. The world seemed uncertain of how to categorize men like them born in blood but striving for something more.
• Kieran exhaled softly and stood. His fingertips brushed over Isandro’s shoulder as he passed, the touch feather-light but deliberate. The gesture made Isandro glance back over his shoulder, his dark eyes searching Kieran’s.
• “Can’t sleep?” Isandro asked, his voice low and hoarse.
• Kieran shook his head. “No.”
• Silence stretched. The weight of everything pressed in their choices, the war they had ignited and survived, the fragile peace now resting in their hands.
• “I keep thinking,” Isandro murmured, “about what comes next.”
• Kieran folded his arms, leaning against the window. “I know.”
• The words were quiet, but they contained everything. The phone calls that hadn’t stopped. The families both the Morettis and what remained of the Walsh Doyle factions waiting to see what kind of kings these two would become.
• They had won the battle. But the war against the old ways was far from over.
• By morning, the rain had eased but the tension had not.
• In the main conference room of the Moretti compound, Kieran and Isandro sat at the head of the long table. Around them gathered key allies: Matteo Moretti, coldly efficient in his tailored suit; Liam Doyle, sharp-eyed with residual bruising from Belfast still fading on his skin; Lina Caruso, fingers flying over her laptop as encrypted feeds scrolled past.
• Isandro’s uncle, Don Vittorio, watched with the quiet calculation of an old wolf observing young alphas seize territory.
• “The last of the Grey network’s offshore accounts have been seized,” Lina reported, pushing her glasses up. “Interpol is cleaning house. But there’s still a problem.”
• Kieran raised an eyebrow. “Which one? We have a dozen.”
• “Public perception,” Lina said. “You’re both heroes to some, villains to others. The political establishment wants your heads on pikes. But the people in the streets they’re… oddly in your corner.”
• Liam snorted. “The people love a pretty face and a redemption arc.”
• Isandro gave a faint, sardonic smile. “Or they just love spectacle.”
• The weight in the room thickened. They all knew it: while they’d dismantled the Grey syndicate, they had also shattered the unspoken balance that had kept Europe’s underworld in check for decades. There was no going back. Every choice now carved the future in blood or stone.
• Kieran’s gaze settled on the digital map glowing on the wall hotspots of unrest across Europe. Rival families stirring. Old enemies calculating.
• “We need to hold a summit,” he said finally. “Neutral ground. Every major player gets a seat. We define the new order before someone else does.”
• Matteo’s eyes sharpened. “That’s dangerous.”
• “Everything we’ve done so far has been dangerous,” Kieran replied softly.
• Isandro nodded, voice cold and decisive. “We’ll extend the invitation. Those who refuse to come to the table will make their position clear.”
• Vittorio spoke for the first time, his voice gravelly. “And you think these vipers will respect the idea of peace?”
• Kieran’s eyes darkened. “No. But they’ll respect power.”
• And right now, no one had more power than the two of them because they had nothing left to lose.
• Later that evening, the tension between them dissolved in private.
• The penthouse, once again their sanctuary, wrapped around them in golden warmth. Isandro leaned against the kitchen island, watching Kieran pour two glasses of whiskey with steady hands. He couldn’t help but let his eyes roam over Kieran’s sharp profile, the ink curling along his forearm, the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin.
• “Did you ever think,” Isandro murmured, voice soft with wonder and regret, “we’d make it this far?”
• Kieran looked up, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Not once.”
• Isandro chuckled a sound that was half breath, half disbelief.
• They stood there, drinking in the quiet, until Kieran set his glass down and crossed the space between them. His hand cupped Isandro’s jaw, thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone.
• “No more pretending,” Kieran whispered.
• “No more war,” Isandro breathed in reply.
• Their kiss was unhurried but deep, tasting of whiskey and the fragility of survival. Hands slid over backs, over skin, until the heat between them built into something consuming. Clothes fell away. The night unfolded with rough hands and soft murmurs, each claiming the other again and again marks left in secret places, lips mapping familiar terrain.
• Later, when they lay tangled and breathless, Isandro rested his head on Kieran’s chest and whispered:
• “You’re my home.”
• And for the first time, Kieran didn’t flinch from the truth of it.
• The summit was set for Geneva neutral territory with enough security to host some of the deadliest people in Europe.
• Weeks later, Kieran and Isandro stood at the tarmac of a private airfield, boarding the jet that would take them into the next phase of their lives. The compound was calm as they departed Liam and Lina holding the fort, Matteo coordinating security.
• As the engines roared to life, Kieran felt Isandro’s fingers brush his. He looked over, saw not the calculating heir to the Moretti empire but the man he had fought beside, bled with, almost died for.
• “Whatever happens,” Isandro murmured, “we end this together.”
• Kieran nodded. “Always.”
• The plane rose, cutting through the grey Milan skies, bound for the war room of kings.
• What waited for them at the summit could reshape everything: alliances, betrayals, or worse war that made Belfast look like a prelude.
• But side by side, they were ready.
• Or so they believed.
• The private jet sliced through the clouds, the hum of the engines a low, constant presence beneath the stillness in the cabin. Kieran sat opposite Isandro at the polished mahogany table, files spread between them intelligence reports, dossiers, and encrypted communiqués detailing the guest list for the summit.
• It was a roll call of monsters.
• The Solokov Bratva from Russia. The Castillos from Spain. The remnants of the Irish factions splintered after Belfast. The French underworld, silent but ever watchful. And smaller, rising players new blood eager to carve out power in the vacuum left behind.
• “They’re calling it ‘The Velvet Table,’” Isandro murmured, skimming the data. His finger tapped one name in particular: Ivan Petrov.
• Kieran raised an eyebrow. “Cute.”
• “Because we’re both in velvet,” Isandro said dryly. “Or maybe because they think we’ll offer them velvet gloves before we strangle them.”
• “Both could be true.”
• The exchange was light on the surface, but tension simmered underneath. They knew what this summit really was: not diplomacy, but theater. A stage where every man and woman who had ever drawn blood for a crown would decide whether to bend the knee… or burn the world.
• Kieran closed the folder and leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Do you trust any of them?”
• Isandro shook his head. “Not even a little.”
• Kieran’s lips twitched into something close to a smile. “Good. Then we’re still alive.”
• The jet banked gently as it began its descent. Far below, the jagged peaks of the Alps glistened under moonlight, serene and indifferent to the human wars unfolding in their shadow.
• Geneva’s old banking district had been transformed into a fortress.
• The summit venue a marble and glass masterpiece perched on the edge of Lake Geneva—was cordoned off by private military, Swiss security, and covert agents. Every entrance, every hallway, every breath was monitored.
• Kieran and Isandro arrived dressed in tailored black formal, but not ostentatious. There were no family insignias, no outward marks of the mafia kings they were. Only the quiet, lethal confidence of men who had survived the worst.
• Inside the grand hall, the other factions gathered.
• The air was electric with restrained violence. Men and women in silk and steel exchanged guarded nods, whispered in half languages. Here, no one was innocent. Here, every smile hid knives.
• The first to approach them was Ivan Petrov tall, wolfish, his silver hair gleaming under the chandeliers. His Bratva tattoos peeked from beneath his cuffs, and his cold blue eyes locked onto Kieran’s with clinical precision.
• “Mr. Walsh,” Petrov said with a thin smile. “Or should I call you the King of Ashes now?”
• Kieran offered a tight smile in return. “Kieran is fine.”
• “And you, Mr. Moretti,” Petrov continued, inclining his head toward Isandro. “It seems the rumors were true. You survived.”
• “Some things,” Isandro said calmly, “are harder to kill.”
• Polite laughter rippled through the air. But no one in the room mistook it for friendship.
• The Castellos arrived next sleek, dangerous, their matriarch draped in blood-red silk. The Irish splinter groups loitered in corners like vultures. The French envoy, cold as winter, whispered to their bodyguards in rapid, sharp bursts.
• Every eye was on Kieran and Isandro.
• Two men who had broken the ancient codes.
• Two men who, by all rights, should not have lived to tell the tale.
• The first hours passed in speeches—thinly veiled threats disguised as calls for “cooperation” and “mutual benefit.” Isandro sat stone still through most of it, his features carved from marble, while Kieran’s sharp green eyes missed nothing.
• When it was finally their turn to speak, the room quieted.
• Isandro rose first, his voice carrying easily.
• “Many of you think we stand here as traitors. As disruptors. You’re not wrong.”
• A murmur swept the hall.
• “We dismantled the old network because it was rotten,” Isandro continued, his tone as sharp as glass. “Because it bred chaos. We burned the disease out before it killed us all.”
• He glanced sideways to Kieran then back at the sea of dangerous faces.
• “And now, you have a choice. Work with us to build something new. Or remain relics of a dying world.”
• Kieran stood beside him then, his hands folded behind his back.
• “We’re not asking for loyalty,” Kieran added quietly. “We’re offering survival. Decide carefully.”
• The room pulsed with barely contained tension.