Chapter 7 Teeth of The Wolf

The morning after the ambush bled gray across the Milan skyline, casting cold steel light over the city that never truly slept. Isandro Moretti stood by the penthouse windows, tie half knotted, espresso cooling untouched on the glass table beside him. His mind was a battlefield an endless loop of last night's violence, the taste of Kieran's lips, the weight of the black case still seared into his palm.

He hadn't slept. Neither had Kieran.

The Irishman appeared behind him without a sound, bare feet soft on marble floors. His dark hair was tousled, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and yet his eyes those damn eyes held the same sharpness Isandro knew too well in himself: a predator too restless to find peace.

"You're early," Kieran murmured, his voice low, roughened from disuse.

"I never stopped," Isandro replied without turning. "No rest when a wolf is circling."

The tension between them was palpable. Not the old tension thick with bloodlust and rivalry but something newer. Dangerous in its intimacy.

"We need to talk about what's on that drive," Kieran said carefully, stepping closer. "And about what happened last night."

A muscle in Isandro's jaw twitched. "Which part?"

Kieran gave a faint huff of dry laughter. "The part where I didn't kill you and you didn't kill me. The part where we survived. Together."

Their eyes met in the window reflection, silver-blue and forest green.

For one fragile breath, neither moved.

Then Isandro exhaled sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets. "The drive first," he said. "Then... whatever this is."

Kieran's lips quirked. "Deal."

They descended to the secured vault below the Moretti compound where the decrypted files awaited. Liam and Matteo were already there, along with Gary, standing over the projection screen as line after line of code flickered into legible reports.

"What am I looking at?" Kieran asked, stepping in.

Gary adjusted his glasses. "Global logistics. Not just weapons. Drugs. Human cargo. Laundering. And..." He hesitated.

"And?" Isandro pressed, voice a blade.

Gary tapped a line. "Political influence. Blackmail of politicians. Judges. Military. It's an empire."

"Who runs it?" Kieran's voice was ice.

"Multiple names," Matteo answered. "But the most frequent? Grey."

The room chilled at the mention. Even Liam's usual smirk vanished.

"He's bigger than we thought," Isandro murmured. "He's using both our families as puppets. This... this is war on another level."

Kieran's hands fisted at his sides. "He's not Italian. He's not Irish. He doesn't give a damn about territory or bloodline. He only cares about control."

"And we've been playing into his hands for years," Isandro finished bitterly.

The weight of it pressed down. Every bullet. Every deal. Every betrayal.

They'd been pawns in someone else's game.

Not anymore.

Kieran's gaze met Isandro's across the table. "We burn him."

Isandro's mouth curved slow, predatory. "Agreed."

Later, as the sky darkened into evening, they stood together on the balcony once more. The first fragile truce was in place, but the air still vibrated between them unspoken words and electric glances.

"You're not what I expected," Kieran admitted quietly, resting his forearms on the iron rail.

"Neither are you," Isandro replied. His voice softened. "And I don't know what that makes us."

For a heartbeat, the world held still.

Then Kieran straightened, stepping close enough that their breath mingled. "It makes us dangerous."

And he kissed him no hesitation this time, no rush. Just lips pressing softly, then deepening, Isandro's hand cupping the back of Kieran's neck, both of them falling, willingly, into the gravity of something they could no longer deny.

The kiss fractured something between them some brittle wall of survival instinct and long buried desire and for a moment, neither man cared who they were supposed to be. Isandro's fingers tightened in Kieran's hair as the Irishman's mouth claimed his with searing heat. When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, eyes darkened not with hatred but with something far more lethal.

Need.

"We should..." Isandro began, voice strained, but Kieran cut him off with a smirk.

"Don't say stop," Kieran murmured. "We've done that too many times."

Isandro exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face, then forced a breathless laugh. "We are literally standing on the edge of a war."

"Exactly," Kieran said. His tone was low, intimate, dangerous. "Which means we don't know if we'll be alive tomorrow."

Isandro's eyes found his. "You want to burn the world down, but you don't want to die without tasting it first."

Kieran's smirk deepened. "Something like that."

For the first time in years, Isandro allowed himself to feel not the cold calculus of survival, but the raw pulse of desire. He leaned in, brushing his lips against Kieran's once more, slower this time, deliberate. They didn't deepen the kiss, not yet. They lingered foreheads touching, breath mingling.

"We survive this," Isandro murmured, voice almost a vow, "and then we figure out what the hell this is."

Kieran nodded. "Agreed."

They separated before it could spiral further. Danger still ruled the streets, and they both knew it.

By midnight, they were gathered with their inner circles. The blacked out room smelled of leather, gun oil, and expensive scotch. The map of the city stretched before them like a battlefield, red pins marking their safehouses, black pins marking the known enemy strongholds.

Matteo lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose. "Grey's people control the docks, the customs offices, and at least half the police force. We can't hit him head on."

"We won't," Isandro said coldly. "We gut his network. Quietly. Piece by piece."

"We'll need leverage," Liam added, his arms folded. "And an alliance."

The last word hung in the air like a blade.

An alliance. Between the Moretti family and the infamous Doyle syndicate.

Isandro's gaze flicked to Kieran, who met it without flinching.

"It's not just business anymore," Kieran said. "Grey's willing to wipe out both our bloodlines. We stand together, or we die alone."

The weight of centuries of blood feud pressed down on them. But in the end, survival was the only loyalty that mattered.

And maybe something more.

"We move at dawn," Isandro said at last, his voice iron. "First we take his suppliers. Then his money. And then his head."

The room murmured in assent.

Kieran smiled, slow and razor sharp. "Now we're speaking the same language."

Hours later, Isandro stood alone in the dark, overlooking the city lights. He should have felt fear. Or guilt. Or cold calculation.

But all he felt was the memory of Kieran's mouth on his.

And the growing certainty that this war would change everything.

For better.

Or for blood.