Chapter 28

• The sea wind carried the sharp sting of salt and blood as dawn stretched pale fingers across the horizon. The docks were eerily silent now, the chaos of the night reduced to smoldering wreckage and crimson stains that refused to wash away. Kieran stood at the edge of the pier, his arm tightly bandaged, the fabric already darkened by the blood soaking through.
• His heart felt heavy too heavy for his chest. Every breath was an effort. His entire body ached, but it wasn’t the physical wounds that weighed him down.
• It was the memory of Celeste's lifeless eyes staring up at the dawn sky.
• It was the way Isandro's hands had trembled when he held Kieran, whispering his name like a prayer.
• "Are you sure you can stand?" Isandro’s voice cut through the silence, low and gentle, standing just behind him.
• Kieran exhaled slowly, the tension coiled tight in his muscles. “I’m fine,” he murmured, though the lie tasted bitter on his tongue. He didn't turn around. He couldn’t. Not yet.
• Isandro stepped closer anyway, his warmth pressing against Kieran's back. “You don’t have to be.”
• That broke something. Kieran closed his eyes, lowering his head. “I should’ve seen it,” he whispered. “Celeste... she” His voice caught, brittle.
• Isandro placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, careful of the wound. “She made her choices,” he murmured. “She played both sides for too long.”
• Kieran’s jaw tightened. “And she paid the price.”
• Neither of them spoke for a moment. The gulls cried overhead, the tide lapped at the ruined dock. Somewhere in the distance, sirens still echoed, but here...here there was only the aftermath.
• Isandro's fingers brushed lower, trailing gently along Kieran’s arm before sliding to his hand. Their fingers entwined with ease, familiarity, comfort. “You’re not responsible for her death,” he said quietly.
• Kieran swallowed hard. “Aren’t I?”
• Isandro’s thumb grazed the inside of Kieran’s wrist. “No.”
• The word was simple. Final. And somehow, it steadied Kieran in a way nothing else could.
• For the first time since the gunfire had stopped, Kieran let himself breathe. He leaned back, just slightly, into the solid line of Isandro’s chest.
• They stood like that for what felt like forever, the wreckage of their world around them, the soft hush of waves beneath. Two men who had once sworn to kill each other now clinging to the only thing left unbroken between them.
• Hope.
• The black car glided through the streets of the city hours later, tinted windows shielding them from the world outside. Isandro’s hand rested over Kieran’s on the leather seat between them an unconscious, constant touch neither of them commented on.
• Kieran’s eyes were fixed on the skyline. “They’ll come for us,” he said quietly.
• “They’ll try,” Isandro agreed, voice edged in steel.
• The fall of Voss was only the beginning. Power vacuums didn’t stay empty for long, and the blood they'd spilled last night would stain more than just their hands.
• Kieran sighed, glancing sideways. “Are we ready for that?”
• Isandro’s dark eyes met his. “We’re together. That’s all that matters.”
• Kieran’s lips curved small, wry, but real. “Isandro De Luca. Romantic.”
• Isandro’s mouth twitched. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
• They shared a rare smile.
• But even as laughter flickered between them, Kieran knew the danger wasn't over. The threats were still out there scattered across the underworld like wolves circling a wounded deer. And both of them, for all their victories, were still marked men.
• “Tonight,” Isandro said after a pause, voice low, “I want you out of the city.”
• Kieran blinked. “What?”
• “I need you safe,” Isandro murmured. “There are too many unknowns. Let me handle it.”
• Kieran’s fingers tightened. “No.”
• Isandro arched a brow. “No?”
• “I’m not leaving you,” Kieran said flatly. “Not now. Not ever.”
• Something unspoken passed between them something fragile and fierce all at once. Isandro’s expression softened.
• “Then we stand together,” he murmured.
• Kieran nodded. “Always.”
• That evening, as dusk descended in bruised colors over the city, the first of the new threats revealed itself.
• An envelope.
• No return address. No markings. Just a single sheet of paper inside, scrawled in looping black ink:
• You killed the king. But the real war is just beginning.
• ...V
• Kieran read it twice before handing it silently to Isandro.
• Isandro’s eyes narrowed. “V.”
• Kieran’s voice was grim. “It’s not over.”
• “No,” Isandro agreed. “It’s not.”
• And somewhere deep in the shadows of the city, the true enemy watched.
• And waited.
• The letter lay between them on the polished glass table, its message a silent menace neither could ignore. Kieran’s fingers drummed a restless rhythm along the edge, his expression taut with thought.
• “Who’s V?” he murmured, voice low.
• Isandro shook his head, dark eyes unreadable. “No one obvious. Not one of the old families.”
• “Someone who thinks we’re weak after Voss,” Kieran guessed, leaning back in the armchair. The city’s lights glowed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting fractured reflections across their faces.
• “Or someone who’s been waiting for this moment,” Isandro added grimly. He lifted the paper again, reading it for the fifth time. His jaw clenched.
• Kieran’s gaze flicked to him. “You think it’s connected to your father?”
• Isandro exhaled sharply through his nose. “I think everything is connected to my father.”
• A bitter silence stretched.
• Kieran sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So what’s the plan?”
• Isandro's lips twitched faintly, despite the tension. “We’re back to plans already?”
• Kieran gave him a flat look. “This is me trying to be responsible.”
• That almost coaxed a smile from Isandro. Almost. But it faded before it could take hold.
• “We call in the loyal families,” Isandro said quietly. “We show strength. We find out who the hell ‘V’ is before they make their move.”
• Kieran nodded. “And we stay visible.”
• “Exactly.”
• Their eyes met across the table. Despite the danger tightening around them like a noose, there was something steady at that moment. Grounded.
• They weren’t the same men they’d been months ago. Rivals. Enemies. Strangers. Now…now they were something more.
• Something worth fighting for.
• The gathering at the De Luca estate was swift and silent. No lavish displays, no unnecessary opulence just the cold efficiency of power.
• Kieran stood at Isandro’s side as the remaining allied families filed in, faces grim, eyes sharp. Every man and woman here understood what was at stake. Voss’s fall had destabilized the fragile truce that kept the city from burning.
• And without decisive action, the wolves would circle.
• “Gentlemen,” Isandro greeted, voice like steel. “We have a problem.”
• He laid the letter on the table. Silence rippled through the room as each leader read it in turn.
• No one spoke for several beats.
• Then one of the older dons Salvatore Marino cleared his throat. “This isn’t Voss’s style,” he said, voice rough with age. “Too theatrical.”
• “It’s not Voss,” Kieran said flatly. “He’s gone.”
• That earned him a few sidelong glances. The Irishman, standing shoulder to shoulder with a De Luca, was still enough to unsettle some of them.
• But Isandro’s presence solid, unyielding silenced any dissent before it could spark.
• “Whoever this is,” Isandro said, cutting through the murmurs, “they’re testing us. They want to see if we fracture.”
• “We don’t,” Kieran added, his voice cold and clear.
• Salvatore nodded reluctantly. “What do you suggest?”
• Isandro’s eyes darkened. “We find them. And we end it before it begins.”
• Later, when the last of the dons had departed and the moon hung high, Kieran found Isandro alone in the study, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand.
• Kieran closed the door softly behind him. “You good?”
• Isandro’s mouth curved faintly. “No.”
• Kieran crossed the room without hesitation, settling beside him on the leather couch. He reached out, fingertips brushing Isandro’s wrist, then sliding lower to take his hand.
• Isandro let out a slow breath. “You should hate me, you know.”
• Kieran’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
• “For what happened with Celeste. For the years of blood between us. For everything.”
• Kieran’s thumb traced the back of Isandro’s hand. “If I was going to hate you, I’d have done it already.”
• A humorless chuckle escaped Isandro. “You’re either the bravest man I’ve ever met, or the most foolish.”
• Kieran’s lips twitched. “Little of both, probably.”
• They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the night pressing down. Then, softly, Kieran added, “You’re not the man you were, Isandro.”
• Isandro’s dark eyes met his. For a heartbeat, everything else the war, the blood, the betrayals fell away.
• Without thinking, Isandro leaned forward, his forehead resting gently against Kieran’s.
• The contact was intimate in its simplicity. Raw. Quiet.
• “We’ll get through this,” Kieran murmured.
• Isandro’s eyes closed. “Together?”
• “Together.”
• But in the dark heart of the city, ‘V’ watched from the shadows. The first move had been made.
• And the real game had only just begun.
• The night stretched on, thick with unease. Even as the city below whispered with life—cars gliding through streets, distant music carrying on the breeze the tension inside the De Luca mansion was suffocating.
• Kieran sat by the window, absently running a finger along the rim of his whiskey glass. He wasn’t drinking. He was thinking. Planning. Watching.
• Isandro stood across the room, pacing like a caged animal. His usual control—icy, precise was fraying at the edges. This letter, this new enemy, the uncertainty it was pulling at old scars, reopening wounds Kieran suspected ran deeper than anyone realized.
• “Talk to me,” Kieran murmured finally, breaking the silence.
• Isandro’s sharp gaze snapped to him. For a moment, it seemed as if he might deflect. Dodge. Retreat into the fortress he’d built around himself. But then, slowly, something in his shoulders relaxed.
• “My father used to say power is the only thing that matters,” Isandro said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of memory. “Not loyalty. Not love. Just power. And I spent my life believing him.”
• Kieran’s throat tightened. “And now?”
• Isandro’s eyes flicked to Kieran’s face something raw in them, something almost fragile beneath the steel. “Now… I’m not so sure.”
• The words hung between them like an invisible tether. Fragile. New. Real.
• Kieran stood and crossed the room, stopping just inches away. “Whatever this is,” he said softly, “whoever this ‘V’ is… we face it together. You’re not alone in this, Isandro. Not anymore.”
• The air shifted between them, thickening with tension but not the kind that threatened violence. The kind that promised something far more dangerous.
• Something neither of them could name.
• Isandro’s hand lifted, almost without thought, fingers brushing Kieran’s jaw. The contact was feather-light, barely there. His thumb traced the line of Kieran’s cheekbone, a silent question in his eyes.
• Kieran didn’t pull away.
• Didn’t flinch.
• Instead, he leaned in.
• The kiss, when it came, was slow. Careful. Nothing like the fierce, bruising encounters of their early days. This was deliberate. Measured. A surrender, not of power but of fear.
• And when they finally pulled apart, breath mingling in the scant distance between them, Kieran smiled faintly.
• “Took you long enough.”
• Isandro huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.”
• “You’re addicted,” Kieran countered, lips curving.
• “Probably,” Isandro admitted softly.
• The tension shifted again lighter now. Still tense, still dangerous, but laced with something new. Something alive.
• The following morning brought no comfort.
• The sun had barely risen when word came: one of the allied families the Morettis had been hit. A quiet execution in the early hours. Precise. Professional. No survivors.
• The message was clear: V wasn’t bluffing.
• Kieran’s hands clenched as he read the report. The photos were brutal in their efficiency every family member, from the don himself down to his youngest son, wiped out without fanfare.
• “Damn it,” he hissed.
• Isandro’s expression was stone. “We move tonight.”
• Kieran looked at him sharply. “We don’t even know who”
• “I have a name,” Isandro interrupted, tossing a folded piece of paper onto the table between them. “Or at least… I have the start of one.”
• Kieran unfolded it. A single word, scrawled in precise handwriting:
• Varela.
• Kieran’s heart stopped. “That’s not possible.”
• Isandro’s gaze sharpened. “You know them?”
• Kieran swallowed, mind spinning. “The Varelas were wiped out years ago. Or so we thought.”
• Isandro’s jaw clenched. “Apparently not.”
• A long beat of silence stretched.
• “Then we go hunting,” Kieran said grimly.
• Isandro’s nod was sharp. Final.
• They moved as one.
• By nightfall, the hunt was in motion.
• Kieran and Isandro led their most trusted soldiers through the city’s underbelly abandoned warehouses, forgotten clubs, old contacts dug out from the shadows.
• Clues surfaced slowly, like fragments of broken glass. Each step closer pulled them deeper into the dark.
• And then finally a breakthrough.
• A name.
• A location.
• The last surviving heir of the Varela family: Valentina Varela.
• “She was a child when her family fell,” Kieran murmured as they read the file. “She shouldn’t even be alive.”
• Isandro’s eyes narrowed. “She’s not just alive. She’s playing us.”
• Their gazes met. Unspoken understanding passed between them. This was no longer about bloodlines or territory. This was personal.
• And it would end tonight.
• The confrontation came swiftly.
• An abandoned cathedral on the city’s edge—crumbling walls, shattered stained-glass, the bones of a forgotten era. Valentina stood at the altar, dressed in black, her face half-hidden by shadow.
• “Charming venue,” Kieran drawled as he and Isandro stepped inside, guns raised, soldiers fanning out behind them.
• Valentina’s lips curved in a cold smile. “I thought it suited the occasion.”
• Her voice soft, melodic sent a shiver down Kieran’s spine. There was something wrong in her eyes. Something fractured.
• “You’ve made a mistake,” Isandro said flatly. “Coming after us.”
• Valentina tilted her head. “Have I? Or have I simply returned what was stolen?”
• Her words were met with silence.
• “I was ten when your families burned mine to the ground,” she continued, voice almost gentle. “I remember the smoke. The screams. The taste of ash in my mouth. You killed everything I had.”
• Kieran’s jaw tightened. “That war”
• “was your doing,” she interrupted sharply. “You called it business. I call it genocide.”
• Isandro’s gun didn’t waver. “And so you kill innocents to make your point?”
• Valentina’s eyes gleamed. “No one is innocent in this world, De Luca.”
• A long, breathless moment stretched.
• Then she smiled again slow, poisonous. “But you’re wrong if you think I came here to die.”
• In one swift motion, she pressed a detonator in her palm.
• Kieran’s heart seized. “No!”
• But the explosion wasn’t inside the church.
• It was miles away.
• The call came through seconds later. One of Isandro’s warehouses his largest weapons cache reduced to ash. Dozens dead. The real attack had been a diversion all along.
• Valentina’s laughter echoed through the cathedral as she slipped into the shadows, vanishing before they could react.
• By the time they made it back to their cars, she was gone.
• The war had begun.
• And this time, the price would be higher than either of them could imagine.