Chapter 6

• The aftermath stretched in smoky half light.
• Isandro woke first, body heavy and still, head swimming with the remnants of ecstasy and regret. Kieran slept beside him, chest rising and falling in steady rhythms. Moonlight filtered through the blackout curtains, painting their bare skin silver.
• A storm battered the city outside, rain lashing windows in chaotic rhythm. Inside, the two men lay tangled in sheets, the battlefield of blood and heat they'd forged only hours before.
• Isandro breathed deep. He should get up. Arrange his day. Plot his moves. But something stopped him something dangerous in the quiet.
• Kieran stirred, eyelids fluttering. Isandro traced the line of his jaw, memorizing that stubborn, sharp profile. He pressed a fingertip to Kieran’s collarbone, quiet and intimate. A perfect moment of stillness.
• And then: Kieran's eyes opened.
• “Morning,” he said, voice thick with sleep. He stretched a hand across their shared space and brushed his lips softly across Isandro's tattooed forearm.
• Isandro’s chest stilled there, on his pale skin, a trace of whiskey, a hint of discharge of clay and blood.
• “Morning,” he returned, voice low, controlled, steady enough to conceal the power in his tone.
• In that small exchange, they both knew: the war still waited. Their families still simmered. And the fragile truce they'd built would shatter the moment they stepped into daylight.
• Kieran rolled out of bed, reaching under the mattress for his jeans. He leaned back, eyes flicking up to Isandro.
• “This changes nothing,” Kieran said, though both men felt the lie in the words.
• Isandro sat up, covering himself. He met Kieran's green eyes squarely. “It changes everything.”
• They shared a breath and then reality intruded.
• A storm of blows rained outside phone buzzing, constraints collapsing around them.
• Isandro pulled free and slipped into his suit. Kieran did the same, silence completing their transformations.
• They met their respective teams at the penthouse perimeter.
• “Gary,” Isandro began, his voice commanding the room's attention. “Grey.”
• Gary, Moretti intel head, respected for his sharp mind and discretion, nodded.
• “Found activity in London. Meetings, cash flow, possibly arms shipments. We’ve traced a digital breadcrumb that leads to a manor outside the city expected shipping hub for incoming crates.”
• “And Barone?” Kieran asked, standing near Matteo.
• “Check,” Liam replied. “Also active in the same route.”
• Eyes locked across the room, Isandro and Kieran found alignment. Together, they moved like polished steel two empires intertwined, two hearts in dangerous alignment.
• ⸻
• Intercept at Dawn
• They drove through the dark roads outside Milan, the convoy moving like a silent storm. Rain painted streaks across windshields, night wrapping around trees in thick black velvet.
• They reached the manor. Gray stone walls loomed. Electric tension pulsed in every heartbeat.
• Isandro and Kieran disembarked, weapons loaded, commands given under breath. No guards. No fanfare. Just a sprawling quiet that screamed danger.
• They broke in through a side door, silencing alarms with code scribbles and static fingers.
• Inside, dust motes drifted in beams of borrowed light. A narrow hallway led to a warehouse in back, where crates sat stacked industrial, silent.
• “Which crate?” Kieran murmured.
• Isandro scanned barcodes. “The one stamped ALPHA-ZERO-9. That’s our lead.”
• They approached in sync. Matteo and Liam spread wide, covering exit doors.
• Isandro pried a crate open. Inside: rifles in plastic wrap, ammo, and most important a small black case argent that felt heavy with purpose.
• He handed the case to Kieran. No words.
• Outside, footsteps. Ruthless whispers. A baton to intercept.
• Shotgun blast. Kilos of gunpowder.
• Chaos erupted in steel and heartbeats.
• Kieran dove into the hallway. Isandro shielded him as they ducked bullets together. Matteo fired back. Liam yanked Kieran behind pillars and defused a second wave.
• Inside, four men wearing gray masks rushed toward the crate room.
• Kieran agonized over the small case. “What does it say?”
• Isandro grabbed a blade and charged. “We’ll find out later!” he yelled. Within seconds of slicing cables planted by the henchmen, he stormed at them. They scattered their weapon, ragged cuts letting through shouts.
• Isandro's swift cross handled a length of wood, savagely throwing a man across the back wall, teeth cracking on stone.
• More men flooded in, but Matteo’s bullet ended one.
• Another gave up, weapon raised. Kieran grabbed his arm in friction laced dominance. “Why are we doing this?”
• The man snarled.
• “Grey,” he spat. “He’s not Italian. Not Irish. American.”
• “Tell me who,” Kieran whispered.
• The man hesitated almost. Then lips jerked in a savage snarl.
• “I’d rather bleed for him than live for you.”
• Kieran shot him. Cold. Barrel to skull. Black slug ended it.
• The storm quieted.
• Silence.
• Rain pattered overhead.
• ⸻
• Edges of Truth
• They regrouped inside the crate room. Bodies lay scattered. Crimson paint streaked over wooden floors.
• Isandro closed the church of bullets once Matteo and Liam finished a quick sweep.
• He retrieved the small case. Clean lines, silver emblem etched into corner. Gave it to Kieran.
• “Your turn.”
• Kieran scrutinized the small black case.
• Inside: USB, 1TB, labeled with codes.
• “Encrypted corporate schedules,” Kieran said slowly.
• Isandro watched him; eyes dark.
• “What now?”
• Kieran opened the case wiped his gloves on the stone floor, gloved fingers sliding over the USB.
• “Upload trial. We’ll have someone to exchange serve it and decrypt later. We find Grey.”
• Isandro nodded once. “But first…”
• He shifted gaze. Cold breath humming currants of power.
• “We…” Isandro paused.
• Kieran met him halfway.
• A moment stretched thick electric and secret as a dark current in their shared blood.
• He coldly turned sideways to glint in Isandro’s eyes.
• “I owe you.”
• Isandro didn't reply. Just leaned nearer and kissed him.
• This wasn’t rage. Or bloodlust. It was something else.
• Hushed hush.
• Something like connection.
• Again, their lips met.
• Only this time, it wasn’t dangerous. It wasn’t frantic. Not yet.
• It was addictive.
• ⸻
• Shadows and Light
• Hours later, they returned to Milan. Their men dropped off, questions asked, intel delivered. The USB was on its way to decrypt.
• The rainy dawn was light. Empty roads. Clean world.
• They arrived at the penthouse in separate cars but left together.
• The moment they were inside, no one else was around no cameras, no phones, no servants.
• Door locked.
• Kieran stepped to Isandro.
• “Talking later,” he whispered, a growl of pride and admission.
• Then he kissed Isandro. Slow. Gentle. Enticing.
• The hum in Isandro’s chest grew deeper.
• “Later,” he echoed.
• Then he swept Isandro up to the loft balcony, where the city rested in pale gold haze.
• They looked out over the slumbering skyline.
• No words.
• Some wars demanded silence.
• This wasn’t just them against the world.
• It was them against themselves.