Chapter 10 Ashes of The Past

Isandro stood at the window of the Geneva hospital room, the dawn light filtering through frosted glass and painting soft gold streaks onto the sterile white walls. Every breath felt labored his own, and especially Kieran's, who still slumbered in the adjoining bed, chest rising on shallow rhythms.

Their shared ordeal the night before had been surreal: a raid on Grey's mountain stronghold, bullets flying, betrayal, and then the long wait in Swiss custody. Now they were pawns in a Swiss justice system more concerned with jurisdiction than loyalty. Yet there had been no betrayal between them. Only choices made side-by-side caught in the moment where enemy lines vanished, if only for a night.

Isandro swallowed hard. The ache in his chest wasn't from fatigue or grief, but something deeper, something he'd been avoiding since the night they crossed that line and again two nights ago under that slow dawn kiss. It was fear. Fear of losing control. Fear of emotion. Fear of what secrets Kieran might uncover if he dared let his guard down.

He didn't have to wonder long.

The nurse entered with a tray coffee for him, water for Kieran. Isandro accepted it with a curt nod.

Then he rounded the curtain to settle into his chair. Kieran's eyes fluttered open, green and haunted.

"Hey," Kieran whispered, voice rough around the edges. Hospital air always did that.

"Hey," Isandro replied, voice firm but gentle.

Kieran leaned forward, attempting a weak smile. "We're not dead."

Isandro shook his head, his dark hair still wet from yesterday's rain falling into his eyes. "No."

A silence stretched. It was a lull after a storm, a calm iced in fragility.

Kieran ran a hand over his bandaged arm. "Grey's gone, at least for now. Extradited somewhere. We did it."

Isandro watched his chest rise. "Yes. We did."

Kieran's eyes held gratitude and something else. Something like relief that came from choosing to trust instead of trust.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Isandro's fingers itched to close the distance between them but hesitated. "No thanks. We did this together."

Another fragile pause.

Kieran smiled half crooked, half sad. "So what now?"

"What do you mean?" Isandro asked, though he already knew the question's weight.

Kieran exhaled. "We're alive...but how long? We're fugitives in Switzerland now. Swiss police are or will be asking questions. More than just Grey."

Isandro clenched his jaw. "We'll deal with that tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Kieran echoed, but his tone held something fragilelike hope.

Isandro gave a small nod and leaned forward to grasp Kieran's hand the same hand that had knelt beside him in the warehouse, the same hand that had freed him from misery. It was a small thing, but it mattered.

Because nothing small could live under the black blood of their world. Yet this...was.

Hours later, they were released from custody but not from consequence. Two SUVs carried them back to the border, into Italian jurisdiction. No arrests. No indictments not yet. Grey had taken the fall, but they'd made national headlines as the bloodstained mafia heirs who toppled a shadow king. A public relations nightmare for both families. A public relations boon for unwashed international bystanders who cared about exploiters and underdogs.

Isandro and Kieran remained silent as they crossed the border, the mountains slipping past in twenty shades of gray. They were changing the world without ever leaving each other behind.

By evening, they were back on Moretti soil inside the fortified walls of the Milan compound, surrounded by aides, lawyers, and cameras flashing from distant corridors.

Matteo approached quietly while Isandro stripped off layers of damp clothes. "The press called it a miracle. They're spinning it as a joint anti-trafficking operation between Italy and Switzerland."

Isandro scoffed. "They'll forget our names in a month."

"Maybe," Matteo said. "But don't underestimate what this does. Political pressure. Public favor. Momentum."

Isandro closed his eyes. Momentum could be a weapon. But they'd just crossed a river they couldn't come back from.

Kieran appeared in the doorway. He looked worn but defiant. He had washed and changed into black slacks and an open-collared shirt. His hair was still messy, and his green eyes held an edge set by conviction.

Isandro met him at the threshold. They didn't speak. They just held each other.

When they did speak, it was quiet, raw, intimate.

"Let's fix this," Kieran whispered.

Isandro drew a steady breath. "Together."

Later that evening, when the commotion had quieted, Isandro led Kieran through the hallways to the family mausoleum a silent granite room beneath the compound, lit by votive candles and the remains of ancient Moretti family heads set in crypts.

It was here, in this hallowed darkness, where legacy and loyalty were carved in stone.

Isandro knelt before the largest crypt, pressing a single black rose against its cold surface. "I thought he'd die," he whispered referring to Grey. "And I thought, for a split second, I didn't care."

Kieran crouched beside him, silent support.

"Then I realized what really scared me." Isandro paused, throat tight. "I'd been waiting for years just for someone else to tell me who I could be. And when I met you, I saw...something I hadn't known I'd...forgot."

Kieran placed his hand over Isandro's on the crypt. "You're not alone," he whispered.

Isandro stood slowly. "I'll never be alone not again."

They stayed there for a long while, amid the ghosts of the Moretti line, mourning, remembering, promising.

Because in their world, love demanded sacrifice. But sacrifice carved futures.

Over the next week, both families watched, whispered, and reformed their inner circles. Police inquiries cooled. Grey remained the sole scapegoat.

But rumors swirled. Eyes were on Isandro and Kieran.

At the Walsh compound in Belfast, Kieran's mother was furious his name appeared in Swiss headlines beneath those of her mortal enemy. At Moretti home, his father-Don Vittorio Moretti received calls from powerful alliances and muttered ominous Italian phrases into his cigar smoke.

Yet something had shifted: the world was watching their names. And that meant power.

Kieran and Isandro didn't speak. They only watched.

Until one evening at Isandro's study, they both sat facing a city map, red pins marking Moretti territory and potential allies.

Isandro tapped a pin. "We own the narrative now. Not Grey. Not anyone else."

Kieran leaned back, studying the board. "Then let's build something real. No smoke, no shadows something more."

Isandro's lips curved with something like hope. "Together."

They turned off the lights, leaning into the sensitive hush of candlelight and mutual purpose.

They were more than mafia heirs now.

They were architects of tomorrow.

Days later, Kieran returned to the city in daylight in public for the first time since the raids. Isandro stood on the balcony behind him, watching the crowd gather below as Kieran stepped onto the balcony of the Moretti estate, shoulder to shoulder with his lover.

Reporters snapped. Politicians leered. Alliance heads frowned.

But Kieran didn't flinch. He looked out across the courtyard and raised his hand in a quiet wave. Thousands watched and waited for the next move.

And behind him, Isandro touched his shoulder.

They clung to each other, silent affirmation that their war had changed.

Not just theirs.

But everyone's who followed the bloodline.

Because sometimes, burning down the past was the only way to forge a future.