Chapter 24

• The night after the explosion was one Kieran knew he wouldn’t forget.
• Even as they touched down back in Paris—bruised, burned, but alive his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The memory of that collapsing building in Vienna clung to him: the smoke, the heat, the weight of Isandro's hand pulling him through the fire.
• The hotel room they’d been rushed to was quiet now. Kieran sat on the edge of the bed, bruises vivid against pale skin. The shower ran in the background, steam curling beneath the bathroom door.
• He dragged a hand through his damp hair. His reflection in the window was a ghost—eyes hollow, haunted.
• The door clicked. Isandro stepped out, hair wet, a towel slung around his neck. His sharp features were softened by exhaustion. But when his eyes met Kieran’s, something unspoken passed between them.
• Neither spoke.
• Instead, Isandro crossed the room, knelt down, and pressed his forehead against Kieran’s knee.
• The breath Kieran hadn’t realized he was holding shuddered out.
• “You almost died,” Isandro whispered.
• “We both did.”
• “I can’t” The words broke off, fractured.
• Kieran reached for him. His fingers slid through Isandro’s dark hair, gentle, grounding. “I’m here.”
• The kiss that followed wasn’t desperate the way some of theirs had been. It was slow. Careful. A defiant promise whispered into the quiet.
• When Isandro climbed into bed beside him hours later, neither spoke of Vienna. They didn’t have to.
• The ghosts of it followed them anyway.
• The next morning brought answers and with them, new dangers.
• Rousseau slammed down a photo on the table between them. “We found her.”
• Kieran leaned forward. His blood ran cold.
• A woman. Mid-thirties. Elegant. Silver-threaded hair pulled into a severe braid. Eyes like twin shards of ice.
• “Madeline Voss,” Rousseau said grimly. “She’s the one pulling the strings.”
• Isandro’s jaw tensed. “I know that name.”
• “You should,” Rousseau said. “She was one of your father’s top advisors. Disappeared years ago after a botched arms deal.”
• Kieran narrowed his eyes. “Grey’s circle.”
• “Exactly.” Rousseau dropped another file. “And she’s resurfaced with half of Europe’s black market under her thumb. The Revival isn’t just random it’s hers. Every move, every hit, every alliance—Voss.”
• Isandro’s breath came sharp. “And she wants us both dead.”
• “Not just dead,” Rousseau said darkly. “Erased.”
• The weight of it settled like lead.
• They had a name.
• But with it came the bitter realization: they were nowhere near the end.
• The first attempt on their lives came less than twenty-four hours later.
• They were walking through the back corridors of Lancaster’s Paris compound Isandro’s contacts agreeing to lend temporary safe haven when the gunfire started.
• Kieran hit the ground instantly. Isandro was beside him, firearm drawn, shouting orders. The walls cracked with bullets. Two of Rousseau’s men went down hard.
• Shouts. Sirens. Chaos.
• Kieran’s ears rang as he returned fire, breath sharp in his lungs. Isandro’s hand found his wrist, pulling him to cover. Their eyes locked.
• “Separate exit,” Isandro barked. “We move on three.”
• The count barely began before they launched into motion running, dodging, breathless.
• They made it out barely. Blood stained Kieran’s sleeve from a shallow graze. Isandro had a cut along his temple. But they lived.
• When they tumbled into the armored car waiting in the alley, Kieran’s heart hammered wildly. Isandro’s chest heaved as he locked the doors.
• For a moment nothing....
• Then laughter. Dry. Hollow.
• “Jesus Christ,” Kieran murmured.
• Isandro turned to him eyes blazing. And without hesitation, without thought, he grabbed Kieran’s face and kissed him hard.
• It tasted like adrenaline. Like blood and survival.
• They broke apart gasping.
• “Stop almost dying,” Isandro growled.
• “Same to you,” Kieran rasped, voice wrecked.
• The city blurred past the bulletproof windows. But for that heartbeat only the two of them existed.
• The attacks didn’t stop.
• Each day brought new intel: Voss was on the move. Across borders. Striking out with surgical precision. Arms shipments in Marseille destroyed. Key allies assassinated in Istanbul. Money laundered through Zurich. She was a ghost made flesh and her reach was growing.
• “We can’t keep reacting,” Kieran said, pacing the war room. “We need to hit her first.”
• “Agreed,” Isandro murmured, scanning satellite feeds.
• Rousseau adjusted his glasses. “We believe she’ll be in Prague next. High-level auction. Weapons and territory negotiations.”
• Kieran nodded. “Then we cut her off. There.”
• Isandro’s eyes flickered. “This will be public.”
• Kieran’s smirk was sharp. “Good.”
• For the first time in weeks, something like hope stirred in his chest.
• This wasn’t just survival anymore.
• It was war.
• And they were done playing defense.
• That night, before the Prague operation, Kieran and Isandro sat together on the hotel balcony both dressed in black, weapons prepped, hearts unsteady.
• Kieran lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. Isandro took it from him gently, extinguished it without a word.
• “You don’t have to do this,” Isandro murmured.
• “I do.”
• A long pause.
• Then Isandro exhaled. “I’m afraid of losing you.”
• Kieran’s heart clenched. “You won’t.”
• “I already lost too much,” Isandro whispered. His hand brushed against Kieran’s. “My father. My family. Parts of myself I can’t get back. I can’t” His voice cracked. “Not you too.”
• Kieran swallowed hard. Reached for him.
• Their kiss was slow. Lingering.
• Kieran pressed their foreheads together. “We end this. Together.”
• Isandro closed his eyes. “Together.”
• Prague’s underground auction was everything they expected: opulence masking rot. Champagne and blood beneath crystal chandeliers.
• Kieran moved through the crowd with practiced ease one hand resting on the concealed firearm beneath his tailored coat. Isandro mirrored him across the room, eyes scanning, every movement sharp and deliberate.
• And then, there.
• Madeline Voss.
• She stood at the center of it all, draped in midnight silk. Her pale eyes flickered over the crowd like a queen surveying her chessboard.
• The moment their gazes met, Kieran felt it.
• Recognition. Hatred. A challenge.
• It was time.