Chapter 2 Ashes and Ice

The wind tore through the abandoned warehouse like a living thing, howling between rusted beams and broken windows. The floor was slick with moisture, the shadows thick and treacherous.

Kieran Walsh lit a cigarette with hands steadier than they should have been.

He wasn't sure what irritated him more: the bone deep chill sinking into his skin or the fact that he was standing here again waiting for Isandro Moretti.

He wasn't used to waiting. Not for anyone.

His sharp green eyes swept the perimeter. Four of his own men lingered near the exits, tense but obedient. The message from the Moretti family had come through only hours earlier: another meeting. Another uneasy truce. But this time, the stakes were higher. A dead lieutenant. A message written in blood.

Kieran exhaled smoke into the cold night.

"You think this is a trap?" his second-in-command, Liam, murmured at his side.

Kieran's smirk was sharp and humorless. "Of course it's a trap. Everything's a trap."

The sound of tires on gravel silenced further conversation.

Headlights sliced through the gloom. A sleek black car pulled to a stop, and the door opened with deliberate slowness. Isandro Moretti emerged, dressed in tailored black again, dark hair neatly slicked back, the picture of cold composure. Two of his guards flanked him.

Their eyes met instantly like magnets, sharp and involuntary.

Isandro stopped a dozen feet away. "You came alone," he observed.

Kieran took another drag. "So did you."

The air between them felt electric, too sharp, too tense. Beneath the brittle civility lay something else something wild neither could quite name.

"Any reason we're meeting in a place that smells like dead rats?" Kieran added with a lazy arch of one brow.

Isandro's expression barely shifted. "I thought you'd feel at home."

A flicker of a smirk tugged at Kieran's mouth despite himself. He crushed the cigarette under his boot, stepping forward until only a few paces separated them.

"Let's not waste time," Kieran said, voice dropping. "One of your men's dead. You think we did it. We didn't."

"Then who?" Isandro demanded, voice low, dangerous.

Their eyes locked, green against black. The question hung in the air between them.

"Could be the Bratva," Kieran offered, shrugging one shoulder. "Could be the Triad. Hell, could be someone inside your own family who wants you out of the way."

Isandro's jaw tightened. "And you're offering your help out of... what? The kindness of your heart?"

Kieran tilted his head, something sharp glinting in his gaze. "I'm offering because this is bad for business. If someone's trying to light a match under us, we both burn."

A heartbeat of silence.

Then, to Kieran's mild surprise, Isandro gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. "Agreed."

The words settled heavily in the cold air.

It was the closest thing to trust either of them had offered.

"First clue's in the body," Isandro continued. "The way it was staged. Symbolism."

"Symbolism?" Kieran echoed, amused. "Jesus. You Italians are dramatic."

Isandro's eyes narrowed. "And the Irish aren't?"

Kieran's laugh came out rough, but genuine. "Fair."

Despite himself, he felt something shift some sliver of tension softening at the edges. This wasn't what he'd expected. Isandro was colder than legend suggested, but not without edges of humanity. There was fire beneath the ice. Kieran could feel it.

The kind of fire that could burn them both.

Hours later, Kieran found himself alone at a Milanese bar, nursing a whiskey and trying to shake the phantom imprint of Isandro Moretti from his skin.

Every glance. Every brush of tension. Every unspoken threat.

It shouldn't have mattered.

But it did.

He could still see the line of Isandro's jaw. The way he carried power like second skin. And worse he could still feel the pull. The one he refused to name.

"You're losing your damn mind," Kieran muttered to himself.

The barman gave him a wary glance. Kieran ignored it.

He knew better than anyone: desire was a weakness. A weapon others could use. And this whatever this dangerous undercurrent was between him and the Italian heir could destroy everything.

It had to be stopped.

Buried.

Or one of them wouldn't make it out alive.

Meanwhile, across the city, Isandro sat in the privacy of his study, a glass of bourbon untouched in his hand.

His thoughts against all reason kept drifting.

To sharp green eyes. To mocking smiles. To the infuriating ease of Kieran's presence.

He hated it.

Hated the spark that had flared the moment they'd stood face to face.

He closed his eyes, knuckles whitening around the glass.

This was dangerous ground.

And if he didn't tread carefully, he'd fall.