Chapter 8 The Devil You Know

The morning light through the blinds looked crystalline-sharp and merciless. Isandro Moretti sat behind his desk in the Moretti compound, strategic maps spread before him. The plan was precise. Surgical strikes on Grey's supplier network at dawn. Military in precision; brutal in execution.

Yet beneath his calm exterior, his heart thundered not from fear, but from the longing that had only grown since the night before. He'd kissed Kieran Walsh in the dark hours before the storm and in that kiss, he'd betrayed everything he'd built himself to be.

A sharp knock on the door. Matteo slipped in, his expression unreadable.

"Operations begin at 0600," he reported. "Liam's coordinating with Doyle's men."

Isandro nodded. "Good."

He watched Matteo leave and allowed himself a moment to linger on the thought of Kieran.

The docks lay in pre-dawn shadows, lit by floodlights casting long, lethal lines over tangled metal and concrete. The plan was flawless: split into teams, strike three key warehouses, destroy weapons and profits, leave no trace of the suppliers.

Isandro's team moved first, slipping past sleeping guards. Kieran's unit hit Warehouse C. Their eyes met across the shadowed docks-two predators recognizing the same kill. No words. No hesitation.

They struck simultaneously.

Gunfire erupted like a storm, bullets ripping into crates of rifles, explosives. Sparks. Shattered glass. Men screaming. Then silence, stained red by smoke and ruin.

Isandro kicked open a container filled with automatic weapons. A supplier tried to flee; Isandro's pistol barked twice. Two precise shots, both fatal.

Kieran's figure emerged next to him. Shirt now leathered with grime and rain, heart hammered in his chest.

"Clear," he said quietly.

Isandro nodded. Their hands brushed briefly sharp, fleeting. Two titans standing on the ruins of their enemy's empire.

They regrouped at the edge of the docks, breathing thick clouds of mist. The world smelled of salt, gunpowder, and cold metal.

"We got six tons of weapons," Kieran reported. "Three suppliers neutralized. No own casualties."

"Good," Isandro replied. Their eyes held-abrupt, electric intimacy.

"Now the money trail," Kieran said. "Doyle arranged for cleaners?"

Matteo stepped forward. "Waiting at your command."

Kieran moved to Isandro. "Contact now?"

Isandro laid a hand on his forearm. "After."

Kieran nodded. They stayed close two sides of the same blade.

Back in Moretti compound, the air buzzed with movement. Grey had yet to react. That meant they'd hit hard enough to surprise him.

Isandro and Kieran retreated together to a safe room, security protocols locking every door.

Kieran looked at Isandro. "Want to tell me what you're thinking?"

Isandro leaned into the moment. "I'm thinking... we push forward."

Kieran's green eyes flicked to the maps still burning on the table. "And us?"

Isandro closed the distance. Voice low. "We survive this... we earn the right to choose."

Kieran's breath caught. He nodded. "Then let's finish this chapter."

Later that night, when the compound thrummed with the sound of guards and dealmakers, Isandro stormed into Kieran's quarters. Kieran was sitting on the bed, leaning forward, expression unreadable.

Isandro closed the air between them with a few steps and stopped when clothes lay abandoned on the floor. Kieran's body was half-naked, pale in lamplight, as the folds of the sheets framed muscles honed in years of battle.

"I...." Isandro began, voice raw.

Kieran rose, stepping close. "Don't. Save it."

They took each other in, breathlessly, in recognition knowing that outside these walls was an empire depending on them, but also two hearts in collision, irreparably drawn.

They didn't kiss first. They just reached, wrapping around each other as if afraid not to.

When their lips finally met, it was soft, desperate, as if letting fire consume what survival had cost them.

The world fractured in that moment. Nothing else existed but breath, skin, blood, love born of chaos.

Days blurred into nights. The operation against Grey advanced new intel, targeted takedowns, financial chokes. Their teams moved in precise order. Doyle's syndicate delivered for them. Pipes got harder for Grey.

Every victory felt hollow. Because between each kill, each raid between each triumph they returned to each other, to stolen hours in penthouse suites, windows framing the city they were tearing apart together.

It was dangerous. It was reckless. It was love and war, indistinguishable.

One night, after a particularly harrowing raid, Kieran came back covered in blood, the taste of gun metal in his mouth. He went straight to Isandro's study, where the Italian heir sat behind his desk, unread files before him.

Kieran leaned into the doorway. "I need... what we had before." His voice faltered.

Isandro rose, closing the distance between them. He didn't lean in for a kiss straight away. Instead, he brushed his fingers along Kieran's jaw, tilting his chin up, meeting those wild green eyes.

"You have it," he whispered. Long slow breath. "Every time we breathe in the same air."

Kieran's eyes glistened. He pressed forward and kissed Isandro, but this time there was no violence. Just hunger. Just belonging.

They clung to each other in the dim lamplight. The world tore itself apart elsewhere but here, they found something primal and real.

That same night, as they lay entwined, the decrypted USB flickered to life.

Gary had found something huge: an address in Geneva a Grey safehouse. A name spoken in opium-thick whispers: Damien Grey.

A single name. Enough to focus everything.

Isandro and Kieran talked by night's end two warlords shaping strategy.

They locked the blinds, turned off phones, barred the doors.

They planned.

Grey would fall.

But this time, they faced the final choices.

And choices were born of love as much as war.