Chapter 22

• The morning after the summit was unnervingly still.
• Kieran woke before the sun, heart pounding as if he’d been running in his sleep. For a moment, the disorientation of unfamiliar sheets and the weight of too many memories pressed down on him.
• Then the sound of steady breathing beside him grounded everything.
• Isandro.
• The events of the previous day explosions, betrayal, fragile alliances rushed back like floodwaters, but this… this was solid. The man beside him, arm slung loose across Kieran’s waist, was real.
• For the first time in weeks, Kieran let himself breathe.
• But the peace didn’t last.
• A sharp knock shattered the quiet.
• Isandro stirred as Kieran pulled on a shirt and answered the door. One of their guards, face grim, handed over a secure phone.
• “It’s Matteo,” the man murmured.
• Kieran’s stomach twisted.
• He took the call. “What happened?”
• Matteo’s voice was tight with urgency. “The Castillo estate. It’s gone. Bombed to ash. Survivors minimal.”
• The blood drained from Kieran’s face. “When?”
• “Early this morning. No claim yet. But it’s started.”
• The war.
• The real war.
• By noon, Geneva was no longer neutral ground.
• Allies fractured. Former enemies circled like vultures. And in the heart of it, Kieran and Isandro stood alone two kings holding a crumbling throne.
• “I don’t believe the Castillos were the target,” Isandro said grimly as they reviewed intercepted intel. “That bomb could have easily been meant for us.”
• Kieran nodded, jaw tight. “And whoever did this”
• “wants chaos,” Isandro finished. “And they’ll get it.”
• They exchanged a look shared history, shared survival. This wasn’t just politics anymore. It was personal.
• Very personal.
• That night, the first bullet missed Kieran’s skull by inches.
• The ambush happened fast black clad attackers outside the hotel as they tried to leave under cover of darkness. Gunfire cracked the air. Isandro shoved Kieran to the ground, returning fire without hesitation.
• They moved like a single unit deadly, practiced.
• Bodies hit the ground. Sirens wailed in the distance. And when the smoke cleared, Kieran found himself pressed against Isandro, breathing hard, hands slick with blood that wasn’t theirs.
• Isandro’s eyes searched his face. “Are you hit?”
• “No.” Kieran’s voice was hoarse. “Are you?”
• Isandro shook his head, but neither moved immediately. The nearness. The adrenaline. The shared terror. It built between them like a spark on dry tinder.
• And then Kieran surged forward, crashing his mouth onto Isandro’s in a kiss born of desperation and fury.
• Isandro froze for half a heartbeat then kissed back just as fiercely.
• The world burned around them.
• And still they kissed.
• The kiss broke as quickly as it began too many dangers still swarming the darkened street, the scent of gunpowder still thick in the air.
• Kieran’s breath came in sharp bursts, his heart slamming against his ribs. He stared at Isandro, stunned not by the bullets, but by the raw heat of what had just passed between them.
• Isandro’s hand was still on Kieran’s chest, fingers clenched in the fabric of his jacket as if reluctant to let go.
• “We have to move,” Isandro said hoarsely, voice strained in a way that had nothing to do with the gunfight.
• Kieran nodded, swallowing hard. “Right.”
• They pushed to their feet as backup vehicles screeched around the corner. Their men rattled but alive formed a protective circle as the two were bundled into the armored SUV.
• Inside, the silence crackled with electricity.
• Neither spoke.
• Not as the city blurred past the bulletproof windows.
• Not as Geneva receded and the safehouse hidden deep in the mountains loomed ahead.
• But the air between them never cooled.
• The safehouse was steel and glass, perched like a secret over the snow dusted cliffs. Isandro had secured it years ago in one of dozens of boltholes for moments exactly like this.
• As the doors sealed behind them, Kieran exhaled sharply, leaning back against the wall.
• Their eyes met.
• The world outside…explosions, betrayal, war seemed to fall away.
• “About earlier” Kieran started.
• Isandro held up a hand, voice low. “Don’t. Not yet.”
• Something in the way he said it made Kieran’s throat tighten. It wasn’t rejection. It wasn’t regret.
• It was fear.
• Fear that whatever this was… it would cost them everything.
• Kieran stepped forward anyway, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We could die tomorrow.”
• “Then we die,” Isandro murmured. “But not without this.”
• Kieran barely had time to draw breath before Isandro closed the distance crushing their mouths together in another bruising, desperate kiss. This time there was no hesitation.
• No politics.
• No rivalries.
• Just heat, need, the razor-edge of survival.
• Kieran moaned into the kiss as Isandro pushed him back against the wall, hands tangling in his hair. He pulled Isandro closer, dragging his fingers over the scars on the other man’s back, every touch searing.
• It was messy. Furious. Frantic.
• It was the inevitable explosion of everything they’d tried to deny.
• When they finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, Kieran’s voice cracked:
• “Are we really doing this?”
• Isandro let out a breathless, shaky laugh. “Looks like it.”
• They didn’t speak of it again that night.
• Instead, they moved through war rooms and strategy calls like nothing had changed except everything had.
• Every glance burned. Every accidental touch lingered.
• And when Kieran finally lay awake in the dark hours before dawn, he felt the weight of it settle in his chest:
• Whatever came next, there was no going back.
• Not for him.
• Not for Isandro.
• Not for the fragile kingdom they were trying to build on blood and ash.
• The morning light was harsh, cold against the glass walls of the safehouse. Snow dusted the pines outside, silent witnesses to the firestorm unraveling across Europe’s underworld.
• Kieran sat at the long steel table, untouched coffee cooling beside him. His eyes were distant, fixed on the burn marks across his fingers scars from another life, another war.
• The door creaked softly.
• Isandro.
• Neither of them spoke as Isandro dropped into the seat across from him, sliding over a folder thick with surveillance reports.
• “No sleep?” Kieran murmured.
• Isandro shook his head, the dark bruises under his eyes betraying the same restless hours. “Couldn’t.”
• Kieran exhaled. “Me neither.”
• For a few moments, they just sat there no titles, no empires. Just two men hollowed out by survival.
• “Who do you think made the move on the Castillos?” Kieran asked finally.
• Isandro tapped a finger against the edge of the file. “It wasn’t Durov. His signature is more… theatrical. This felt surgical.”
• “Someone with military precision.”
• “Or someone with a vendetta.”
• The weight of the words settled between them. Both had enough enemies to fill graveyards.
• But this...this was different.
• “Whoever it was,” Isandro murmured, “they’re not done.”
• Their eyes met across the table.
• Neither voiced the second thought aloud: We might not survive this.
• The next strike came at dusk.
• The safehouse perimeter alarm shrieked through the stillness, a high-pitched warning that made the hairs on the back of Kieran’s neck rise instantly.
• “They found us,” Isandro snarled, already reaching for his gun.
• Kieran was at his side in an instant as the two of them bolted for the control room. Screens flared to life, showing black SUVs crawling up the narrow mountain road.
• Too fast. Too organized.
• “RPGs,” Kieran spat. “They’re planning to take out the whole house.”
• “We can’t hold this position,” Isandro growled. “We have to move now.”
• The decision was made without words.
• Weapons. Secure files. Emergency protocols.
• In under three minutes, they were in the escape tunnel, the roar of approaching engines echoing through the steel corridors.
• And then just as the hatch slammed shut behind them the mountain shook with the force of an explosion so massive it lit the night sky in orange flame.
• The safehouse Isandro’s fortress was gone.
• Ashes. Again.
• Hours later, in the freezing dark of an abandoned alpine village, Kieran lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
• Isandro sat across from him in the wreckage of an old chapel, blood still seeping from a cut along his temple. He didn’t bother wiping it away.
• For a long time, neither spoke.
• Then Kieran said hoarsely, “Someone wants us off the board. Permanently.”
• Isandro’s laugh was bitter. “That much is clear.”
• And then his voice softened.
• “But they haven’t succeeded.”
• Kieran looked up.
• The barest smile ghosted Isandro’s bruised lips. “We’re still breathing.”
• Despite everything the war, the betrayal, the near-death Kieran felt it again: the pull between them. Stronger now. Sharpened by the edge of survival.
• Without fully meaning to, Kieran crossed the distance between them. His gloved hand brushed against Isandro’s jaw, thumb grazing the corner of his mouth.
• Isandro’s breath caught.
• “Kieran.”
• But Kieran silenced him with a kiss.
• Softer this time. Slower. Not frantic or angry but deliberate. Certain.
• The kind of kiss you remember in the dark.
• When they finally pulled apart, Kieran murmured, “If we die tomorrow, I want this tonight.”
• Isandro’s reply was a whisper against his lips: “Then have me.”
• The cold seeped through every crack of the ruined chapel. The wind howled around the broken stone walls, carrying the scent of smoke from the destroyed safehouse down the mountain.
• But Kieran barely noticed.
• All he could feel was the weight of Isandro's breath against his skin, the fire of their kiss still searing his lips, the dangerous way the other man looked at him now like he wasn't a rival anymore. Like he was something far more dangerous.
• Needed.
• Desired.
• Isandro's gloved hand traced Kieran's jaw, fingertips gentle despite the bruises that marred his own knuckles. His voice, when he finally spoke, was barely audible over the wind.
• "Are you sure about this?" Isandro asked, eyes searching Kieran's face as though looking for any crack, any hesitation.
• Kieran's reply was quiet, but firm. "I've never been more certain of anything."
• Something unspoken passed between them then recognition, perhaps. The acknowledgment that whatever was happening here in the middle of the wreckage wasn’t just lust. Wasn’t just the high of survival.
• It was more.
• Isandro's breath caught. His thumb brushed over Kieran’s lower lip. The rough pad of his finger made Kieran shiver, though not from the cold.
• Then Isandro whispered, “We might not get another night.”
• “Then we won’t waste this one,” Kieran murmured.
• The kiss that followed was slower this time more deliberate, more searching. The heat between them built gradually as gloves were stripped away, cold fingers threading into hair, skimming over scarred skin.
• When Kieran’s hands slid under Isandro’s jacket, fingertips tracing the hard lines of muscle and the old scar beneath his ribs, Isandro gasped softly against his mouth. His body pressed closer, almost as if he was afraid to lose the contact for even a second.
• Their breaths turned ragged, echoing in the hollow ruins of the chapel.
• Neither cared.
• Clothing became an afterthought. Urgency and tenderness tangled as the last layers were pushed aside, leaving only skin against skin, fire against frost.
• Kieran’s heart hammered painfully in his chest. The sharp edges that had always defined him violence, ambition, vengeance softened beneath Isandro's touch. He could feel the same battle mirrored in the other man, a fragile surrender neither of them knew how to voice.
• But their bodies spoke for them.
• When they finally sank down together onto the cold stone floor wrapped in each other, hands gripping tight, lips searching something shifted.
• This wasn't a truce.
• It wasn’t politics.
• It was the quiet, reckless declaration of two broken kings choosing each other in the ruins.
• Afterward, they lay tangled together, breath slowing, the air sharp with the remnants of snow and ash.
• For a long time, neither spoke.
• Isandro's thumb brushed along the curve of Kieran's wrist, tracing the veins there as if memorizing every line. His voice was quiet when he finally broke the silence:
• “This… wasn’t supposed to happen.”
• Kieran gave a soft, humorless laugh. “No. It wasn’t.”
• They lay there in the half-light, the weight of what they’d done pressing between them like a third body. But neither pulled away.
• Kieran’s fingers ghosted over the scar on Isandro’s chest, tracing it idly. “If we survive this,” he murmured, “if we manage to take down whoever’s coming for us… what then?”
• Isandro’s eyes flickered. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”
• “Do you want this to be a one-time thing?” Kieran asked, voice tight.
• There was a beat of silence.
• Then Isandro’s hand tightened on his waist. His voice dropped to a whisper. “No.”
• The admission hit Kieran like a blow.
• He swallowed hard, his pulse thundering.
• “Neither do I,” he said quietly.
• When dawn finally broke over the mountains, painting the snow in cold gold, Kieran and Isandro dressed in silence.
• The fragile peace of the night held for one more moment.
• But as Isandro secured his weapon beneath his coat and Kieran holstered his pistol, the weight of reality returned with brutal clarity.
• War waited.
• The enemy still unseen was out there. And they would not wait long to strike again.
• Isandro's hand brushed briefly against Kieran’s as they stepped through the broken chapel doors.
• No words were exchanged.
• But the look they shared heavy with everything unsaid was enough.
• They were no longer enemies.
• And whatever tomorrow brought, they would face it together.
• Even if it killed them.