Chapter 4 Fire Beneath The Skin

The cold rain pelted Milan's cobbled streets as Kieran Walsh stepped out of the black car, glancing up at the dim neon flicker of the building they'd tracked their first target to a seedy underground club reeking of spilled liquor and desperation.

Beside him, Isandro Moretti adjusted the dark cuffs of his tailored coat, his expression carved from ice.

"Remind me," Kieran muttered as they strode toward the entrance, "who the hell thought we should do this together instead of sending someone else?"

"You did," Isandro replied dryly without looking at him.

Kieran barked a quiet laugh. "Right."

The irony wasn't lost on either of them. Less than a week ago, they'd have put bullets between each other's eyes without blinking. Now? They were hunting ghosts side by side.

The first target: Marco Rossi, former De Luca enforcer, presumed dead. A man who had no business breathing, let alone stirring trouble in the heart of Moretti territory.

The club door creaked open.

Music pulsed low, dirty bass. Bodies moved in shadows.

Kieran and Isandro slipped through the crowd, oil and water, both lethal in black but worlds apart. Isandro carried elegance like a second skin every step precise, cold, lethal. Kieran... Kieran was sharp edges and restless energy, his emerald eyes scanning every shadow like he was born for violence.

Their shoulders brushed once in the crowd.

Neither acknowledged it.

The intel was clear: Marco was here. And if they found him, they'd find answers.

Or so they hoped.

They cornered Marco in the back hallway by the bathrooms.

He tried to run. Kieran caught him by the collar, slamming him against the concrete wall with practiced ease. Isandro's gun was in his hand in an instant silent, controlled.

Marco paled. "Please"

"Talk," Kieran growled. "Before I start getting creative."

Isandro's eyes didn't blink. "Who are you working for?"

The man stammered, sweat beading on his brow. "I...I don't know his name he's not De Luca, he's bigger he said the war has to start again he said he'd pay"

"Who," Kieran snapped, shaking him hard.

Marco's breath came in ragged bursts. "He's not Italian! English maybe? Or American. He just calls himself Grey. That's all I know I swear"

The name meant nothing to either of them.

But the fear in Marco's eyes wasn't fake.

Kieran and Isandro shared a sharp glance. Something colder than strategy passed between them.

And then, without warning, Isandro pulled the trigger.

The silencer muffled the shot. Marco slumped, lifeless.

Kieran exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "You didn't even hesitate."

Isandro's voice was flat. "He was already dead the second he stepped back into my city."

Kieran's smirk was faint, but there. "You're colder than I thought."

Isandro's dark eyes flicked over him. "And you're warmer than I expected."

For a breathless second, neither moved.

The body between them steamed faintly in the cold air.

Something pulled tight. Dangerous. Close.

Kieran stepped back first, dragging a hand through his hair. "We're going to need more than corpses to stop this."

Isandro holstered the gun. "I know."

Neither said what both were thinking:

This war wasn't over. It was just beginning.

Later, back at Isandro's penthouse, the air crackled with unspoken tension.

Kieran dropped onto the leather couch without waiting for permission, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Who the hell is Grey?"

Isandro poured two glasses of whiskey. "No one by that name in my records. No ties to the old families. Could be a foreign investor. Could be a mercenary. Could be both."

He handed Kieran a glass. Their fingers brushed again.

Neither pulled away fast enough.

The heat was there.

Alive. Breathing.

"Thank you," Kieran said, voice lower now. "For trusting me."

Isandro's lips curved faint, almost imperceptible. "Don't mistake necessity for trust."

Kieran laughed softly. "Harsh."

Isandro sat across from him, the city glittering behind glass windows. His face in the lamplight looked carved from marble: sharp cheekbones, dark lashes, cold fire in his eyes.

Kieran swallowed the whiskey in one long pull, then set the glass down with a clink.

"This is madness," he muttered under his breath.

Isandro's gaze flickered. "What is?"

"This," Kieran said roughly, gesturing between them. "Working together. Playing civil. Hell, sitting in your bloody penthouse like I'm not supposed to hate you."

Silence stretched tight as wire.

And then Isandro's voice, soft, dark: "Do you?"

Kieran met his eyes. Something wild sparked in his chest. He shook his head, breath sharp. "No. And that's the problem."

It happened fast.

Faster than either of them could process.

Kieran moved first leaned forward across the narrow table, catching Isandro's shirtfront. And then Isandro's hand was on his wrist, but not pushing him away anchoring him there. Heat flared sharp and molten between them, breath ghosting across breath.

The kiss hit like a fuse.

Teeth. Tongue. Fire.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. It was the kind of kiss born from violence and hunger years of hatred burning into something far more dangerous.

When they broke apart, breathless, Kieran's voice was hoarse: "We're going to regret that."

Isandro's pupils were blown, his breathing ragged, but his mask held. "We already do."

And still neither of them moved.

Still their fingers stayed tangled.

Still the world outside burned unnoticed.

Neither spoke as Kieran left minutes later.

Neither acknowledged the line they'd just shattered.

But both of them knew

It was already too late.