Chapter 3 Thin Lines,Sharp Teeth

The following morning broke cold and brittle.

Kieran Walsh stood on the rooftop of his temporary safe house in Milan, cigarette perched between his lips, eyes on the sleeping city. His breath curled in frosty tendrils as the sun bled slowly into the horizon.

He hadn't slept.

The warehouse meeting with Isandro Moretti replayed in sharp fragments behind his eyes: the tension, the power struggle, the unspoken... something.

He could still feel the weight of the man's gaze on his skin.

"Boss," Liam called softly from behind him. "We've got a problem."

Kieran stubbed out the cigarette without looking. "Of course we do."

Inside, the room was dim, the scent of coffee thick in the air. Liam dropped a folder on the table, the words CONFIDENTIAL stamped across the front.

"What is it?" Kieran asked, flipping it open.

"Intel from Dublin," Liam said. "Someone's been moving funds through shell companies tied to the old De Luca family people who were supposed to be wiped out five years ago."

Kieran scanned the documents, tension tightening across his shoulders. "This is Italian territory."

"Exactly. Someone's stirring up ghosts."

Kieran exhaled sharply through his nose. It didn't add up. The De Lucas had been obliterated in a joint hit between the Irish and the Morettis years ago. Any survivors would've scattered into the dirt.

Unless someone was bringing them back.

And whoever it was they were moving pieces on both sides of the board.

His jaw clenched. His next step was clear.

He needed to speak to Isandro again.

And he hated that the thought didn't fill him with pure dread.

Isandro's office in the heart of Milan's financial district was a fortress of glass and steel. He sat at his sleek desk, fingers steepled, Matteo standing silently at his side as the report came in.

Another body.

This time, one of Kieran's.

Dumped on Moretti territory.

"I assume this isn't a coincidence," Matteo murmured.

Isandro's lips thinned. "No."

It was calculated. Designed to incite. To tear apart whatever thin line of civility they'd barely stitched together.

The more he considered it, the clearer the strategy became. Someone was playing them both. Driving them to war.

"Get me Walsh," Isandro said coldly. "Now."

The meeting was arranged within the hour.

This time, they met in the back of a closed art gallery neutral ground, off the books, no guards allowed inside. Just the two of them.

Isandro arrived first. He stood near a modern sculpture, hands in his pockets, still as marble.

Kieran entered moments later, dragging a hand through his hair, dressed in worn jeans and a leather jacket that clung to him like a second skin. His eyes gleamed sharp and restless in the low light.

"Guess neither of us sleeps," Kieran muttered, voice rough from hours of tension.

Isandro didn't smile. "One of your men is dead."

"Not by my hand," Kieran shot back immediately, jaw flexing. "And one of yours ended up facedown last night. I didn't order that either."

Their gazes locked.

The weight of the deaths pressed between them heavy, unspoken.

"We're being pushed," Isandro said quietly. "By someone who understands our history."

Kieran nodded once. "De Luca."

Isandro's eyes darkened. "Impossible."

"Is it?" Kieran tilted his head. "Because their old money is moving through your city. Through banks I recognize. Somebody wants the Morettis and the Walshes at each other's throats again."

A beat of brittle silence.

Then, to Kieran's surprise, Isandro's mouth twitched just slightly. "I thought the Irish weren't known for subtlety."

Kieran gave a low, humorless laugh. "I could say the same about the Italians."

Something loosened between them. Not trust not yet but necessity.

They stood closer now, the distance shrinking by inches.

"We'll work together," Isandro said quietly. "Temporarily."

Kieran smirked. "Didn't peg you for the cooperative type."

Isandro's black eyes burned. "Neither did I."

Their fingers brushed as Kieran passed him the folder of intel. Accidental. Bare skin against skin. The contact jolted through both of them like a spark.

Neither moved for a breathless second.

Then Kieran cleared his throat and stepped back sharply. "Let's focus, yeah?"

Isandro's mask slid back into place. "Agreed."

But the air between them taut, electric was forever altered.

By nightfall, they had names.

Two mid level enforcers tied to the old De Luca loyalists. Men who had vanished years ago. Ghosts returning to haunt their empire.

The plan was swift: track, interrogate, eliminate.

But neither Kieran nor Isandro mentioned the unspoken tension simmering between them. The glances that lingered too long. The heat beneath each sharp exchange.

It was madness.

And it was far from over.

Later, alone in the safety of his penthouse, Isandro poured himself a glass of whiskey and stared out over the glittering skyline of Milan.

He still felt the brush of Kieran's fingertips.

Still heard the rasp of his voice.

This was dangerous ground. One misstep and the fragile alliance would collapse.

But still

Isandro's fingers tightened around the glass.

He wasn't sure which haunted him more: the war they were hurtling toward or the Irishman who'd set his blood on fire.