The Edge of Mercy

by HeichousBrat

Summary:

This trip was supposed to be simple: bury his father, tie up loose ends, fly back to the mainland. But every street corner, every salty breeze seemed to whisper the same thing—your father found something.

Something worth killing him for.

And Steve couldn’t let it go.

Chapter 1: The Man in the Linen Suit

Summary:

Steve returns to Oʻahu and steps into a new role leading Five-0, but his father’s unsolved murder still haunts him. As he digs into a growing criminal network, one name keeps surfacing: Donato — a.k.a. Daniel Williams, the man in the linen suit with secrets as sharp as his wardrobe.

Notes:

Welcome to the beginning! We’re kicking things off with classic Steve: brooding, driven, and already ignoring protocol. There’s a mystery to solve, a power suit to chase, and plenty of tension to go around. Hope you enjoy the ride — we’re just getting started.

Waikiki was just starting to stir as Steve McGarrett pulled out of his driveway. The Jeep’s engine rumbled to life — a sound that should’ve been comforting, but only scraped against old scars. It had been weeks since his father’s murder, yet the house behind him still felt like a tomb, heavy with questions no one could answer.

Steve hadn’t slept more than three hours straight since he got back to Oahu. Every room in that house was another echo: his dad’s laugh, the scrape of boots across the floorboards. Ghosts. And underneath them all, the cold certainty that whoever had pulled the trigger wasn’t done yet.

But he had a job to do. A new task force — Five-0 — born from the governor’s panic and political calculus, dumped in his lap like some gift he hadn’t asked for. The mission was simple on paper: clean up the island. Find the rot. Cut it out.

Nothing about it felt simple in practice.

For more than a decade, Steve had lived a life of precision, of calculated risks, and of chaos on the frontlines as a Navy SEAL. He had served in operations that spanned continents, had stared death in the face more times than he cared to count, and had always found a way to push forward. But now? He was tasked with something different: a leadership position in a task force that was supposed to fix a broken system. The stakes were still high, there were information, strategy and the patience he hadn’t yet mastered.

He turned onto the main road, letting the Jeep eat up the miles, pushing that haunted house into the rearview. Today wasn’t about grief. It was about hunting.

The new headquarters rose out of Honolulu like a monument to money — sleek glass and steel, none of the old precinct’s cracked walls and stubborn soul. It was cold. Efficient. Designed to impress donors, not the men and women bleeding in the streets.

But it would do.

---

Inside, Chin Ho Kelly sat at a workstation, expression hard to read. Kono Kalakaua leaned against the back wall, eyes sharp, hands folded.

“Diving in headfirst, huh?” Chin said, voice even, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Steve dropped a manila folder on the table. Photos spilled out: crates, docks, men with guns. A whisper of something much bigger.

Steve rubbed a hand over his jaw. “It’s more than my father. Someone’s running serious weight through the harbor — pharmaceuticals, maybe worse.”

Kono stepped closer, flipping through the photos. Her mouth tightened. “Williams’ name’s all over this. And wherever he is, trouble isn’t far behind.”

Chin exhaled. “Donato’s not just some mainland transplant. He’s the Costa family’s Pacific arm. Touch him, and it’ll all come down on you.”

Steve’s eyes stayed locked on the pictures. “Can you help me dig?”
Kono gave a short nod. “I’m not letting you do this alone.”

---

Hours later, Steve met Kamekona by the shrimp truck. The big man was jittery, sweat running despite the breeze.

“You don’t wanna tangle with these people, bruddah.” He handed over an envelope. “They’re not afraid to make examples.”

Steve flipped through grainy shots. Dockyards. Cash. Unmarked crates. And at the center — a man in an expensive linen suit, lighting a cigar, dark gold watch catching the light. Cool blue eyes. Smile like a trap snapping shut.

Daniel Williams.

Or as the streets breathed it: Donato. CEO of a glittering security firm. Kingmaker behind the scenes. Capo of the Costas on this side of the ocean.

Steve’s pulse spiked, instincts prickling. This wasn’t a man you took down with a warrant. This was strategy, patience, precision. None of which had ever come naturally to him.

But he’d learn.

Because Donato Williams was his target.

And this wasn’t just about John McGarrett anymore — it was about everything that bled beneath Honolulu’s postcard surface.
Steve slid the photos back into the envelope. His father’s case wasn’t a file on a desk. It was a mission.

And Donato Williams was the next objective.

Chapter 2: Blood in the Surf

Summary:

Steve’s investigation heats up, and so does the tension when he comes face-to-face with Daniel Williams. Their first encounter is less “friendly chat” and more “mutual power play with bonus sparks.” It’s clear: this is going to get complicated.

Night draped over Honolulu thick as velvet, the hush broken only by the slow crash of waves on the distant shore. Steve had just finished tying off a lead that linked Daniel Williams’ network to a dirty shipment of pharmaceuticals. Enough to haul the feds halfway across the Pacific and crack open Williams’ empire.

He’d made the call, watched the dominos start to fall, and figured it was only a matter of time before Williams came looking. He hadn’t expected it to be tonight.

A sleek black BMW rolled up, headlights sweeping across the beach. It purred to a stop, quiet, too sure of itself. The door opened.

Daniel Williams stepped out like he owned the ocean.

Photos hadn’t done him justice. Danny was all sharp lines, a tailored suit that molded to his shoulders, hair slicked back to ruthless perfection, those razor-sharp blue eyes cataloging Steve with slow precision. Even the way he adjusted his cuff seemed deliberate — a man who commanded any room he entered without saying a word

“Commander McGarrett,” Danny drawled, Jersey tangled up in every syllable. “Huh. Thought you’d be taller.”

Steve didn’t blink. “Funny. Was about to say the same.”

A short, humorless laugh, gone as fast as it came. Danny drifted closer, hands sliding into his pockets, shoulders loose but every line of him coiled and ready.

“You’ve been busy,” Danny said. “Ruffling feathers. Making expensive problems. I don’t appreciate that.”

Steve shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“That what you call it?” Danny tilted his head, considering. “Because from where I’m standing, looks like you’re begging for a bullet. Makes me wonder if you’re brave, or just terminally stupid.”

“Could be both,” Steve said, his mouth quirking in the barest ghost of a smile.

Danny’s eyes flicked down Steve’s chest, then back up — a quick, clinical scan that turned hot at the edges. When he spoke again, it was softer, almost coaxing.

“You know most men like you end up face down in a ditch. Or floating off Diamond Head. You sure it’s worth it?”

Steve held his gaze, pulse jumping. “Guess I’ll find out.”

A breath hung between them, heavy, charged with something neither of them wanted to admit. Then Danny’s mouth twitched, amusement darkening his eyes.

“You Navy types always think you can muscle through inevitability.” He stepped close enough that Steve caught salt and expensive cologne. Voice dropped low, intimate and lethal.
“Let me give you a little professional courtesy: I don’t bluff. And I don’t lose.”

Steve’s reply came out dry, almost amused. “There’s a first time for everything.”

That earned him a short, husky laugh — low and reluctant, edged with something that felt far from safe. Then Danny pulled back, studying Steve for a breathless heartbeat longer.

“Try not to die too quick, McGarrett,” he murmured. “I’m not quite done enjoying this.”

Then he turned, sauntered back to the BMW with that infuriating calm. Just before slipping inside, he tossed a smirk over his shoulder.

“Tell your Bureau friends I said hi.”

The car slipped away, taillights swallowed by fog. Steve stood there long after, heart thudding. It wasn’t just the threat echoing through his veins. It was the way Danny looked at him — like a man already plotting every step of a game Steve hadn’t realized he’d agreed to play.

Jesus. Get a grip.

This was the bastard he suspected of killing his father. The man he was going to tear down.

And yet… the knot low in his gut told him whatever this was?
It wouldn’t stay simple.
Not by a long shot.

Notes:

Our boys finally meet! Sparks fly, threats are exchanged, and nobody knows if this is foreplay or a declaration of war. (Maybe both?) Lines are being drawn — just not the kind either of them expected.

Chapter 3: The Dance in the Lion’s Den

Summary:

At a glitzy charity gala, Steve finds himself cornered — not by armed men, but by Daniel Williams offering a dance and a dangerous smile. Sparks fly, threats stay polite, and the game between them officially steps into waltz tempo.

Notes:

Steve in a tux, Danny with an agenda, and a dance floor full of tension — what could possibly go wrong? Sometimes diplomacy means taking your enemy for a spin (literally). And sometimes, it's just an excuse to get a little too close.

The ballroom glittered under chandeliers, laughter and champagne threading the air like perfume. Outside, the ocean lay dark and still under moonlight, but inside was all silk gowns, polished shoes, and the quiet rustle of deals being struck behind bright teeth.

Steve McGarrett tugged at his bow tie, resisting the urge to rip it clean off. Three months into running Five-0, and already the Governor was carting him around like her personal show pony.

“Steve,” Jameson called as she breezed by, all practiced warmth and political teeth. “Try to look less like you’re planning an extraction.”

“Extraction’d be a hell of a lot more fun,” he muttered. She just laughed, squeezed his shoulder, and disappeared back into the swirl of donors.

Across the room, Chin worked the edges with calm precision. Lou stood with arms folded, scanning the crowd like he expected a firefight to break out between the shrimp platters. Kono flitted through clusters of people, her laugh bright and easy, charming half the room without trying.

Steve envied that. This place felt to him like velvet thrown over barbed wire — all handshakes and hidden blades.

“Surviving?” Lou drawled, drifting over with a sideways grin.

“Barely,” Steve said. He tried for a smirk, came up short.
Lou snorted. “Yeah. You look like you’d trade all this for a bomb to defuse.”

Then the air seemed to change — subtle, like static before lightning.

Conversations faltered.

People angled themselves unconsciously, clearing a path.

Daniel Williams had arrived.

No entourage, no announcement — he didn’t need it. The crowd parted on instinct alone.

The tux fit him too well across his shoulders, cut lean at the waist, the way only tailored money did.
Blond hair slicked back neat, blue eyes flicking over the crowd until they landed on Steve.

And then he smiled. Slow. Knowing. Like he’d just spotted something far more interesting than overpriced champagne.

He cut across the ballroom without hurry, presence so certain it didn’t require ceremony.

When he stopped in front of Steve, it was like the volume dropped, the rest of the room sinking into a muffled haze.

“Commander McGarrett,” Danny said, voice low, laced with that biting Jersey amusement. “Didn’t peg you for the gala circuit.”

“Williams,” Steve returned evenly. “Didn’t peg you for doing anything without a cut of the profits.”

Danny’s mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, more like he was swallowing a laugh that could bite. “Feeding kids, hugging whales — you know. Supporting vital island initiatives.”

“With blood money.”

“Careful, Commander,” Danny murmured, leaning in just enough for Steve to catch a whiff of his cologne under the salt air. “You’ll wrinkle that pretty suit with all that bristling.”

A quartet struck up. Couples drifted to the floor in gentle waves. Before Steve could step back, Danny extended a hand, palm up, courtly if not for the dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Dance with me.”

Steve stared at him.

“Are you serious?”

Danny tilted his head, blue eyes bright with challenge.
“Everyone’s watching. Wouldn’t want your shiny new task force looking like it can’t play nice.”

Steve could feel the eyes. Donors, local politicians — people he’d have to answer to if this turned ugly. With a quiet curse, he took Danny’s hand. The contact was warm, startling.

Danny pulled him into the steps with infuriating ease, one hand settling low on Steve’s back like he owned the space.

“Always this tense?” Danny murmured, voice pitched for Steve alone, threaded with dark amusement.
“Feels like you’re waiting to decide if you’d rather punch me or—”

“Pretty sure I’d rather punch you.”

Danny’s laugh rumbled low. “And ruin that fine press on your jacket? Shame.”

Their eyes caught — held. Steve’s pulse jumped too fast. Danny’s thumb moved slightly at his side, a question disguised as a tease.

The music wound down, applause sprinkling through the hall. Steve pulled back a hair too sharp, hands curling at his sides.

“You’re a piece of work, Williams.”

Danny’s grin spread slow, edged with something hungry.
“And you’re a lot more tempting than is remotely wise.”

Then he turned and melted into the crowd, leaving Steve there with his heart thudding, the ghost of Danny’s hand still burning against his back.

Chin appeared at his shoulder, eyebrows high. “Looked…friendly.”

Steve blew out a breath, still locked on where Danny had vanished. “Yeah. Real friendly.”

Across the room, Danny drifted through the swirl of gowns and laughter, mouth curved into something between a smirk and self-annoyance.

His hand brushed the front of his jacket — right where he’d held Steve.

Stupid to let that linger.
Stupider to want it again.

Trouble, he thought.
Exactly his kind.

Chapter 4: A Thorn Worth Bleeding For

Summary:

Haunted by a failed case and his father’s ghost, Steve seeks solitude — and finds Danny instead. What starts as a verbal spar ends in something far more intimate: a shared exhaustion, a spark of connection, and the terrifying realization that the line between hate and want is starting to fray.

Notes:

Steve’s unraveling, Danny’s too smooth for anyone’s good, and somehow a bar off Waikiki became ground zero for something neither of them can name (or walk away from).

Nearly a week since their last collision, and Steve still felt the echo of it in his chest — a heavy, nagging pull he couldn’t shake. Tonight, he found himself in a bar off Waikiki. Not his usual dive, but just upscale enough to keep the loud mouths out, the kind of place where secrets could breathe.

Soft island music drifted from a corner. The smell of grilled fish mixed with salt and citrus in the humid air. Steve nursed a whiskey, hoping for silence. Anything to drown out the press vultures still feasting on the last botched case — a high-profile kidnapping gone bloody, headlines clawing for blame.

He needed distance from it. From everything. From home most of all, with its haunting edges of his father’s ghost.

So of course, Danny Williams chose tonight to appear.

“Commander McGarrett. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Steve stiffened. Looked up slowly.

Danny stood there in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open, sun-kissed like he’d spent the day drifting on a boat instead of pulling puppet strings over half of Oahu’s underworld.
But there was a new glint in his blue eyes tonight, less predatory, more… assessing.

“Can’t have one drink in peace without you slithering out of the shadows?” Steve’s voice came out hoarse, betraying more than he meant.

Danny’s grin was lazy, eyes dancing. “Slithering? Now that’s hurtful. I was gonna buy your next round, too.”

He took a step closer, and the faint scent of expensive cologne and something sharp, almost like sea salt, reached Steve. Danny’s gaze drifted, not sweeping the room for threats, but focusing intently on Steve’s face.

Steve pushed the glass aside. “Save your dirty money for someone who cares.”

Danny just moved closer, a signature tilt to his head, hands still stuffed in his pockets like he wasn't a damn threat.

"Been busy, have we?" he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips. "Thought I'd come to remind you the island's still mine. And frankly," he paused, his gaze flicking over Steve, "it's been boring as hell without you tearing up my streets."

There was a casualness to his posture, but Steve noted the faint tension in Danny's shoulders, the way his fingers curled almost imperceptibly in his pockets—a contained energy that spoke of a man always on edge, even when feigning nonchalance.

“Yeah?” Steve’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve had bigger problems.”

Danny took another step, so close Steve could pick out the sharper notes in his cologne — clean linen, salt, a bite of something dark.

“So, I’ve heard. You look like hell, babe.”

The endearment, so flippant, hit Steve with unexpected force. Danny’s voice, though low and teasing, held a subtle register of genuine concern, quickly masked by his habitual amusement. His eyes, though, lingered on the shadows beneath Steve's, a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps a shared weariness.

“None of your business,” Steve muttered. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t seem to.

Danny’s gaze roamed his face, dropped to his throat, lingered. Heat crawled up Steve’s neck. Danny’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, but his eyes held something deeper – a hint of a man who carried burdens beyond his illicit empire, a man who recognized the same exhaustion in Steve's posture.

“Everything on this island is my business,” Danny said, almost playful.

Almost.

His voice dropped just enough that Steve’s stomach twisted. Their eyes locked, a beat too long, until Steve forced himself to look away. He saw the corner of Danny’s mouth dip, a fleeting disappointment, before the mask slipped back fully into place.

“Enjoy your drink, Commander,” Danny murmured. Then he peeled off into the crowd, leaving the lingering scent of salt and darkness, and a quiet hum in the air around Steve.

Steve sat there a moment, breath ragged, heart pounding against ribs that felt too tight. The whiskey burned when he tried to swallow.

---

Outside, the night was thick with salt air, no relief in the breeze. Steve’s feet carried him to his Jeep by rote, jaw locked. Danny’s grin haunted him — that smug curve that knew exactly how close Steve was to unraveling.

But then his mind snapped back to his father. To John McGarrett’s blood on the floorboards of his childhood home. A snarl twisted through his chest. He stopped under a streetlamp, fists balled so tight his nails dug in.

Danny Williams was a killer. A manipulator. The kind of man who’d orchestrate a father’s execution just to tie off loose ends.

So why the hell did part of Steve ache for more?
For another burn, another push, another chance to stand close enough to hate him properly?

The line was blurring.
And it terrified him more than any bullet ever could.

Chapter 5: Watching the Volcano

Summary:

While Steve buries himself in the hunt for Danny Williams, the team starts connecting dots of their own — about obsession, blurred lines, and the dangerous chemistry building between their boss and the man he's chasing. Everyone’s watching. Waiting. Because something’s going to give.

Notes:

Sometimes the most revealing scenes don’t happen on the front lines — they happen behind closed doors and half-empty coffee cups. This chapter zooms out just a little to show what the rest of the team sees when the slow burn starts to smoke.

Mid-morning brought a rare hush to HQ. Chin sat buried in phone records, Kono absently chewing a pen, eyes flicking to Steve’s closed office door.

“You think he’s losing it?” she asked.

Chin didn’t look up.

“If by losing it, you mean zeroed in on a guy who keeps slipping the noose, yeah.”

Kono sighed. “Danny Williams. Steve’s obsessed.”

There was a note in her voice, not just of worry, but of a grudging understanding of why.

Lou ambled in with coffee. “Obsessed? That’s one way to say it. He’s hunting a ghost with a rocket launcher.” He took a long sip, then added, almost to himself, “Though, the ghost’s got a hell of a smile.”

Chin set down the files. “Williams isn’t some local thug. He’s got a clean empire — security contracts, government friends. But under it? Capo, through and through. Jersey to the marrow. His fingers are in unions, trucks, cards — you name it. He didn’t get here by playing nice.”
Chin paused, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “And… he’s always seemed to protect his own, even the low-level guys. There’s a code there, however twisted.”

Lou let out a long whistle. “Man, like that? He steps on throats and smiles for the cameras. Hard to tell where the suits end and the bodies start.”

Kono gave a knowing look. “Yeah. Well, lines blur other ways, too. You see them at that gala? Circling each other like sharks — or something else.”

She remembered the way Danny's eyes had locked onto Steve's, a possessive, challenging gaze that had made the air crackle. It wasn't just power play; there was a current, a magnetic pull even from across a crowded room.

Lou barked a laugh. “Powder keg waiting for a match.”

Chin’s jaw tightened. “It’s personal. Whether Steve admits it or not.”

He glanced at Kono, a shared understanding passing between them. They’d seen enough men like Danny Williams to know they were dangerous, but rarely had they seen one so seemingly invested in his adversary.

Kono glanced at the office again, softer now.

“When it blows up, we’ll be there and pull him out of the wreckage.”

Chapter 6: Lines in the Sand

Summary:

When an armored truck gets ambushed in broad daylight, Steve’s convinced Danny’s behind it — but things aren’t always what they seem. As Five-0 hunts for answers, Danny stays one step ahead, watching with that trademark calm that drives Steve crazy.

Notes:

Gunfire, ambushes, and a whole lot of chaos—not exactly the tourist vibe. Steve’s on edge, Danny’s playing it cool, and the island’s about to find out just how messy power struggles can get.

Waikiki’s calm shattered with the crack of gunfire. An armored truck at Ala Moana Center — ambushed, smoked out, torn apart by masked gunmen.

Shoppers scattered screaming.

When Five-0 hit the scene, Kono crouched by shell casings. “Not local. Too pro.”

Chin ran a hand along scorched asphalt. “5.56 NATO. Cartel-level toys.”

Steve stalked the perimeter, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. “This is about power. Someone’s showing they can reach into the heart of Waikiki and walk away clean.” Lou arrived, scowling. “Message received. They’re not afraid of us.”

Kono bit her lip. “You think Williams would go this loud just to mark territory?”

Steve’s voice was all gravel. “Williams does whatever suits him.” Lou eyed him. “You’re making it personal again, boss.” Steve didn’t argue. Couldn’t. They all saw it.

---

Hours later in HQ, Steve stabbed at a digital map. “Run every camera. I want faces. If any of Williams’ crew was near this, I’ll know.”

Kono tried to reason. “Steve, half the island was there. Could be random.”

“It’s not.” Steve’s glare was raw. Under his breath: “I can feel it.” Lou cracked, “Yeah, well, feelings don’t get warrants.”

---

Across town, on a shaded balcony, Danny sipped limoncello, watching blue lights swirl in the distance. His phone buzzed. It was an unlisted number, a source he'd cultivated over years.

The text was brief, to the point: Five-0’s gone full lockdown on the Ala Moana hit. McGarrett’s convinced it’s you.

Danny huffed a laugh, a dry sound that barely disturbed the quiet. “Obsessed,” he muttered, swirling the limoncello in his glass.

Staying ahead, keeping his ear to the ground, it was a constant, delicate dance. He had connections everywhere, a vast and varied network of individuals who owed him favors, enjoyed the thrill of shared secrets, or simply found him a useful ally. Many of these sources provided him with inside knowledge from Five-0 itself, little nuggets of information that rarely made it to official reports.

A quiet flicker of something crossed his features—a fleeting acknowledgement, almost a warmth, at the thought of Steve’s relentless focus, quickly veiled. He settled back in his chair, the sun warm on his face — unbothered.

Amused. Not worried. Not yet.

The mask of indifference was a practiced thing, but for a split second, a hint of the burden he carried, the constant calculation, was visible in the subtle tension around his eyes.

But as the minutes ticked by, and more sporadic texts came in detailing the sheer audacity of the ambush, the amusement began to curdle.

An armored truck, torn apart in broad daylight at Ala Moana? This wasn't just a robbery; it was a statement. And the implication that he was somehow behind it, or allowing it, rankled. This was his island. He’d worked too hard, built too carefully, to let brazen, unsanctioned chaos take root. Someone had crossed a line, a big, blazing neon one, and they needed to be put in their place.

Danny finished his limoncello. He made a single, encrypted call, barely a whisper of instructions.

"Someone made a big mistake. Find me who."

Then another, to a contact he knew was a loose end in the local car rental scene. He wasn't going to get his hands dirty, not directly, but he'd point the right people in the right direction. He leaned back, a cold, focused glint in his eyes.

He wasn't worried, no. But he was most certainly active.

---

By midnight, the break came from an unexpected angle. Chin burst into HQ, waving a flash drive.

“Got a hit on a plate from the back entrance — one of the SUVs. Rental on the Big Island. Fake ID, but the guy slipped at a gas station. Got a tip-off on it, actually. Came in through an anonymous burner to the Honolulu PD street crimes unit. It got flagged and passed to us.” Kono jumped to the computer, pulling up grainy footage. A face — flagged by Interpol. Diego Ruiz. Ex-Colombian special forces, freelance muscle, linked to hits in Miami, Marseille, Mexico City. “Cartel-adjacent,” Chin muttered.

“Hired guns. Smash-and-grab. This was about cash.” Steve stared at the screen, threads snapping tight.

Satellite data showed Ruiz’s crew fleeing by boat hours after the attack. Offshore accounts lighting up. Money gone.

“So, Williams didn’t pull this one,” Kono said softly, her voice landing like a weight.

Steve didn’t reply. Just paced, eyes hollow, mind racing. Williams was still out there. Still watching. Still a shadow he couldn’t shake. Maybe he hadn’t pulled the trigger this time — but that silence was its own message. Its own challenge.

Back in the dark briefing room, Steve scrubbed through footage for the hundredth time.

Williams hadn’t fired a shot.

Hadn’t moved a piece.

But it still felt like he’d won another round.

And Steve was fresh out of rounds to lose.

Chapter 7: Quiet Battles

Summary:

Haunted by his father’s memory and tangled up in feelings he can’t quite name, Steve faces a war inside himself. Danny Williams isn’t just an enemy — he’s the wildfire that’s burning down Steve’s walls, and suddenly the line between justice and obsession feels way too thin.

Notes:

Steve’s house may feel like a haunted museum, but it’s not just ghosts that keep him up at night. Turns out, the real trouble has blue eyes and a wicked smile. This chapter dives deep into the messy middle — where duty crashes into desire and nothing stays neat.

The house was a tomb.

Steve drifted room to room, every shadow whispering with memories he wasn’t ready to face. The familiar scent of old wood and the lingering ghost of pipe tobacco pressed in, suffocating.

At the mantle, his father’s photo grinned back — easy, proud, unreachable. Steve’s throat closed. The urge to smash it, to shatter the perfect, static image of a life violently stolen, was a raw, aching throb behind his eyes.

He should hate Daniel Williams. The man ran rackets that bled this island dry, a spider at the center of a glittering, poisonous web. He was almost certainly behind John McGarrett’s murder, the architect of Steve’s personal hell.

But the pull under Steve’s ribs refused to die. It clawed at him, hot and humiliating. It wasn't just a physical urge to dominate, to force the truth from him. It was a terrifying, magnetic draw to Danny's sharp wit, the dangerous intelligence in his eyes, the infuriating confidence that dared Steve to keep chasing.

He paced, fists clenched, nails cutting skin.

Years of SEAL training — discipline, obedience, walls built brick by careful brick around his emotions — none of it stopped the dark twist of wanting.

Wanting to slam Williams against a wall and demand answers.

Or something darker, more consuming. A part of him, an ugly, primal part, craved the unpredictable dance of their confrontations, the way Danny's presence ignited something volatile and alive within him.

How could a man so ruthless, so casually dangerous, possess such unsettling charm? How could he evoke such a visceral reaction, one that broke through Steve's iron-clad control and made him question everything he thought he knew about himself?

He'd always known what was right, what was duty. But Danny Williams was dismantling his moral compass piece by agonizing piece.

Steve’s breath hitched again, a sharp sting behind his eyes. He hated this. Hated feeling vulnerable.
Hated that a man like Williams, a man he was supposed to despise, could make him feel small, exposed, and utterly off-balance.
Hated that Danny was becoming the only thing that felt real, even when it was painful.

He poured two fingers of scotch, swallowing the burn.
Ghosts lingered close tonight, not just his father’s, but the phantom presence of those piercing blue eyes, the ghost of a mocking smile.

And Steve McGarrett found himself caught between duty and desire, justice and vengeance, truth and lies.
For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t sure which side he was on.

The lines were blurring, not just on the case, but within his own soul, all because of one man.

Chapter 8: Negotiations with the Devil

Summary:

With rival crews crashing the party in Kalihi, Steve faces a new kind of showdown: sitting down with the island’s most dangerous man—Danny Williams—on his own turf. The peace talks come with razor-sharp tension, electric moments, and a dangerously close brush of more-than-business. One thing’s clear: this isn’t just about territory anymore. It’s personal.

Notes:

Negotiating with Danny Williams is never exactly peaceful… but hey, who said saving the island would be easy?
When the devil offers a deal, watch your back—and your heart.

Waikiki was just blinking awake when Steve McGarrett slid behind the wheel of his Jeep. The island felt restless, a tension thickening the air that had nothing to do with the humid summer.

For months, he'd buried himself in the relentless pursuit of his father's killer, the hollow monument of his inherited house filled with ghosts and echoes. But this morning, a different urgency gripped him.

Kalihi had been hit last night — drive-bys, brutal protection rackets, shops shuttered out of fear. This wasn't local. This was a hostile takeover.

Inside HQ, Kono confirmed his fears. “Word is Jersey crews. Rivals of the Costas. They’re not just trying to muscle in, Steve. They’re ripping through Kalihi, trying to establish a new beachhead.”

Steve’s teeth ground. “And Williams?”

“Working the angles,” Kono said, a slight hesitation in her voice. “Gathering intelligence, more like. Like everyone else, people are waiting to see how Williams responds to this challenge.”

The words made Steve’s stomach turn. The last thing he wanted was Daniel Williams making a power play, especially not now.

---

Danny agreed to meet at his cliff villa — sleek stone, crashing surf below. Steve was frisked twice before they let him in, the heavy scent of jasmine and the distant roar of the ocean already setting an unsettling mood. From the moment he stepped onto the property, he was on Danny's ground, playing by Danny's rules.

Danny stood by the balcony, sleeves rolled, looking like sin made casual. He was backlit by the sunrise, casting his features in a soft, ethereal glow that belied the hard edge Steve knew lay beneath. His posture was one of unyielding command.

“Commander. To what do I owe the sunrise visit?”

His voice held its usual drawl, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in the air around him, a suppressed energy, like a coiled spring.

Steve’s jaw flexed.
“There’s a new crew tearing through Kalihi. Ex-military, Eastern bloc. They’re not just hitting a few shops, Williams. They’re laying groundwork, building infrastructure. If they dig in, they’ll wreck more than your ledgers. They’ll burn this whole island to the ground.”

Danny’s smile didn’t budge, but something colder, sharper, flashed in his eyes. He took a sip from a glass of water on the railing, his gaze distant for a moment, as if contemplating a complex chess board, calculating every possible move and counter-move.

“So? Tell me why I shouldn’t turn them into fertilizer myself. This is my island, after all. Unsanctioned incursions tend to be... costly.”

A flicker of weariness, profound and fleeting, crossed his features as he said it, a man tired of the brutal choices his life demanded.
“Because if you move, we’ll have corpses on Kalakaua by noon. A full-scale turf war that you won’t be able to control.” Steve stepped in, close enough to smell the salt on Danny’s skin, the expensive, clean scent of his cologne, a dangerous allure that made Steve’s head swim.

“Let Five-0 handle it.”

A beat passed. Danny's eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over Steve's face, lingering on his mouth for a fraction too long. Then he stepped in close—close enough that Steve could feel the warmth rolling off him, the faint brush of fabric against his chest when Danny breathed in.

Danny’s gaze dragged over him, deliberate and unhurried. It was a look that stripped more than it saw—cataloging every unguarded twitch of muscle, every catch in Steve’s breath. Steve felt his own pulse jump, an involuntary response to the blatant challenge, the undeniable intimacy.

“You’ve been ripping through my world for months, McGarrett,” Danny said, voice dropping low— almost a whisper, almost a dare. His hand lifted, knuckles grazing Steve’s jaw in a ghost of a touch that sent a jolt through him. Steve’s breath hitched, every nerve ending firing.

“Turning over every rock, shaking down my people, trying so damn hard to pin your father’s ghost on me.”

Steve’s pulse thundered. Rage and something darker tangled in his chest, knotting so tight it almost choked him. He could feel the fine hairs on his arm standing on end from Danny's proximity, the raw, undeniable electricity in the air.

“And now look at you…” Danny’s smile was slow, razor-sharp, eyes flicking back to Steve’s mouth. His thumb hovered a breath away, a temptation that made Steve’s gut coil.

There was a hunger in Danny’s eyes, a mirrored intensity that went beyond mere power play, acknowledging the dangerous pull between them.

“Standing here in my house. Asking me to be patient. To hold back. For you.”

“This isn’t about us,” Steve bit out. Voice cracking.

Danny’s hand ghosted along Steve’s jaw — fleeting, electric. A shiver ran through Danny himself, almost imperceptible, a response to the profound current that connected their touch.

“It’s always about us.”

Their breath tangled. For a heartbeat, Steve leaned in — then tore himself back, swallowing bile and want all at once.
Danny’s smile was a blade.

“I’ll wait. For now. But if you fail? If these mainland thugs get even a toehold on my island? I’ll clean up my way. And you won’t like how permanent I make it.”

Steve spun on his heel, boots loud on marble, each step a furious beat against the floor. Halfway down the hall, he scrubbed a hand over his mouth, the phantom pressure of Danny’s thumb still burning on his jaw. He was furious at himself, at the sickening lurch in his gut, at the undeniable pull that had almost made him surrender.

The echo of Danny’s touch seemed to brand his skin, a stark reminder of the battle he was losing within himself.

Behind him, soft laughter chased him out — dark, amused, perhaps a little too close to fond. A profound, unsettling fondness that Danny was only just beginning to acknowledge in the deepest, most dangerous parts of his own heart.

On the balcony, Danny stayed by the open doors, thumb brushing across his lower lip, a smirk playing there that wasn’t entirely smug—a contemplative thing, touched by the echo of the near-contact neither of them was ready to admit, cut so deep.

His gaze lingered on the empty hallway, a quiet, almost mournful longing replacing the challenge in his eyes, before he turned back to the sprawling view, the vast blue expanse of the Pacific.

He didn't just watch the horizon, though. He pulled out his phone, his thumb already dialing a contact. This wasn’t about waiting. This was about managing the problem. If Five-0 was going to wade into his territory, they'd do it on a path he'd already illuminated.

He spoke in low, terse Japanese, words that would send ripples through the underbelly of Oahu.

"There's a new crew. Jersey. Find me everything. Every face, every habit, every weakness. And let them know, quietly, what happens to unwelcome guests."

The weight of his world settled once more on his shoulders, a burden he carried not with resignation, but with a quiet, lethal intent.

Chapter 9: Pineapple Paradise Problems

Summary:

Danny tries to enjoy a quiet lunch, but news of Russian mercenaries sniffing around and Steve’s unmistakable presence nearby means peace is out of reach. Between dodging unwanted attention and plotting his next move, Danny’s reminded once again that owning paradise isn’t for the faint of heart — especially when the past and present collide over a plate of calamari.

Notes:

Grab your calamari and buckle up—things are about to get deliciously complicated. In paradise, even lunch comes with a side of danger...

Danny Williams was halfway through a plate of crisp calamari at a tucked-away Italian spot when Sal’s phone buzzed on the table, slicing through the mellow midday hush. The scent of garlic and lemon filled the air, a small, fleeting comfort.

Sal — slick suit, eyes too jumpy for his own good — glanced at the screen. His face went tight.
Danny set down his fork, brushed a crumb off his shirt.

“That’s your ‘oh shit’ look. Go on. Ruin my lunch.”

Sal cleared his throat. “Word from the docks. Couple of Russians poking around. Not the vodka tourist type. Asking who runs what, who they gotta pay.”
Danny raised an eyebrow.

“Russians. What, they get lost on the way out of Brighton Beach? Or is this some low-budget plague I didn’t read about in the papers?”
The question was flippant, but a familiar tension began to coil in his gut, the grim recognition of his world's inevitable chaos.

Sal didn’t crack a smile.
“Big one — skull like a wrecking ball. Name’s Ivan Drago. Cozy with some Jersey crews. Bellini leftovers.”

The air in the restaurant seemed to thin. The scent of garlic, the murmur of distant conversations — it all faded. The casual purr in Danny’s voice vanished, replaced by a stillness so profound it vibrated with barely contained violence. His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly, as if a sudden fist had slammed into his diaphragm.
Danny’s grin was slow, wolfish, but his eyes turned hard, the mirth gone as quickly as a dropped stone in deep water.

“Ah. That kind of circus.” He felt a flicker of profound weariness, quickly replaced by a cold, searing rage.
Another day, another set of predators. Always more. But this wasn't just "more." This was the return of a deeply familiar, deeply resented pestilence from the very depths of his past, a threat he’d hoped would never resurface.

His fingers tapped the table once, then again, slow and measured like he was timing a pulse he meant to stop.
Sal’s gaze darted to the front window. “Also… saw one of McGarrett’s SUVs across the street earlier. Might be nothing. But your lunch spot’s getting popular.”
Danny let out a dry huff, all sharp teeth, no warmth.

“Of course, it is. He’s like a stray dog — can’t decide if he wants to chase me off his porch or crawl in my lap.” The words were dismissive, but the corners of his mouth twitched, a battle fought and barely won against a far more complicated response. A prickle of heat spread low in his stomach, unwanted, unsettling. Even the thought of Steve McGarrett’s proximity, his relentless pursuit, was enough to make Danny's skin hum.

“Want me to run them off?”

Danny’s voice was mild, too mild, almost a purr.

“No. Let him watch. Let him piss away manpower trying to catch me doing something I’m not dumb enough to do in broad daylight.”

But under the table, his hand curled tight around his napkin, the linen crinkling with the force of his grip. Because the idea of McGarrett’s eyes on him—tracing his movements, cataloguing his habits, trying to puzzle out every secret—sparked something that wasn’t just an annoyance.
Something that sat hot and uneasy at the base of his spine, a dangerous frisson that bordered on electric anticipation. It was a pull he loathed and craved in equal measure. A part of him, against all logic, wanted to be seen, to be known by Steve McGarrett.

Truly known.

He slapped the napkin down, stood so fast the chair scraped. Sal flinched.
“Keep your ear to the ground. Tell our guys not to get clever. Last thing I need is some trigger-happy kid trying to prove himself. Not until I say.” Sal’s nod was quick. “You got it, boss.”

Danny smoothed his shirt, tamping the heat back down under cold control. He closed his eyes for a split second, taking a deep, cleansing breath, the scent of the ocean fighting against the restaurant smells. Because this was still his island.

His sun-scorched pineapple paradise.

And if Russian mercs or grief-drunk Navy SEALs wanted to turn it upside down? They’d learn soon enough who really owned these streets.

Chapter 10: Watching the Fault Lines

Summary:

Steve and Danny each survey the battlefield from opposite sides, knowing the Bellini cartel’s return threatens to tear Kalihi apart. Steve’s determined to keep Danny’s kind of street justice off the streets, while Danny’s strategy is all about patience and calculated moves. Neither fully trusts the other, but there’s an unspoken understanding that if the island’s fault lines crack, they’ll have to face the fallout together—whether they like it or not.

Notes:

Tensions rise, alliances wobble, and the Bellinis bring trouble back to paradise. Steve and Danny are on edge—ready for the fault lines to break. Stay tuned.

Steve leaned against the hood of his Jeep, phone pressed to his ear, eyes scanning the docks. Cranes swung overhead, casting long skeletal shadows.
Containers stacked like fortress walls. The air was thick with the scent of brine and exhaust fumes. Everyone could be hiding Bellini poison slipping through the island’s veins.

Chin’s voice crackled over the line.
“Ran down that lease. It’s Bellini money. And they’re not just shaking down tourists — they’re squeezing Kalihi, leaning on Costas’ old shops. Trying to break the neighborhood’s back.”

Steve dragged a hand through his hair. Exhaustion clawed at him, but he couldn’t show it. “I told Williams we’d clean this up. I don’t want his brand of street justice turning Waikiki into a body dump.”
A familiar frustration, mixed with something like protective possessiveness over the island, tightened his jaw.

Chin let out a humorless chuckle. “You really think he’ll hold back? Bellini’s built their empire by sending messages. That’s his mother tongue.”
Steve snapped, sharper than he meant.

“He’ll hold. Because he promised me. And because if I start crawling up his ass every day, it’s gonna be hell for both of us.” The words were a warning, but also a raw admission of the dangerous, magnetic pull that complicated every interaction with Danny Williams.

Silence. Then softer, reluctant. “Are you sleeping at all?”

Steve let out a bitter breath. “Does it matter?”

---

Across town, Danny sat in a dim office above a bakery, rolling a toothpick between his fingers. Pale light cut through dusty blinds, catching lines etched by grief and old rage on his face. The air, despite the quiet hum of the street below, felt heavy with unspoken burdens.
Sal had a phone to his ear, eyes on the street.

“Bellini shipment at Pier 17 tonight. Same muscle that lit up half of Trenton a decade back.”
Danny’s jaw went tight, a muscle flexing under his skin. His eyes, usually guarded, now held a deep, unvarnished loathing. The very name, Bellini, tasted like ash on his tongue, a deep-seated revulsion that ran through his blood. This wasn't just business; it was a personal affront that stirred the darkest parts of his soul. His voice was calm, lethal. “Good. Let ‘em strut. Let ‘em think this island’s ripe for picking.”

A brief, cold flash of the ruthlessness required for his position, then it was gone, replaced by a calculating stillness.
Sal smirked. “Want me to sink ‘em tonight? Quick swim with the sharks?”
Danny’s eyes sliced up, freezing him cold. “No. Not yet. McGarrett’s ego is tied up in this. If he fails, I get a clean hand to do it my way.” He watched Sal for a moment, a deeper thought playing behind his eyes. Let the SEAL get his hands dirty. Better his blood than mine, or Grace’s.

But beyond the pragmatism, a subtle, almost imperceptible current of curiosity coursed through him. He was genuinely interested to see how McGarrett would handle a beast like the Bellinis.
Sal’s grin edged dark. “You trust a cop to fix your headaches?”

Danny’s voice dropped, quiet and deadly, laced with something that bordered on conviction.
“No. But I trust him to try. And to understand the kind of mess they'll leave behind if he fails.”

It wasn't simple trust in a lawman, but a dangerous, compelling belief in Steve's capability, a tacit acknowledgement of a shared understanding of the shadows.
The familiar pull of Steve's presence, the memory of their last heated exchange, sent a confusing jolt through him, a spark of dangerous fascination that warred with his ingrained caution.

The Bellinis had already torn it all down once — they were a poison from his past, a ruin he’d sworn would never touch his world again. If they wanted to dance on his island, Danny was ready to make sure the music ended in blood.

The thought settled with a familiar, weary weight in his chest.

Always blood.

Whether McGarrett liked it or not.

The sun climbed higher over the city, but the fault lines beneath it remained unseen—shifting, fragile, ready to snap. Beneath the rising sun, the island held its breath—two men standing on the fault line between everything they’d lost and everything they stood to gain, their fates entwined, their paths set to collide.

It wasn’t a question of if—but when.
And when it broke, nothing would stay the same.

Steven and Daniel each stood at their own crossroads, bound by uneasy alliances and unspoken threats. Neither fully trusted the other, but both knew the storm was coming.

Chapter 11: Predators and Liars

Summary:

Steve confronts Danny over the Bellinis’ violent moves. Threats and tension crackle between them, but beneath it all simmers a deeper, charged connection neither can ignore. The line between hunter and prey starts to blur — and nothing will be the same.

Notes:

Steve and Danny’s clash is never just about power — it’s a complicated pull, raw and dangerous. When enemies collide, the line between battle and desire fades — and the real war begins within.
Thanks for sticking with their fierce, tangled story.

The ocean was black glass beyond the penthouse windows. Steve stepped into the private lounge of one of Danny’s luxury hotels, tension in every line of his body. The air, heavy with the scent of money and faint cigar smoke, seemed to hum with suppressed energy. Danny’s guards gave him the usual once-over — hands near holsters, but smart enough not to test him.

Inside, the room was dim but elegant, bathed in soft amber light from sleek sconces. Danny’s men stood along the walls, quiet but alert—sharp suits, sharper eyes, the kind of crew that didn’t raise hell without orders.

Danny lounged by the bar. Crisp shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled, stubble dark against his jaw. A glass of something dark rested in his hand, fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. When he spotted Steve, his mouth curved into that sharp, knowing grin, but a flicker of something deeper, a spark of dangerous anticipation, ignited in his blue eyes.

“Commander McGarrett,” Danny drawled, voice cool silk over a razor. “Two visits in one week? Keep this up, you’ll have me thinking you’re sweet on me.” His tone was flippant, but his gaze lingered, a silent dare.

Steve didn’t bite. His fists flexed, his pulse racing with something too close to anticipation. He hated the way Danny always knew how to get under his skin, how to make him feel… exposed. “You’re escalating this. Three Bellini stash houses were hit last night. Burned one to the ground. Six bodies floated up off Sand Island.”
Danny’s grin sharpened, a predator’s satisfaction.

“Am I? Or am I just better at the game than you ever will be?” The challenge was clear, but beneath it, a current of genuine, almost admiring, intrigue.

Steve’s jaw twitched. “I told you to wait. I told you not to turn Waikiki into a body dump.”

Danny’s mask slipped — just a flicker of cold, old wounds, a flash of the haunted man beneath the ruthless façade. His grip tightened almost imperceptibly on his glass. His voice dropped, no longer breezy, but laced with a lethal chill that made the air itself seem to drop a few degrees.

“You came to my doorstep begging me to wait. I did. Now I’m done waiting.”

A profound weariness, tinged with unyielding resolve, laced his words, a man burdened by necessary violence.
Steve’s glare locked on the shadow of stubble along Danny’s jaw, the faint twitch at his mouth — details he hated noticing, the way they registered with an unwelcome clarity. This was the man who’d probably orchestrated his father’s death. The man he should drag out in cuffs. And yet the air between them vibrated with something far from hate, a dangerous, intoxicating hum that pulled them closer.

Danny stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—salt, clean linen, a hint of something dark and expensive—filling Steve’s senses. His voice dropped, intimate and raw. “This isn’t about turf. The Bellinis are a plague from my past, McGarrett. They left a wreckage you can’t even imagine. What I’m doing now? That’s personal. It’s eradication.” A tremor ran through his hand as he gestured, betraying the depth of his pain, the past a constant, burning wound.

Steve swallowed. That raw note buried in Danny’s words clawed at something inside him. Something that made him want to tear them both open to see what was festering underneath, to understand this shared, corrosive ache.

“You cross the line again,” Steve said, voice rough, strained.

“And I won’t come at you with subpoenas. I’ll bring the whole place down on your head.”

Danny laughed low, that velvet threat sliding right under Steve’s skin, curling around something primal. He leaned back, casual as sin, eyes glittering, a dangerous amusement playing in their depths that mirrored the volatile thrill Steve felt.
Then, low and almost gentle, Danny spoke again, his voice a rasp of temptation, of something far more dangerous than the laws they both tried to uphold. His gaze dropped to Steve's lips, then back up to his eyes, a silent, powerful acknowledgment of the unspoken current between them.

“That’s the thing about men like us, Commander. We always think we’re the hunters. Until we realize we’ve been the prey all along.”

Steve’s breath stalled. His gaze dropped to Danny’s mouth — the slow drag of his tongue across his lip — and heat sliced through him, brutal and unwanted, an undeniable response that shamed him.

“I’m not your prey, Williams.”

Danny’s smile was almost tender, lethal in its softness. He took a subtle step closer, breaching the invisible boundary, his presence an intoxicating challenge. “No,” he said quietly, his voice a near-whisper, a promise.

“But you could be.”

A beat passed.

Steve turned away abruptly, stalking out with every muscle in his body drawn tight, his skin still humming with the unspoken between them, the phantom heat of Danny’s gaze.

Behind him, Danny’s low chuckle followed, curling around his spine like smoke, a sound that held not just victory, but a deep, dangerous satisfaction, and a knowing tenderness.

Because for all the threats, Steve knew exactly how this was going to end: not with a bullet, but with him breaking first — and Danny savoring every crack, not just out of triumph, but out of a profound, possessive understanding that had blossomed from their dangerous dance.

Chapter 12: The Making of a Capo

Summary:

Before the power and control, there was pain and sacrifice. Danny’s past is a haunting echo shaping the man he has become, bound by blood and burdened by a legacy he can’t leave behind.

Notes:

This chapter digs into the fire and loss that forged Danny—the moment everything changed, setting him on a path he never wanted but couldn’t escape.

Before the sleek suits and the cliffside villa, before the calculated threats and the chilling control, there was only fire and a scream. This was the exact moment Daniel Williams began his slow, agonizing transformation into something else entirely—a king in the shadows, fueled by a hatred born in the ashes of Newark, New Jersey, eight years ago...

 

---

 

Danny jolted awake on the couch, heart hammering. Before he even opened his eyes — glass shattered. Orange light pulsed across the ceiling, ugly and wrong. Heat slammed into his chest. Then Rachel’s scream tore through him.

“Danny! Grace — get Grace!”

He was on his feet, half-tangled in a blanket, nearly going down as he lunged for the hallway. The baby monitor crackled. A shrill, desperate wail split through the static — Grace.

Danny tore into the nursery. Smoke clawed the walls, paint blistering under greedy flames. Grace flailed in her crib, tiny face red and slick with tears. He swept her up, clutching her tight. Her hiccuping sobs broke against his shoulder.

When he turned — The hallway was an inferno.

Rachel stood at the other end, backlit by fire, eyes wide. She reached toward him, mouthing something he couldn’t hear. Then the ceiling groaned and collapsed. Fire roared up between them. Rachel’s scream cut off under a wall of flame. Danny lurched forward, but the heat seared him back. He staggered, shoulder blistering, hair singing.

So, he ran. Grace a terrified bundle against his chest.

Outside, cold air smacked him hard. Snow mixed with falling ash.

He dropped to his knees in the parking lot, gravel biting through his slacks, and rocked Grace as sirens wailed somewhere far too late.

Rachel was gone. Their life burned down to embers. Danny didn’t scream.

Couldn’t.

He just held his daughter tight, staring at the broken window that had once framed their living room — now nothing but black ruin.

 

---

 

Danny Williams had been a cop to the bone—badge, oath, and a dying belief that the law still meant something. Newark was rotting from the inside, but he kept showing up, trying to carve out one clean block at a time. He pursued justice with an almost naive fervor, despite the faint whispers of a different legacy he'd always tried to ignore.

Maria Moretti found an unlikely haven with Alessandro Costa, Luciano's son and trusted heir. Their union, born of deep love, brought forth two sons, Donato and Mattheo. For a time, a beautiful, impossible dream of normalcy bloomed.

But the peace was a fragile thing, brutally torn apart when the Bellini turf war intensified, claiming Alessandro's life. Heartbroken and desperate to protect her boys from the relentless cycle of violence, Maria shed her past, reinventing herself as Clare Williams.

It was a stark measure to escape not just destitution, but the inexorable pull of Jersey's bloody dynasties, placing as much distance as she could between her sons and the crushing legacy of their name.

Luciano, for his part, had let her go, but never truly took his eyes off them, a silent sentinel watching over his son's legacy. Still, the new life Maria built was brief.

Years later, Clare Williams quietly succumbed to an illness, leaving her sons truly orphaned, bound only by their shared history and the lingering shadow of the Costa name.

And so, though his mother had tried to shield him, the Costa family legacy was a shadow Danny had always lived beneath. Running deeper than concrete and dirt, it was a name murmured with hushed respect or fear. It was into this deep, dangerous current that Danny chose to dive as a cop, determined to fight the very world his family inhabited.

After deciding to become a cop, he transferred to Narcotics—too stubborn to stay behind a desk, determined to pull Newark’s cancer out by the roots.

He went deep, chasing Bellini operations like a man hunting his own demons.

Six months undercover. Every handshake, every dirty dollar, a bet with death.

Then a Molotov cocktail through the living room window — a message, or a reckoning.

Either way, it was Rachel who paid.

 

---

 

In the courtroom. Wood-paneled walls. Stale coffee. The judge droned on, voice a million miles from the hate coiling through Danny’s gut.

Rachel’s funeral had been weeks ago, a blur of cold rain and colder silence, but the ache in his chest was still raw. He'd been back on the job all that time, the grim routine of hollow shifts and mornings spent ensuring Grace was cared for by Matt in his temporary apartment a suffocating anchor.

He sat ramrod straight in the front row, suit freshly pressed, hands locked so tight on his knees that his knuckles blanched.

Across the aisle, Vincenzo Bellini lounged like he owned the place. Black suit, Rolex catching the light, laughing with his lawyer.

“...motion granted. Charges dismissed.”

The gavel cracked. Danny just sat there, hands clamped on his knees, teeth grinding so hard his jaw clicked. Six months undercover, all for this. Rachel’s life. For nothing.

Bellini sauntered over, close enough for Danny to smell sharp cologne. He leaned in, voice oily.

“Tough break, Tony. Oh, excuse me. Officer Williams. Shame about your wife.”

A slow, vile smile curled his mouth. Then a casual pat on Danny’s shoulder, like they were old buddies. Danny’s hand twitched for his gun. But he stayed seated. Because that’s what the badge demanded. Even as something inside him started to rot.

 

---

 

Later that day, back at his small apartment—a temporary place, cold and impersonal—Danny watched Matt play with Grace. His kid brother, twenty, too young, still figuring out his own place in the world, but he adored Grace.

She sat quietly in Danny’s arms, small and trusting, occasionally reaching out to touch Matt’s face. “I’ve got her, Danny. Don’t worry.”

Danny clapped his shoulder, kissed Grace’s head. “Yeah. I know.” Then left for his shift, because the only way he knew to keep them safe was to keep moving.

He came home to a splintered lock. Inside, the place was gutted. Couch slashed, TV face-down, glass ground into the carpet. Matt sat on the floor by the crib, arm over his ribs. His lip was split, a dark bruise already blooming across his cheek.

“They didn’t touch her,” he croaked. “They just... trashed the place. Left this.” A bullet sat heavy in his palm. Grace stirred in the crib, reaching out for Matt. Danny dropped beside them, heart splitting in ways he couldn’t stitch back. Later, at the hospital — Danny sat beside Matt’s bed, fingers tightening around his brother’s wrist. Matt’s eyes met his, tired but steady. “I’m sorry, man. I tried.”

Danny shook his head slowly, eyes dark with a mix of pain and fierce determination “No,” Danny rasped. “You did good. You held on. I swear to you — nobody touches you or Grace again. Not while I’m breathing.” He pressed his forehead to Matt’s temple, a silent vow passing between them.

The police came.

They took photos.

Collected the bullet.

Listened to Matt’s statement — every word of it shaking with adrenaline and shame that he hadn’t been able to stop it.

 

---

 

After two days, a detective called. Careful voice. “Without plates or IDs... there’s not much we can do. Could’ve been random.” Danny hung up without replying. Stood in the kitchen, phone dangling from his hand, staring at the floor while the last fragile pieces inside him finally cracked.

The law had failed him. Again.

The oath he’d sworn was a broken echo. There was only one place left to turn where promises still held weight, where blood ties meant absolute protection.

And he would use every last vestige of that blood to save what remained of his family.

 

---

 

By nightfall, he was standing outside the Costa estate. The gates opened like they’d been waiting. Luciano Costa stood inside, silver hair slicked back, eyes cold and sharp. Danny didn't wait for pleasantries.

He stepped forward, Grace clutched tightly to his chest, her small face buried against his shoulder. Behind him, Matt limped, pale and bruised, leaning heavily on the gatepost. Luciano's gaze swept over the three of them—the shattered father, the vulnerable child, the injured boy. “Daniel,” he murmured.

Danny stiffened. His protective grip on Grace tightened. Luciano laid a heavy hand on Danny’s shoulder. Danny’s eyes, red-rimmed but fiercely resolute, met Luciano’s.

“Grace. And Matt. My daughter, my brother. They have to be safe. And they will have nothing to do with this life. Their hands stay clean. You swear it.” Danny’s voice was low, raw with the weight of the demand, a desperate plea for the last pieces of his untainted life.

It wasn’t a request; it was the price of his soul, laid bare.

Luciano’s cold eyes softened, almost imperceptibly, as he looked at the child in Danny’s arms, then at the younger brother who had also been touched by the Bellini’s cruelty. He gave a single, firm nod.

“They are family. My family. They will be protected, by my blood and by my name. And they will never be part of these dealings. You have my word. It is time to come home, Donato.”

The use of his birth name, Donato, landed like a final, heavy stone, sealing the bargain. Danny almost turned.

Almost.

But then his eyes iced over.

And he stepped forward. Because there was no going back.

Chapter 13: Pressure Points

Summary:

Steve’s chasing leads and ghosts, while Danny’s cleaning up the streets — his way. As the Bellini case heats up, tensions rise, lines blur, and Honolulu’s quiet has never felt so loud.

Notes:

Danny’s in deep, Steve’s chasing ghosts, and no one’s following the rulebook anymore (did they ever?). Things are heating up, morally and literally, and the fallout’s coming fast. Buckle in — we’re past the point of no return.

Honolulu burned orange under the setting sun. Five-0 was empty, lights dimmed — except for Steve, 
hunched over a map of Oahu lit from below. Each pin was a wound, bleeding Bellini money. The 
silence of the office was heavy, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights.

Evidence blurred with gut instinct. It always did where Williams was concerned. A deeper, darker 
motivation fueled Danny Williams, a raw, unyielding truth Steve sensed was tied to the Bellinis, a 
personal wound that haunted him.

Not a plea, but a deep, festering trauma. Steve couldn’t stop turning it over, trying to comprehend the 
ragged edges of that profound, unspoken pain. He wondered, with a chilling mix of dread and morbid 
fascination, how far Danny would go to exact that kind of payback.

The air in the latest Bellini stash house still carried the metallic tang of fresh violence. Stripped and 
bloody. Kono hung up a call, her face grim.

“Shopkeepers say Donato’s crew came through first. Didn’t ask. Just took.”
She paused, then added, “But they’re grateful for the order he brings. Said, since Donato came, the 
smaller gangs stopped bothering them, and no one’s getting robbed on the street. It’s the promise of 
real protection. That’s why no one’s talking.”

Chin crouched by a slick of blood. “Clean shots. Tight groups. This wasn’t random. This was 
controlled.” Steve’s jaw knotted. Danny’s handprints were all over it. And that fuse kept burning 
down.

 

---

Steve stood at HQ’s window, city lights blurring into streaks against the dark glass. His reflection 
looked older, etched with deeper lines. His father’s case. Williams. The two tangled so tight he 
couldn’t pull them apart anymore, their threads woven into a single, inescapable knot in his mind.

The phone buzzed. He picked up. “McGarrett.” A rasp on the line, cut through the quiet. “Still chasing 
your old man’s ghost? The loose end, McGarrett. The one no one else bothered to trace. Meet me at 
Pier 7 after sundown tomorrow. Alone.”

Click. Dead air. Could be a trap.

Or the break he needed. A dangerous thrill, unwanted but undeniable, pulsed through Steve’s veins. 
His hand closed tight around the phone. Because of course he’d go.
He had to.

 

---

Danny sat in a leafy courtyard, amaro sweating in his hand, the bitter scent mingling with the sweet 
night air. The clink of ice was the only sound for a long moment. Sal rattled off numbers — bribed 
dockmasters, Bellini money funneled into back pockets.

“Shop owners are scared, boss. Talking about you like you’re a damn hurricane.” Sal paused. “But the 
complaints stopped. The other crews, the street trash – they’re not hitting the registers anymore. No 
one's running to the cops, either. They know you handle things.”

Danny’s smile was thin, a practiced curve that didn't quite reach his eyes, holding a flicker of cold, 
sharp satisfaction. Quiet streets, full registers. That was the order he promised. They would learn its 
cost.

A pause. “Anything on McGarrett?” Sal hesitated, as if sensing the complex ground they were 
treading. “He took the bait. He’ll be at Pier 7.” Danny took a slow sip of his amaro, the bitter taste a 
perfect counterpart to the calculating satisfaction in his gut.
His voice was almost gentle, the silkiness of a spider's web. “Good. Let him find it. A man ought to 
know who killed his blood.”

He stared into the darkness beyond the courtyard, the shadows seeming to 
deepen the lines around his eyes.
He thought of Rachel, of the searing pain that had twisted him into Donato, the unyielding vow to 
Grace an Matt.

For a second, something profoundly unguarded flashed across his face—a brief, almost mournful 
recognition of Steve's similar path, a shared burden, a familiar kind of damnation.
Then it vanished, gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the ice. He let the bitterness of the amaro 
settle deep, but underneath it all was a glimmer of something more — a debt not just to settle, but 
maybe to finally balance, to put the world back in its brutal, necessary order.

Because in the end, this war — the pressure, the bodies, the quiet dismantling — wasn’t just about 
revenge. It was about setting things right. And if McGarrett stepped in anyway? Maybe that was 
exactly what needed to happen. Maybe Steve was the only one who could truly see the depth of the 
wrong, the only one who could walk this razor's edge with him.

 

---

Steve slipped inside the house that still smelled faintly of old books and sea air. Shadows pooled in the 
living room, deepening the sense of ghosts. His father’s voice, memories of simpler days — but no 
comfort.

He ran a hand through his hair, then rested it on his sidearm. The weight was familiar. A promise of 
control in a world spiraling out. Above it all, Williams’ image haunted him — not merely amused by 
the wreckage, but possessing a dangerous, knowing intensity, like he already knew the endgame, and 
the full cost of it.

Maybe he did.

Steve exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Tomorrow, he’d chase this lead. Another ghost. 
And try to hold the island from tipping into war, and from Danny Williams’ relentless, personal crusade.

Chapter 14: No Way Out

Summary:

Steve follows a lead into the dark, thinking he’s got it under control. He doesn’t. The night turns sideways fast—with rain, bullets, and the kind of tension that never comes with easy answers.

Notes:

This chapter came from a place of quiet tension—the kind that builds slowly until it snaps. Steve’s chasing answers, but what he finds instead is a collision with everything he thought he had under control. It's not loud, but it lands hard.

The day crawled by, hot and close, the kind of tropical heat that settled in Steve’s bones and wouldn’t shake loose. The air in HQ felt thin, stale. He didn’t stick around. Chin and Kono were chasing Bellini trucks. Lou was up on the North Shore breaking up some turf skirmish. 

The building felt hollow without them, the quiet heavy, broken only by his own restless movements and the low hum of the fluorescent lights. Steve tried to bury himself in reports — offshore accounts, seized hardware, patterns of smuggling that all traced back to the same dark heart. But none of it stuck. His mind kept drifting to the anonymous lead from the night before, a summons to Pier 7 that explicitly stated "after sundown." 

The waiting gnawed at him, a restless energy building with every fading ray of light. His thoughts were consumed by the unanswered questions of his father's case, and the way Williams’ smirk still scraped under his skin, an infuriating, intoxicating presence. 
As twilight bled into night, he finally strapped on his sidearm, slid a spare mag into his belt, and headed out. He drove directly to Pier 7. The docks were deserted, the wind off the water biting cold. 

The contact wasn't there, but what he discovered instead only deepened his unease, leaving him with more questions than answers. 
He pulled away from the pier, the lonely drive feeling heavy with unseen eyes. 
The streets were calm enough—too calm, maybe. The ocean was a dark sheet beside him, the breakwater whispering with each slow roll of the tide, a hypnotic lull. 

He rolled down the window, hoping the breeze would cool the restless heat inside. The sky, bruised purple moments ago, finally broke. Fat drops splattered on the windshield, then a sudden, tropical deluge began, sheeting down and drumming loudly on the roof. 

His phone buzzed. “Grover.” Lou’s voice was sharp. 
“Where the hell are you, McGarrett? Chin says you disappeared.”
“Was just following up on something. Pier 7.” A loaded silence stretched between them, then Lou’s sigh crackled over the line. “Man, you ever think to take backup? You got a whole damn team ready to bleed for you. Just say the word.”

Steve drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “It was nothing, Lou. Just a loose end I had to check myself.”
“Yeah? And how many times have you said that right before everything went sideways, McGarrett?” Lou’s voice took on a dangerous edge. Steve almost smiled. “You’ll be the first I call if it does.”

“You better,” Lou snapped. “I swear to God, McGarrett, if you end up face-down in the harbor I’m gonna resurrect your stubborn ass just to kill you again.”
Steve ended the call, shaking his head. But something warm lingered under his ribs. Lou had his back. They all did.
Up ahead, the light flipped yellow. Steve rolled through slowly, his gaze instinctively flicking to the rearview mirror. Headlights. Too close. Too steady. His gut twisted. He reached for the mic.

"Lou, something is off. My gut says something's wrong. Can you or someone get eyes on my twenty as I head back towards town?"
The first shot punched through the back window. Bellini. This was it. They’d been watching, of course—every step he took, every thread he pulled in his father’s case. 

All the pressure he’d put on their operations. The Pier 7 lead must have just confirmed for them how dangerously close he was getting, enough to justify this. Glass exploded, spraying over him like icy rain. Steve jerked the wheel. The Jeep fishtailed, tires screaming on wet asphalt. Lou’s voice barked through the radio: “Steve? Talk to me—what the hell was that?”

Another shot tore through the dash. Sparks flew. The mic went dead. Steve cut left, slammed the Jeep into a narrow alley. Tires shrieked, bullets sparked off wet brick walls. The alley stretched ahead like a dark throat with no promise in the end. He burst out the far side—straight into another SUV blocking the exit. 

No way out.

He bailed before the Jeep even stopped. The door groaned, and his boots hit the slick asphalt hard. Two men spilled out of the SUV, rifles raised. Steve dove behind a dumpster, cold metal biting through his shirt. He drew his Glock. His breath was shallow, but instinct sharpened him. He returned fire, shots quick and precise. 
One man went down with a strangled yell; the other ducked behind cover, rounds chewing the dumpster like paper. His breath shallow, pulse racing, he adjusted his position, searching for an opening. 

They were flanking. Just a few more steps—they’d box him in.
The street erupted with staccato fire. The second gunman spun, hit three times, and folded. A sleek black sedan slid to a stop, tires barely whispering on the wet asphalt. Doors flew open, more shots cracking through the dark, precise and deadly. The SUV screeched away, tires howling into the night.

Sleek and still as a shark in dark waters, Danny Williams stepped out of a black sedan, the relentless rain already beading on his expensive suit, making the fabric cling to his frame like a second skin. The amber glow of a distant streetlamp caught the sharp lines of his jaw, his damp hair slicked back from his face. His gaze found Steve, a flicker of something unreadable— before a dry, bored smirk curved his lips. 

“Commander,” he called, a subtle undercurrent of something almost possessive in his voice.

“You look like shit.”

Steve staggered up, rage and relief tangling sharp in his chest, a volatile mix he couldn't control. He stalked forward, gun still raised, dripping sweat and rain. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

He’d tried to bring Williams down once before, a calculated move that had ended not with a collar, but with Danny’s infuriatingly amused dismissal, as if Steve were merely an inconvenience.

Danny arched a brow, a hint of genuine amusement in his eyes now, though quickly masked. His men were already sweeping the alley, kicking weapons away, checking pulses that didn’t matter. His movements were fluid, efficient, a man perfectly at home in the aftermath of violence.
“Saving your ungrateful ass,” Danny said mildly, eyes flicking from the ruined Jeep to Steve, a slow, appraising scan that made Steve’s skin prickle. 
“Next time, try not to piss off entire crime syndicates without backup. Bad for your health.”

Steve shoved him hard in the chest. The impact was solid; Danny barely moved, his smirk unshaken, a stubborn, unyielding rock. For a breath, his gaze held Steve's with an intensity that bordered on accusation, an almost possessive fury. Steve felt the dangerous, electric thrill of their proximity, the raw power humming between them. 

“I didn’t ask for this and I don’t need your clean-up crew,” Steve bit, his voice sharp, teeth gritted, ignoring the undeniable thrum of attraction that flared.
Danny’s smirk turned razor sharp, but his eyes held a complex mix of challenge and something softer, more profound, a recognition of Steve’s impossible pride. “No, but you’re getting it. Because if you die now, the Bellinis win. And I’m not handing them that.” His gaze held Steve’s, a silent promise, a shared destiny.
The guttural groan of a wounded man behind them barely registered with Danny.

With an almost dismissive flick of his wrist, he signaled. A muffled shot followed instantly, ending the sound. Steve observed the scene, a chilling sense of déjà vu washing over him; it was the same harsh world, just different allegiances 
The muffled shot had barely faded when Danny's casual order registered fully with Steve. This swift, clean kill was a ruthlessness Steve knew intimately. It didn't shock him, but it underscored how their paths had diverged in this brutal world, even as their eyes remained locked. Danny's gaze was hard and cold, yet remarkably steady, almost inviting understanding 

"So, you want to play hero on my island? Go ahead. But understand this: you're still breathing because I allow it. I've been cleaning up this filth for a long time, and I'm not handing my streets over to amateurs or mainland parasites." 

He stepped even closer, invading Steve's personal space, radiating a dangerous warmth. The words cracked something open in Steve. He grabbed Danny’s shirt, pulled him in close, breath hot against his cheek, the rough fabric of Danny’s suit jacket surprisingly soft under his grip. For a heartbeat, wildfire flared—reckless, hungry, a terrifying recognition. 

Steve’s grip tightened, fingers digging into Danny's shoulder. Their faces were inches apart, the raw scent of rain and smoke and adrenaline mingling with Danny's expensive cologne. 

The tropical deluge that had been pounding steadily seemed to concentrate its force around them, pressing in, blurring the world beyond their immediate vicinity with a relentless downpour. 
Danny’s eyes burned with something Steve didn’t want to name, a mirrored intensity that both terrified and compelled him. There was no pretense left, just raw, undeniable desire.

And in that moment, looking at Danny Williams, slicked with rain and radiating lethal competence, Steve knew, with a certainty that iced his blood and set his veins alight, that he was in deep, undeniable trouble. 
The piercing shriek of tires and the sudden glare of headlights ripped through the rain-soaked night, followed instantly by the first pops of gunfire. 

And in that same charged, chaotic instant, Danny’s lips were on his. 

It was a hard, demanding press, tasting of rain and something wild and desperate. Brief. Brutal. A swift, undeniable claim. 
Danny snarled, his eyes locked on Steve's, hardening to cold command. With a sharp, almost involuntary shove, Danny broke their intimate contact, pushing Steve roughly towards the alley’s deeper shadows. 

“Stay put! Don’t move!” 

A nearly imperceptible tremor ran through him as his hand dropped to his Glock. His eyes, for a split second, held a profound disappointment, a flash of pure, raw concern that slashed through his carefully constructed mask, before it clicked back into place. 

“Later, babe. Try not to die before I’m done with you.” 

He vanished. His men slipped into the shadows like smoke, leaving only the lingering scent of their departure.

Steve stood there alone, chest heaving, Jeep smoking behind him, bodies cooling in the dark. His lips still tingled, a phantom warmth in the cold rain. 
The taste of Danny, of rain and wild desperation, lingered, cutting through the adrenaline. It was a kiss that stole breath and screamed danger, a line crossed he hadn't known existed. 

The deluge had finally broken, leaving behind only the sound of water dripping from eaves and the distant murmur of the ocean. 

The last of the gunfire’s echo died. He found his phone, screen cracked but still working, and brought it to his ear.
“Lou.” His voice was rough, a little shaky, but he forced it steady.
“Steve! What the hell was that? I heard shots! We’re mobilizing, I swear to God I’m sending the whole damn force down there.” Lou’s voice was a furious bark, laced with obvious relief and panic.

“Hold off, Lou. It’s handled. Mostly. I’m good. I’m clear.” Steve risked a glance at the smoking Jeep, then the shadows where Danny had disappeared. “Just… send a cleanup crew. Not SWAT. Not the whole damn force. Tell Chin and Kono to stand down on their approach. It’s contained.”
A beat of silence, then Lou’s skeptical huff.

“Contained, huh? Only you, Steve. Alright, fine. But you’re debriefing us first thing. And you better have a damn good story, because if this goes sideways again, I swear to God, you’re buying the beers for a month. Starting tonight.” A faint, tired smile touched Steve’s lips.
“Understood,” Steve murmured, ending the call.

Chapter 15: Lines Blurred

Summary:

Steve and Danny are trapped between shared loss and dangerous secrets, walking a tightrope of trust, grudges, and unspoken truths. The past won’t stay buried—and neither will their connection.

Notes:

These two just can’t keep it easy, can they? Every time they try to play it cool, things get messier—and honestly, that’s half the fun. Buckle up.
Some lines are meant to be crossed.

Steve didn’t sleep. He sat at the kitchen table, elbows on worn wood, a glass of water warming between his hands. The house was silent. Too silent. Every floorboard and cabinet still echoed with his father’s life, mocking him with what he hadn’t saved. The scent of old salt and lingering grief clung to the air.

His shoulder throbbed from where he’d slammed into that dumpster. Purple bruises bloomed dark under the skin. But that wasn’t what kept him up. It was the memory of Daniel Williams’ hand on his chest, the startling warmth of it, and the ghost of Danny's lips on his own. That maddening smirk. The flash of something raw and wrecked in his eyes — right before he moved without a second’s hesitation to keep Steve safe.

A man who embodied a world Steve despised, yet had just saved his life. The paradox was a knot in his chest, unyielding, a betrayal of every line Steve swore he wouldn't cross.

The Pier 7 lead.

Anonymous. Precise.

It had directed him straight to information about his father's case, information too perfectly targeted, too cleanly delivered for a mere anonymous tip.

Then the ambush, which Williams had interrupted with chilling efficiency.

The pieces clicked into place: Williams hadn't just appeared out of nowhere to save him. He was tracking Steve, or the Bellinis, or both. And that lead?

A calculated push.

Williams was pulling the strings, guiding Steve's path. The realization should have enraged him, pure and unadulterated.

Instead, some twisted part of Steve felt steadier knowing Williams was out there, hunting the same monsters. He hated that. Hated himself more for needing it, for the dangerous pull that seemed to define their every interaction.

 

---

 

An hour before the ambush, Steve had pulled up alone. Pier 7 was rotting, the wind off the water biting cold, thick with salt and old diesel. Under one of the pilings, inside a corroded lockbox, he found exactly what the voice on the phone had promised. The metal was cold, gritty under his fingers.

A thin, water-stained folder. Scrawled in faded ink: McGarrett, John — HPD IA (closed)

Inside: redacted memos. Witness interviews that never made it to trial. A grainy photo of John McGarrett in a diner, flanked by two men — one tied to the Bellini’s, the other a retired cop whose name Steve circled hard enough to tear the paper.

The cold dread of betrayal settled deep in his stomach. It felt like prying up floorboards and finding rot underneath. And he couldn’t stop, compelled by the desperate need for answers.

By the time he walked into headquarters the next morning, Chin was waiting, arms crossed, eyes pinning Steve the second he saw the bruises ringing his throat. “Kono’s worried,” Chin said.

“She pulled HPD logs. Your Jeep was found shredded on Nimitz — three Bellini enforcers dead in the street. Black sedans seen leaving. Scene was too clean for HPD.”

Steve’s jaw ticked. The scent of Williams’ cologne from last night seemed to linger, a phantom presence. “I handled it.” “Did you?” Chin leaned in, voice low.

“Or did Williams handle it for you? That scene had Williams’ signature all over it, Steve. Surgical. Ruthless.” His voice dropped, heavy with a warning Steve couldn’t ignore. "You're walking a fine line, brah."

“That doesn’t change what he is,” Steve snapped, the words tasting like ash. Then softer, like trying to sell the lie to himself, or maybe even to Chin.

“It just means for now, we’re chasing the same ghosts.” Chin didn’t argue. Just watched him, quiet and heavy.

Like he already saw where this was going, the inevitable collision.

---

 

Dusk settled deep over Kapahulu when Steve found himself outside another Williams property. A sleek boutique out front, the real business hidden behind. The guards knew him now. Didn’t even bother frisking. Just nodded him through.

The sense of an invisible, dangerous thread drawing him back to Danny was almost palpable. Inside, Williams stood alone at a long table cluttered with ledgers, maps, blurry surveillance stills. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled, collar loose.

He looked up, one brow arching, that lazy spark of amusement dancing in his eyes, edged with an unsettling calculation, as if he'd been expecting Steve, almost waiting. “Commander. Didn’t think your pride would let you walk back through my door so soon.” His voice was a low, inviting purr. Steve didn’t take the bait. He stalked forward, palms slamming down on the table hard enough that Williams leaned back a fraction, his gaze never leaving Steve’s.

“This ends before Waikiki turns into a graveyard. I want this finished.”

The demand was a raw, guttural thing, ripped from a throat still aching from a chokehold. Danny’s mouth twisted, a familiar flash of exasperation in his eyes, quickly veiled by something colder.

“You’re not asking, Commander. You’re trying to order me around like I work for you. Funny, because last time I checked, I’m the one who just saved your reckless ass from becoming Bellini chum. And trust me, this war? It’s not exactly a walk on the beach for me either.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m trying to keep this island from bleeding out under your feet.”

Williams rose slowly, deliberate, rounding the table until he stood close enough Steve could feel the heat off him, the subtle scent of his expensive cologne. His voice dropped, a low, rough edge.

“You think I want this? The Bellinis torched half of Newark trying to cut out my blood. I watched kids burn. Watched my wife burn.” His voice was a low, controlled rasp, but a muscle jumped in his jaw, and a profound, agonizing grief tore through his composure, stark and unhidden for a fleeting moment.

“You think I’m gonna let them do it here for fun?” For a breath, the mask slipped.

Steve saw it — grief, white-hot fury, the same hollow hunger that lived under his own ribs, a mirroring of his own torment. The weight of shared loss was palpable between them.

Then it was gone, buried under that infuriating calm, the composure of a man who had mastered his own hell. Steve's eyes narrowed, a different kind of anger building behind the demand.

"You're the one who started this. The Pier 7 lead, those files – you planted them. You knew what they'd show me. Why play games?"

Danny’s mouth curved — not a smile. More like an old scar, painful yet defining.

“Because you deserve to know who you have to hunt. Same way I did. And because I know what chasing revenge blind does to a man. You’d burn this island to cinders.”

His gaze was intense, unwavering, a profound understanding passing between them.

“Better to give you a compass.”

Steve’s chest tightened. Not guilt. Not relief. Just two men stuck on the same ruin, staring into the abyss of shared pasts and entwined futures.

“You don’t get to play my savior,” Steve ground out, the words ripped from him. “If I find out you’re feeding me bullshit—”

Williams laid a hand on Steve’s chest. Not rough — steady, almost tender, the warmth seeping through his shirt. His fingers slid down, slowly, with an agonizing deliberation, until his thumb caught the edge of Steve’s badge at his hip, pressing there like he could feel every ounce of what it meant.

Or what it cost.

A silent acknowledgment of Steve's burden, his oath, and the invisible threads of control Williams now held over him. “I gave you the trail,” Williams said, voice low, almost a caress.

“Where it ends... you'll find something far worse than me."

Their eyes clashed. The air felt hot, strung tight, charged with an unspoken gravity that pulled them inexorably closer. Something in Steve surged forward — reckless, hungry, dangerous.

The phantom warmth of Danny's lips on his own from the night before was suddenly, searingly real, a silent echo in the quiet room.

For one breathless second, he nearly closed the gap.

To silence Williams with a kiss, to mark him, to drag him into the raw, consuming fire that pulsed between them.

Maybe all at once.

Then he jerked away like he’d touched live wire, boots thudding as he stormed out, the raw taste of frustration and forbidden desire on his tongue.

Behind him, Williams stayed where he was, watching. A shadow pinned somewhere between the enemy and something Steve didn’t dare name, a quiet, almost mournful longing in his eyes as the door clicked shut.

 

Chapter 16: Unsettled Waters

Summary:

Steve kicks off the day with a no-nonsense raid, but of course, things get complicated when Danny shows up with his usual smirk and cryptic remarks. Old cases, old grudges, and uncomfortable chemistry collide—because nothing about this is ever simple.

Notes:

A raid, some tough questions, and Danny being Danny—what could possibly go wrong? Writing this felt like juggling explosives with a side of awkward tension. Enjoy the chaos!

The raid came at dawn.

Five-0 moved like a blade through the warehouses near Sand Island, cutting shadows across rusted fences and steel walls. The air was sharp with the tang of salt and industrial grime. Steve led the point, vest snug, SIG steady, every muscle primed. His father’s cold case thrummed in the back of his skull like a migraine, a persistent, dull ache that spurred him forward.

Even over the adrenaline, the phantom pressure of Danny Williams's lips from the alley still burned, a dangerous distraction he couldn't shake.

Chin and Kono swept the south flank, radios hissing with crackling reports. HPD held a perimeter on the road, keeping dockworkers gawking from a safe distance, their faces a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity. Above, gulls screamed, oblivious, circling against the brightening sky.

Steve signaled — move. They breached. The ram smashed through the lock, and inside, chaos.

The air, thick with the smell of stale coffee and fear, was instantly rent by gunfire. Bellini soldiers lurched from cots, clawed for guns behind crates. Bullets cracked. Steve dropped two before they could blink, adrenaline scouring every old injury clean, a primal focus taking over. Kono tackled a giant, cuffed him with a knee to his spine. Chin barked orders, forcing another pair to toss weapons, his voice a steady anchor in the storm.

When it ended, the Bellinis were zip-tied and groaning on the floor, scattered like broken dolls. Steve scanned the warehouse, heart still hammering, a strange emptiness in his chest. It should’ve felt like a win. But it didn’t. It felt like standing at the edge of something rotten, waiting to be swallowed whole, a shadow of an unseen hand already having done half the work.

The ghost of a dangerous, infuriating smirk seemed to linger at the edges of his vision, a reminder of the man pulling the strings.

“That’s it,” Kono panted, coming up, sweat glistening on her forehead. “Ledgers, cash, the whole shipment. Another one of their operation’s dead.” Chin was already on the phone, his voice formal and crisp. “Governor, it’s over. You’ll want to see this yourself.” Steve gave a tight nod. But the word tasted wrong.

Over? Not even close.

 

---

 

The sun burned off the haze as a black Escalade rolled up, its polished chrome reflecting the harsh light. Out stepped Danny Williams in pale linen, sunglasses flashing, no visible guards — didn’t need them.

He moved with a quiet, lethal grace, carrying Oahu like it owed him rent, the very air around him seeming to shimmer with his presence, and a specific, unsettling warmth that made Steve's skin prickle. Steve bristled instantly, hand on his sidearm, the familiar weight a small comfort against the unsettling presence of the man.

Not that he’d shoot. It was a reflex. Or maybe it was the heat Williams brought with him, the way he looked at Steve like he was half a joke and half something dangerously worth ruining. Something in Steve’s gut twisted, a pull he violently resented.

Williams took in the scene — Bellinis stuffed into paddy wagons, pallets under blue tarps, HPD crawling over everything — then tilted his head, mouth curving into that familiar, infuriating half-smile.

A hint of something deeper, a quiet, almost sad satisfaction, flickered in his eyes behind the dark lenses, like he was watching a long-overdue debt being paid.

"You’ve been busy."

His voice was pure Jersey, amused and sharp, a casual drawl that belied the cutting edge. His hands spread, a gesture of almost innocent curiosity, like he might start explaining the finer points of cannoli just to piss Steve off.

"Stay out of it," Steve snapped, his voice tight.

"My jurisdiction. It’s done."

Danny clicked his tongue, a soft, dismissive sound. "Steven, my friend — you keep saying ‘done’ like it means something. Out here? Nothing’s ever done."

His gaze swept over the arrested Bellini soldiers being loaded into the wagons, a flicker of cold contempt in his eyes. "This isn't about one shipment, Commander. This is a sickness that spreads. I've been watching it for a long time. It follows you." His voice dropped, raw, a hint of ancient pain.

Steve’s jaw tightened. The sharp, clean cut of Danny’s expensive cologne mixed with the salt air and lingering dockside grime – all of it clogged Steve’s throat, a dizzying mix that made him feel off-kilter. The familiar, unwelcome awareness of Danny's presence, the very space he occupied, prickled at Steve's senses. He hated the way his body seemed to hum with Danny's proximity.

"The Bellini are finished. That means your excuse to play capo on this island is finished, too."

Danny pulled off his glasses. His eyes were ice blue, surprisingly tired under the bite, etched with a profound, almost ancient weariness that contradicted his powerful demeanor.

"You think the Bellinis are finished? You really are adorable when you’re naive."

A subtle, almost tender amusement softened his lips for a fraction of a second, before it hardened again, his gaze dropping to Steve's mouth for a fleeting, charged instant.

He stepped closer, crowding Steve’s space until their shoulders nearly brushed, the heat radiating off Danny a palpable thing that seemed to seep into Steve's own skin, making his blood hum.

Steve could smell mint gum under the cologne. Could see a faint nick on Danny’s cheek, a small imperfection that made him seem unsettlingly human, infuriatingly touchable.

"By the way," Danny said, voice dropping, a low, intimate rumble that seemed to vibrate through Steve’s chest, pulling a sharp, involuntary intake of breath from Steve.

"you might want to rethink who killed your old man. Because it sure as hell wasn’t me."

He paused, letting the words sink in, his eyes holding Steve's with an intense, unblinking focus that felt less like an accusation and more like a challenge to a shared, dark dance.

Steve’s pulse slammed, a frantic drum in his ears. "What the hell did you just say?"

The question was a demand, a desperate plea for clarity amidst the swirling chaos.

But Danny only smirked — that crooked, infuriating grin that made Steve want to shove him against the nearest wall, for a whole mix of reasons he refused to examine, reasons that terrified him with their unwelcome heat. Then he slid the sunglasses back on, severing the intense eye contact, and got into the Escalade, leaving Steve to reel.

Steve stood there long after the SUV disappeared, the scent of burning diesel and Williams’ cologne lingering, a phantom touch on his skin. Head a mess. Part of him still buzzed with the thrill of the raid. Another part buzzed for a reason he’d never admit, a dangerous, unwanted current that had nothing to do with justice, and everything to do with the man who had just left him.

 

---

 

Back at HQ the briefing room glowed with case board light — mugshots, shipping routes, Bellini ledgers. Steve didn’t see any of it. He was fixed on a folder. His father’s murder file.

Kono hovered in the doorway. "Boss? Want us to wrap it up?"

Steve didn’t look up. His grip on the file whitened his knuckles.

"No. Pull everything we have on the Costa family’s old rivals in Jersey. Any survivors. Anyone with a grudge. Someone’s been clearing Bellini trash before it ever washed up here. I want names. Names of anyone who gained from my father's death, or anyone with a reputation for 'cleaning up' loose ends."

The words were clipped, sharp with a new, terrifying certainty. Kono nodded, her expression unreadable.

"On it." When she left, Steve leaned back. Exhaled, a long, shuddering breath. His throat felt raw. Williams’ words clawed at his insides — and so did the ghost of that grin, the look that said Danny saw right through him.

Maybe always had.

He was no longer just a target, but an open book to Williams, and the thought was both infuriating and strangely exhilarating.

For the first time, Steve wasn’t sure if he wanted revenge, answers — or something even more dangerous, something that had started to whisper to the deepest, most terrified parts of his own soul.

 

Chapter 17: Ashes and Lies

Summary:

Steve comes home expecting silence and sleep — instead, he gets attitude, cryptic clues, and way too many feelings under his porchlight. The gun wasn’t necessary. The conversation? Unfortunately, very much was. Midnight visits, mixed signals, and one very tired commander.

Notes:

Steve’s just trying to sulk in peace, but life (and certain smug visitors) won’t let him. I really can’t stop writing emotionally tense doorstep scenes — send help.

It was well past midnight when Steve finally killed the engine outside his house. The headlights cut across the driveway, catching on a battered surfboard propped against the wall — a leftover from easier days that felt like they’d belonged to someone else, to a different man.

He just sat there. Hands clenched on the wheel, listening to the engine tick as it cooled, the steady hum doing little to settle the turmoil inside him.

On paper, the Bellinis' Honolulu operations were crippled. Their blood might have been washed off Honolulu’s streets, and tourists were back to chasing sunsets with overpriced cocktails.

To the public, it looked like peace. But Steve knew it wasn't a victory. Not even close. He'd barely scratched the surface. Because whoever ordered John McGarrett’s death was still out there.

Still pulling strings Steve couldn’t see, threads reaching into the darkest corners, a network far larger and more insidious than one island crew.

And then there was Daniel Williams. That conversation on the docks replayed over and over, his words a haunting echo in Steve’s mind: “You might want to rethink who killed your old man. Because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

So, who the hell was it?

Who had the reach to make bodies vanish from Newark to Honolulu — and leave Steve hunting ghosts for months, feeling more lost than found?

His phone buzzed, shattering the quiet, the sudden noise a jolt to his frayed nerves. Unknown number. He almost let it ring. Then he picked up, a strange, electric certainty urging him.

A voice slid down the line — low, faintly amused, too damn familiar, a voice that had been haunting his thoughts for weeks.

“Commander. You look like hell. Been watching you sit there for ten minutes now. Are you going to move, or should I just send the nice little old lady from next door over with a blanket and some warm milk? You look like you need it, babe.”

Steve’s head snapped up, eyes scanning the shadows. Across the yard, lit by the porch lamp, a figure leaned against the low wall. White shirt, sleeves rolled, hair mussed by the trade winds.

He looked impossibly relaxed, utterly at home, a dangerous, alluring trespasser.

Williams.

Steve was out of the car in a heartbeat, gun raised, finger tight on the trigger, every instinct screaming threat.

“Try it,” Danny said, calm as ever, not budging an inch, his voice a steady, velvet counterpoint to Steve’s rage.

“And your neighbors wake up to a ballistic nightmare neither of us needs. Seriously, put the gun down, Steven. I’m just trying to have a conversation, which you, incidentally, suck at.”

His eyes, even from this distance, held a knowing spark, a quiet challenge that bypassed Steve's anger and went straight to the raw nerve.

Steve’s jaw locked. “Why are you here?” The words were clipped, strained.

Williams pushed off the wall, walking closer with that slow, maddening ease, as if he owned the very air. The soft scent of his expensive cologne, faint even across the yard, seemed to precede him, a warning and an invitation.

“Because it was time we talked somewhere that doesn’t smell like blood or gunpowder. And because you’re still chasing the wrong corpse. Honestly, you’re worse than a bloodhound, except bloodhounds eventually find the right scent.”

His voice was laced with a weary patience, a man tired of half-truths. Steve didn’t lower the gun. Couldn’t. His muscles were coiled too tight, like letting go would mean unraveling completely, admitting to the strange, unwanted pull Williams exerted.

“You’ve torn this island apart trying to pin your father’s murder on me.  Convenient, isn’t it? Keeps you from asking who actually needed John McGarrett dead.”

Danny’s tone was disarmingly direct, cutting through Steve’s rage.

“Speak plainly,” Steve snapped, his voice a low growl.

Williams stopped at the foot of the steps, looking up, his face illuminated by the porch light. His eyes narrowed, turning flat and hard, reflecting the distant stars.

“You ever consider it was someone closer? Someone who needed him quiet before he could drag more skeletons out?” The implication hung in the air, cold and stark. Steve’s gut twisted. “If you’re implying my father was dirty—”

“Not dirty,” Danny cut him off, almost impatient, his voice edged with a strange, fierce protectiveness for John McGarrett's reputation.

“Just relentless. John McGarrett was about to crack something bigger than the Bellini’s ever dreamed of. A pipeline that ran from Jersey all the way out here — cash, politicians, families with old names. He got close. So, they ended it. Right there in your living room. And left you to clean up the ashes and lies they fed you.”

Steve couldn’t speak. Could barely think. The words rattled around his skull without landing, too vast, too monstrous to comprehend. Could it really be that big? That ugly?

Danny climbed the steps slowly, deliberately, stopping just close enough that Steve felt the faint heat off him, the subtle shift in the air, the familiar current of danger and desire snapping between them.

The mocking edge was gone from his features. In its place — a tired kind of honesty, a profound empathy that mirrored the pain in Steve’s own heart.

“I lost people to the Bellini’s too, McGarrett. You think I wanted them here? This was supposed to be clean. My own goddamn slice of paradise. But they dragged their poison with them.” His voice was raw, a barely contained tremor revealing the depth of his own enduring wound, the rage and grief he lived with.

Steve finally let the gun drop. Just a fraction, the weight of it suddenly too heavy. His voice came out hoarse, a ragged whisper. “Why tell me this now?”

Williams’ mouth curved, but it was hollow, like an old, deep ache.

“Because someone’s going to come knocking again - soon. They always do. And next time, you’ll have to decide if you’re still hunting me… or if you actually want the truth.”

His gaze was unwavering, pulling Steve into the orbit of his dangerous world, a silent challenge to accept the depths of their shared damnation.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Just stood there under the quiet break of surf, the ocean’s steady rhythm a counterpoint to the wild beating of Steve’s heart. Two men orbiting the same wound from different sides, their fates undeniably entwined.

The air between them throbbed, thick with unspoken words, with raw magnetism. Steve's eyes dropped to Danny's mouth, a silent, desperate question in his gaze.

He closed the small distance between them in a lunge, one hand reaching to cup Danny’s jaw, the other finding the small of his back and pulling him flush. Their mouths collided, urgent and messy, a raw gasp escaping Danny before he responded with equal force.

It was a kiss that tasted of ashes and lies, of old wounds and terrifying new truths, a desperate anchor in a world that had just been torn apart. For a long moment, they were just two men clinging to each other, the weight of their shared damnation momentarily forgotten in the desperate press of lips and bodies.

Then Williams stepped back, hands raised in a loose, silent truce, a gesture of almost formal respect. A muscle jumped in his jaw, a momentary flicker of something tight and strained in his eyes as he broke the spell.

“Get some sleep, Commander. You’re going to need it.”

He turned and disappeared into the dark, melting into the shadows like he was born from them, leaving Steve alone on the porch, ocean winds cool on skin that still burned from Danny’s proximity, from his words.

Steve sank down onto the top step, gun loose in his hand, its cold metal a stark contrast to the heat that had just burned through him.

For the first time in months, the rage ebbed.

In its place settled something worse — a bone-deep exhaustion.

And the gnawing certainty that this was nowhere near over, that he had just stepped onto a path he could never truly leave.

Chapter 18: Bloodlines

Summary:

The island wakes to sun, surf, and the usual carefully controlled calm of Danny Williams’ world. But by nightfall, that calm has cracked—and he’s not the only one gearing up for a reckoning.

Notes:

You know that feeling when the universe decides to test all your patience at once? Yeah, Danny’s having one of those days.
Luckily, there’s someone who’s really good at kicking down doors and ignoring rules.

When things get messy, it helps to have a SEAL in your corner.

Grace loved the beach at dawn. Her laughter had drifted over the sand that morning, light as the foam, a bright, carefree sound against the murmur of the tide. Tiny bare feet sinking into the cool, wet sand, she chased retreating waves, oblivious to the world beyond her delight.

Two of her father’s best men watched her, ex-Rangers who looked like bored tourists in board shorts, sunglasses hiding restless, vigilant eyes. They sat on towels a discreet distance away, their posture relaxed, but their gazes constantly swept the horizon and the line of palm trees, every muscle coiled, ready.

The air was soft, promising a beautiful day, a fragile peace, as she played on the villa’s private stretch of sand.

 

---

 

Later that afternoon, the ride home from school was routine. The black SUV, its tinted windows reflecting the passing palms, rolled smooth along the coastal highway, part of Danny’s private security convoy.

Grace sat in the back, quietly humming to herself, tired from a day of lessons and play. Her backpack slumped beside her, a crayon drawing of a bright yellow sun clutched in one small hand. The gentle hum of the engine, the familiar sway of the vehicle—it was all comfort, all normal.

Then, a sudden, blinding flash of chrome in the side mirror.

A panel truck shot out of a side street, not slowing, not even braking, smashing into the lead vehicle. Metal screamed, a tortured shriek that tore through the air, followed by the horrific grind of crumbling steel and shattering glass.

The SUV lurched, tires shredding. Grace was thrown forward, her head snapping against the padded seat. Before the driver could even react, the convoy crunched to a halt, boxed in by another car that slammed from behind, a brutal impact of steel on steel.

Then came the gunfire.

Not chaotic, but controlled. Professional. Crack-crack-crack. Suppressed weapons, small bursts, aimed with chilling precision for the front seats.

The air instantly filled with the sharp, acrid smell of gunpowder and hot metal. Grace screamed, a high, desperate sound that ripped through the chaos as her SUV rocked. Her primary guard twisted in his seat, drawing his sidearm—and took two rounds through the glass before he could even target a threat. He slumped forward, a sudden, horrifying spray of crimson blooming across the window, painting the interior in stark, ugly streaks.

Doors flew open. Men in board shorts and local fishing shirts poured out—too calm, too precise, their faces grim masks. One yanked Grace by the wrist, her tiny hand swallowed in a large, brutal grip.

She stumbled, whimpering, her small legs unable to keep up. Another leveled a pistol at the dazed, bleeding second guard and fired point-blank, the muffled thud of the shot final and absolute.

By the time the first real sirens wailed, distant and belated, the kidnappers were gone—Grace shoved into the back of a second vehicle that roared away, vanishing up into the maze of residential streets, leaving behind only shattered glass and the stench of burning rubber, and a chilling, heavy silence broken only by the drip of blood.

 

---

 

The secure line rang, shrill and insistent, a sound of immediate dread.

Sal answered, his face draining to sheet-white, eyes wide with horror as he listened. He handed the phone to Danny without a word, his hand trembling. A rough Jersey accent slithered through the receiver, slick and vile.

“How’s the pineapple king doing today? Missing something? We’ve got the little princess. Start pulling out of the docks. Give us the harbormaster. Or we’ll start mailing you fingers.”

The voice was a casual, insidious threat, delivered with chilling calm, as if discussing the weather.

The line clicked dead.

For a terrifying, endless beat, Danny didn’t move. His face was a mask of frozen disbelief, every muscle locked. He stared at the phone, as if the cold plastic could tell him it's not real.

Then, a terrible, volcanic rage erupted. The glass in his hand shattered, crimson dripping between his knuckles, blood mixing with shards. A low, guttural growl tore from his throat, a sound more animal than human.

Sal tried to speak.

"Get me Frank, then Paulie, then every captain on the damn island!"

Danny roared, his voice thick with a rage that shook the very foundations of the villa. His eyes were wild, breath coming hard, a pale, grim mask over a core of barely contained desperation.

"I want every man in the streets, every ear to the ground. Find her! I don't care who you lean on, who you break, just find her!"

He paced the opulent living room, a caged animal. Every instinct screamed for retribution, for the swift, brutal justice his world demanded. He knew how to make men talk, how to make them regret the day they were born.

His men were already mobilizing, a silent, efficient army spreading across the island. He could feel the pulse of his network quickening, the dark web of his influence reaching out, seeking.

But then, a cold, insidious dread began to worm its way through the rage. This wasn't just a challenge to his authority; this was Grace.

His little girl.

These men had crossed a line so absolute, so sacred, that conventional retaliation felt... too slow. And more dangerously, too public. The kind of war he would wage would burn the island, and Grace would be caught in the inferno. His methods, so effective for control, might be the very thing that buried her deeper, or worse, put her in more direct peril.

He could unleash hell, but what if hell consumed her first?

He stopped, fists clenched, blood still dripping from his knuckles. His gaze fell on a framed photo of Grace on the mantel, her bright, innocent smile mocking his powerlessness.

He needed speed.

He needed discretion.

He needed a reach that bypassed his network's known operations, a way to move through the shadows the Bellinis wouldn't expect. His eyes, though still burning, began to lose some of their wildness, replaced by a terrible, cold calculation. He had to think beyond his usual parameters, for Grace. He had a contact, a last resort, someone who operated in a different world, with different rules.

 

---

 

Steve was in the Five-0 ops center, reviewing drone footage from a previous stakeout, the rhythmic hum of computers a familiar backdrop. His phone buzzed, a priority alert from HPD. An officer-involved shooting and a high-profile vehicle ambush on the coastal highway. Initial reports mentioned "heavy firepower" and "multiple fatalities." His gut clenched. This wasn't a standard traffic incident.

He was in his truck in minutes, sirens wailing, weaving through afternoon traffic. The scene was chaos. Patrol cars swarmed the area, crime scene tape flapping in the breeze.

Two black SUVs were mangled, their windows shot out, the scent of gunpowder still sharp in the humid air. Medics were loading a body into an ambulance, and paramedics worked on another.

He pushed through the uniformed officers, his eyes scanning the wreckage. He noted the professional precision of the ambush—the angled impacts, the specific bullet patterns. This wasn't local muscle. His gaze fell on a familiar symbol etched into the side of one of the wrecked SUVs: a stylized, intertwined 'D' and 'W'. Williams' men.

A cold dread spread through him, a sickness in his stomach. He found the lead HPD detective, a veteran named Duke Lukela.

"What do we have, Duke?" Steve's voice was tight, already knowing the answer.

"Commander, this was surgical. Two of Donato's men, dead. No witnesses. And a kid, maybe ten years old, missing. They're saying it was his daughter." Duke's face was grim, his words like a punch to the gut.

Steve's world narrowed. Donato's daughter. A child. Kidnapped. This isn't just a mob hit; it was a line crossed, a declaration of war that hit far too close to home for anyone with a moral compass. His mind raced, calculating the ramifications, the sheer brutality of using a child as leverage. He knew what "Donato" was capable of when pushed, and the thought of an all-out mob war tearing through Honolulu, with a child caught in the crossfire, was unacceptable.

He had to get ahead of this. He had to.

He pulled out his phone, bypassing usual protocols, and called dispatch.

"This is Commander McGarrett. I need the direct line to Donato's villa, secure and immediate." He held his breath as the line connected, the irony of calling his nemesis a distant, forgotten thought.

"What do you want, Commander? I'm busy." Williams' voice, raw, strained, dangerously quiet. The sound alone was a blade's edge, every syllable honed by a primal, barely contained fury for his child.

"I'm at the scene, Williams. I know." Steve kept his voice level, professional, but the underlying urgency was unmistakable, a direct appeal that bypassed the animosity.

A beat of silence, heavy and fraught.

"Then you know what I need."

The words were clipped, stripped of all pretense, a ragged whisper that cut deeper than any shout. This wasn't just Donato the crime lord; this was a father with all his dangerous focus bent on his daughter's survival.

Steve made his decision.

"I'm on my way." He ended the call, the weight of the coming confrontation heavy in the silence of the ops center. He was going to save that kid. His mind already shifted, mapping out routes, resources, ignoring all the rules that usually governed his world.

He was stepping into the darkness, but for a child, he would.

His comms buzzed, then his phone rang again, a familiar number. Lou. Steve ignored it, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, the hum of his truck's engine a relentless beat.

He could already picture Lou's face, Chin's concerned frown, Kono's worried eyes. They would be demanding answers, ordering him back, but there was no time for that now.

He was already too deep.

He was going in, and he was going in alone.

 

---

 

The call clicked off. Danny stood frozen for a moment, the phone still pressed to his ear.

McGarrett had called him. The usual adversarial tension that hummed between them vanished, replaced by the stark, singular urgency for Grace. McGarrett, for all his infuriating righteousness, was a hunter. A man who understood the shadows without being consumed by them. He understood force, applied differently.

Sal found him moments later, still staring at the phone. "Boss? Any word?"

"McGarrett's coming." Danny said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, a dangerous calm settling over him. He met Sal's gaze, which held a deep understanding rather than surprise.

He was already moving with purpose towards the main hallway, dressed in dark, practical tactical pants and a black, close-fitting shirt, a familiar holstered Glock strapped to his thigh. His movements were precise, efficient, the physical manifestation of his simmering rage and desperate focus. Danny's eyes fixed on the distant horizon, already planning.

"Sal, get a car ready. And tell Frank to pull his men back. Not off the streets, but out of sight. No unnecessary attention. Not yet. We don't want the Bells getting spooked, or worse, hurting her because we're making too much noise. McGarrett works different. We work with him, or around him. Whatever it takes."

"Understood, Boss," Sal responded, his voice tight, jaw clenched in grim assent as he immediately turned to relay the new orders.

 

---

 

Steve pulled his truck up to the villa's gates. The gates swung open automatically, a subtle shift from the chaos outside to the heavily guarded, pristine grounds within. He parked and walked towards the main entrance, his hand unconsciously resting on his holstered sidearm.

He'd been here before. The place reeked of money and danger, all polished stone and muscle, a familiar sight that always grated on him, especially after their last encounter. Today, however, the usual tension was amplified by a primal fear that transcended their usual cat-and-mouse game.

Danny met him on the porch. He wasn't just a figure; he was a coiled threat, powerfully built in his tactical gear as the fading light seemed to cling to the dark fabric. His face was pale beneath his tan, a grim mask over a core of barely contained desperation. His eyes were sharp, calculating, but Steve saw the deep, chilling fear simmering beneath the surface, and something else – a dangerous, raw intensity that was almost magnetic, the kind of untamed power he both recognized and was inexplicably drawn to.

There was no handshake, no pleasantries. Steve’s gaze met Danny’s, and for a long moment, the animosity that usually sparked between them dissolved. All Steve saw was a father, raw and exposed, and a terrible ache of empathy twisted in his gut. He didn't just see a crime lord; he saw the depth of Danny's fear, a mirror of every parent's worst nightmare.

"Danny," Steve said, his voice dropping, almost a murmur, a quiet acknowledgement that transcended their titles and history. He didn't need to state the obvious, didn't need to ask "Are you okay?" because the answer was written plainly on Danny's face. Instead, he simply met Danny's gaze, a silent, steady offer of support.

He took another step, closing the last of the distance between them. Without hesitation, Steve reached out, his hand gently cupping Danny’s jaw, his thumb brushing lightly over the sharp line of his chin. His grip was firm, grounding, a silent testament to his presence. Steve’s eyes, fierce and unwavering, bored into Danny's, pulling him in, demanding his focus.

"We're going to get her back," Steve stated, his voice low, a gravelly certainty that cut through the turmoil. "I promise you, Danny. We will bring her home. Whatever it takes. Together." The last word was almost a whisper, a stark admission of their intertwined fates.

Danny flinched, almost imperceptibly, at the unexpected softness, the unwavering resolve in Steve's gaze. It was a lifeline, flung out into the terrifying abyss of his panic. He nodded, a sharp, jerky motion that belied the tremor still running through him.

"I know," he rasped, the words barely audible. "I know you will. And... I know you mean it." His eyes, momentarily losing their sharp edge, flickered with a vulnerability that few ever saw, a quiet acknowledgment of the strange, fierce loyalty Steve was offering.

Danny's voice was still clipped but devoid of its usual edge. "The Bellinis called, demanding I pull out of the docks. They're trying to seize the harbormaster's office, to cripple my operations."

Steve's jaw tightened. "And they took your daughter to make you do it."

It wasn't a question.

"Any demands for money?"

Danny shook his head. "Not yet. Just territory. And a clear message that they can hit what I value most. My men are working the angles, leaning on every contact. But they're too... loud. Too predictable."

Steve nodded slowly. He understood. Danny's power was absolute control, a vast network capable of immense pressure and quiet infiltration. Steve's own expertise lay in precision, intelligence, and the specialized extractions he'd mastered as a Navy SEAL.

For a child's life, these distinctions blurred, their disparate skills now a combined force.

"What do you have so far?" Steve asked, already moving towards the tactical maps laid out on a table inside. This wasn't about right or wrong, not anymore.

This was about finding a little girl.

Chapter 19: Collateral

Summary:

In the shadowed ruins of an abandoned shipyard, two men move like ghosts, united by a fierce, silent determination. Every step, every breath, they navigate a labyrinth of rust and danger, closing in on what matters most. The tension coils tighter with each moment—threats emerge from the darkness, alliances blur, and a fragile hope hangs by a thread.

But when the storm breaks, the raw power of loyalty, sacrifice, and unexpected connections shines through, revealing that some debts are beyond repayment, and some bonds are unbreakable.

Notes:

Sometimes the messiest missions are the ones that remind us why we fight — not for power or pride, but for the people who make it worth it.
And sometimes, just sometimes, a little kindness in the chaos makes all the difference.
When the past and present collide, only the strongest hearts survive.

It was Sal’s crew who tracked the kidnappers to an abandoned shipyard, a sprawling hulk of rusted steel and decaying docks, its skeletal cranes looming like ancient, broken giants against the setting sun. The air hung heavy with the cloying scent of salt and rot, a fitting tomb for desperate men and a terrified child. The vast interior of a former ship repair hangar, where immense hulls once loomed, was now a gloomy, echoing cavern, choked with discarded equipment and shadowy corners.

The silence inside was thick, broken only by the distant murmur of the ocean and the frantic flutter of Steve's own pulse against his ribs.

Outside, Danny’s men, a silent, efficient shadow force, fanned out across the shipyard's perimeter, securing every gate and access point.

No one was getting in, and more importantly, no one was getting out without their knowledge.

 

---

 

Deep within the shipyard, in a small, reinforced office overlooking the main hangar through a thick, grimy window, Ignazio Bellini, son of the late Vincenzo Bellini, sat, eyes fixed on a bank of monitors. The room was sparsely furnished, just a heavy steel desk, several screens displaying camera feeds and schematics, and a single, flickering fluorescent light. He wore a crisp, dark suit, a stark contrast to the decay around him. His lieutenant, a burly man with a scar running through his eyebrow, stood beside him, holding a tactical radio.

"Costa is here," Ignazio murmured, his voice calm, almost meditative, as a red dot representing a perimeter breach flashed on one of the screens. "As expected. He’s meticulous. Precise. Just like my father always said, before that animal, Donato, systematically erased our influence to clear his path to power." He took a slow, deliberate sip from a thermos of dark coffee, his gaze never leaving the monitors. "Prepare the inner defense. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. We want him deep inside."

 

---

 

Danny and Steve moved in with lethal purpose, ghosts in the dim light, splitting angles, their eyes razor-sharp, dissecting every shadow, every corroded beam and crumbling wall. Their movements were a seamless, deadly dance, like two halves of a single, highly specialized weapon, each anticipating the other's breath, a terrifying synchronicity born from shared, violent instincts and a singular, desperate goal.

Steve could feel Danny’s presence at his back, a solid, dangerous anchor, a familiar comfort and a dangerous thrill all at once.

The main entrance to the hangar, a heavy, sliding steel door, was chained and padlocked, a crude but effective barrier. Danny's hand went to his weapon, but Steve's stopped him, pointing to a narrow, high-up service catwalk accessible only by scaling a sheer, greasy wall of old machinery.

"Give me a boost," Steve murmured, his voice barely a whisper against the industrial hum of distant pumps. Danny knelt, a solid platform, and Steve sprang up, clawing for purchase on corroded pipes and treacherous ledges. He moved with the fluid grace of a predator, combat knife flashing once to pry open a rusted access panel on the catwalk.

He slipped inside, a shadow swallowed by the darkness. Seconds later, a soft click echoed, and the heavy door eased open from within. Just beyond, in the cavernous receiving area, a lone sentry with a flashlight beam cutting through the gloom never made a sound as Steve, emerging from the shadows like a wraith, clamped a hand over his mouth, pulling him back into the deeper dark for a swift, silent takedown.

 

---

 

Back in the control room, Bellini’s lieutenant grunted. "Sir, the main gate is clear. No breach there."

Bellini’s cold eyes narrowed, shifting to another monitor, showing the interior of the receiving area.

A flicker on the screen, a shadow that wasn't there a moment before, caught his attention. He saw the sentry fall, not with a bang, but a silent, unnerving grace.

"No," Ignazio corrected, a hint of genuine surprise in his tone.

"Not the main gate. He has someone else. This is not Costa alone."

His gaze followed the ghostly movements of Steve and Danny as they moved through the hangar on the screen. "Who is this, Marco? Find out."

He leaned forward, his calm veneer cracking just a fraction. "Alert the inner team. No retreat. Eliminate all threats. The girl does not leave this building."

 

---

 

They moved silently into the vast, echoing main hangar. The scene was grim, filled with the skeletal remains of old winches, scattered debris, and pools of stagnant water reflecting the weak light.

A single, weak bulb hung from a frayed wire in the distance, casting long, grotesque shadows that danced with every slight breeze.

But Grace was nowhere in sight. Their eyes swept the cavernous space, seeking any sign, any sound. A faint whimper, almost lost in the ocean's murmur, drew Danny's gaze to a reinforced door, tucked away behind a stack of rusted barrels and defunct maritime equipment, leading deeper into the shipyard's labyrinthine interior.

Danny nodded grimly at Steve, who immediately moved to the door. It was secured with a heavy crossbar, and the steel frame looked recently reinforced. Steve motioned for silence, then applied a precise, practiced force. The wood splintered with a muted crack that, despite the building's decay, was still a sharp, undeniable sound in the oppressive silence.

On the other side, the three hard-faced men tensed, their heads snapping toward the door, weapons coming up, alerted by the sound.

Steve and Danny burst through, no longer needing stealth, just raw, lethal speed, their weapons spitting fire the instant they cleared the threshold. Here, the air was even heavier.

Grace was tied to a rusted chair, tape caked over her mouth, her small body trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. Tears smudged her cheeks, her eyes, wide with terror, the brown of them dull with fear, fixed on them with desperate hope.

They stood over her, an impenetrable wall of menace.

Danny’s Glock came up, silent and deadly, a natural extension of his arm. He shot the nearest man twice through the chest — neat, clinical, the silent puffs of smoke the only evidence of his ruthless efficiency. The man slumped, gurgling, leaving a spreading stain on the grimy concrete.

Another lunged, a desperate, guttural cry, and Steve fired — one shot, skull snapped back, body hitting the ground with a hollow thud.

The third man, spun, bringing his rifle up. Danny’s Glock barked again, a second, final shot, striking the third man clean through the head. He fell with a sickening thud, his eyes still wide and surprised, the rifle clattering loudly.

The air was momentarily silent, the echoes swallowed by the space. They were a force of nature, unstoppable.

Then Danny was at Grace’s side, tearing tape from her mouth with frantic, shaking fingers, his own breath ragged. He pulled her into his arms, crushing her against him.

She sobbed, "Danno!" clutching his collar with tiny fists, burying her face in his neck, her small body shaking violently, her cries muffled against his shoulder.

“I’ve got you, monkey. I’ve got you,” Danny whispered into her hair, his voice thick with raw emotion, a fragile blend of relief and agony that tore at Steve’s heart.

The words sounded like prayer.

Or penance for the life that had dragged her into this darkness.

He pressed his face into her hair, trembling, a broken man holding onto his only light, a desperate anchor against the storm inside him.

"We need to move," Steve said, his voice tight, adrenaline still thrumming. He quickly scanned the room, then the open doorway they'd just cleared. He knew this building was a maze of shadows and potential ambushes, and their presence was now fully known.

Danny nodded, lifting Grace easily into his arms. She was small, light, but the fear still radiated from her. He kept her tucked close as they moved, Steve taking point, weapon ready, leading them back the way they came.

 

---

 

They moved through the sprawling hangar, the echoes of their footsteps loud in the vast space. The light from outside was fading fast, plunging the cavern into deeper gloom. They were close to the exit, only a few yards from the gaping mouth of the main bay door, when a figure emerged from the deep shadows near a stack of crates – Ignazio Bellini himself.

He stood utterly still, a dark silhouette against the dying light, a sleek pistol raised, aimed not at Danny, but at the trembling child in his arms.

"A memento, Costa," Ignazio's voice cut through the silence, calm and deadly, laced with a chilling satisfaction. "For my father."

Danny, reacting with a predator's instinct, shoved Grace hard behind a rusted metal drum, pushing her low to the ground.

In that same instant, Steve threw himself forward, a grim shield.

A sharp crack, flat and lethal, echoed through the vast space, and Steve felt a searing hot punch to his shoulder, a white-hot agony blossoming through him. He grunted, stumbling back, his arm going numb.

Danny, his eyes burning, brought his Glock up, firing two quick, controlled shots at Bellini.

Ignazio staggered, a dark stain blossoming on his crisp suit, before he vanished back into the enveloping gloom of the shipyard.

"Babe! You okay?!" Danny's voice was sharp with terror, immediate, forgetting everything but the solid wall of Steve's body stumbling, the raw grunt of pain.

His eyes were locked on Steve, frantic. Steve's hand was clamped over his shoulder, fingers already slick with warmth.

"Damn it, McGarrett, you idiot! Why'd you do that?!"

"She's... she's okay?" Steve gasped, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool evening air seeping in. His knees threatened to buckle. "Grace?"

"She's safe! I got her down right before he fired," Danny said, his voice tight with a mix of fury and relief. He pulled Steve's hand away, revealing the rapidly darkening patch on his shirt, the small, precise bullet hole.

"Son of a bitch. That bastard." Danny tore a strip of fabric from his own shirt, pressing it hard against the wound.

"Come on. We gotta go. Now."

He slung Steve's good arm over his shoulder, half-carrying him, while keeping a protective eye on Grace, who remained cowering behind the drum, wide-eyed but safe.

They stumbled the last few feet to the main bay door, where Sal and a few men waited, weapons ready, their faces grim.

"Get them in the car! Move!" Danny barked, his voice raw, an authority in it that few dared question. Sal nodded, quickly ushering Grace to the car, then moving to help support Steve.

Danny wouldn't let go, though. He kept his arm around Steve, his free hand still pressing the makeshift bandage to the wound, his jaw tight.

The ride back was a blur of flashing lights in the rearview mirror and hushed, urgent voices. Danny called ahead, terse commands given over the phone, preparing his private doctor.

Steve was fading in and out, the pain a dull roar, but he was dimly aware of Danny’s constant presence, the pressure on his shoulder, the furious, worried energy radiating from him.

At Danny’s villa, Steve was quickly moved to a sterile, well-equipped infirmary.

Danny, however, didn't follow Steve inside immediately. His gaze was fixed on the car where Grace was being carefully helped out. His raw, desperate need to confirm her absolute safety pulled him away. He went directly to her, confirming with his own eyes that she was breathing, that she was whole, and personally carried her into the villa, settling her into her room, murmuring reassurances until she was cocooned in safety.

Only then, his jaw still tight with residual terror and a fierce protectiveness, did Danny turn his attention to the infirmary wing. He found Steve already on the examination table, the doctor quickly assessing his shoulder. Danny immediately stepped in, his face etched with grim determination, overseeing the doctor’s work and demanding updates. Danny stayed with him, only leaving Steve's side once the bullet was out and the wound bandaged, clean and tight.

 

---

 

Grace slept soundly in her bed, curled up under a soft throw, Danny’s tailored jacket wrapped around her small shoulders like a shield. The fabric, still faintly smelling of his cologne and the recent fight, offered a strange comfort.

Her hair was mussed, one cheek scraped where she’d been pushed to the ground. But her breathing was slow and even — safe. A small, fragile miracle in the quiet opulence of her room.

Danny stood by a tall window in the main living area, sleeves rolled, dried blood still dark along one wrist. His gaze never strayed far from the door that led to Grace’s room, like if he looked away she might vanish into the night. His posture was rigid, held together by sheer will.

 

---

 

In the infirmary wing of the sprawling villa, Steve lay propped against pillows, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, but his eyes were clear, if tired. The heavy bandage on his shoulder is a stark white against his skin, a constant reminder of the previous night.

He’d woken intermittently through the night, a dull throb his companion, and the doctor had been in and out, checking vitals, administering pain medication.

He wasn't going anywhere fast, but the worst of the danger was over.

Danny walked to the infirmary wing, his steps purposeful, the new quiet of the villa settling around him. He found Steve already awake, staring at the ceiling.

Danny’s own face was uncharacteristically soft, a profound relief warring with the grim lines of exhaustion as he approached the bed.

"Five-0's been calling,"

Danny stated, his voice devoid of his usual sarcastic bite, flat with the implicit threat of federal agencies on his doorstep.

"They're not happy you're off-grid. I gave them some vague, high-level bullshit about you being... indisposed and recovering. They bought it for about five minutes. They want to speak to you. Now. Before they send a SWAT team to sweep the island."

He held out the phone, an offer and a demand.

Steve turned his head slowly, a grimace fighting with a slight smile. He took the phone from Danny, wincing slightly as he shifted his shoulder. He tapped the screen to answer the persistent incoming call, bringing the phone to his ear with a soft sigh of resignation.

"McGarrett," he rasped into the receiver, his voice rough.

"Yeah, I'm here. Bit tied up. Look, everything's under control. No, I'm not going to explain it over the phone. Just tell everyone to stand down. I'll be in touch. Later."

He hung up abruptly, dropping the phone onto the blanket next to him, a faint tremor running through his still-healing arm.

The silence that followed was heavy, a tangible weight born of unspoken trauma and shared intensity, settling over them both. Then Steve rasped, voice rougher than he meant, barely a whisper in the quiet, “She’s tough.” Danny let out a breath — half laugh, half sigh, a sound of utter, profound exhaustion. “Stronger than I ever was.”

Something cracked in that simple confession. The set of his shoulders dipped for just a heartbeat, a fleeting glimpse of the immense weight he carried. The faint lines bracketing his mouth seemed deeper, cut by years of grit and fear, carved by the loss of his wife and the choices made to protect what remained of his family.

Steve wanted to scream at him, to remind him of the path he’d chosen, the lives impacted by his control. He wanted to shout it, to shake him. But instead, as he watched Danny, all he could focus on was Grace, safe in her own bed, and the horrific image of her terrified face from the night before. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that if he had allowed HPD to clean up a child’s corpse, a part of him would have broken too.

“You keep saying this is your island,” Steve muttered, the words thick, a statement of fact and a question, his gaze on Danny. “That all of Hawaii belongs to you. But it doesn’t. She does. And for what it’s worth… I’m glad she’s yours.” The admission was raw, startling even Steve, stripping away layers he didn't know he had. It was a recognition not just of Grace’s value, but of Danny’s humanity, of the fierce love that drove him.

Danny’s gaze lifted, slow and deliberate, drawn by the raw honesty. Something unreadable flashed across it — part challenge, part something far more exposed, a flicker of surprised vulnerability, almost gratitude. His eyes, in the low light of the infirmary, seemed to pull Steve in. Close enough Steve could feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint, clean scent of his cologne.

There was a dangerous, almost intoxicating presence about him, despite the sterile room, a raw power that drew Steve's gaze.

“You saved my little girl tonight, McGarrett,” Danny said, his voice low and wrecked in a way Steve had never heard, stripped bare of all artifice, revealing the man beneath the capo. “I don’t forget debts like that.” His eyes held Steve’s, unwavering, a silent, profound promise.

“It’s not a debt,” Steve shot back, too fast, his own voice tight with something akin to desperation. “She’s a kid. There’s no lines there.” He needed to believe that. Needed to believe that some things were still pure.

A ghost of a smile tugged at Danny’s mouth — tired, ironic, painfully human. A smile that spoke of too much seen, too much done.

“That’s the difference between us. You still see lines. I stopped seeing them a long time ago.”

His gaze, impossibly gentle, lingered on Steve’s face. Steve’s jaw worked, but no words came. For a moment, everything else — the war, the bodies, the questions, the entire bloody world — fell away. All that existed was the raw, undeniable current that sparked between them, a desperate recognition, a dangerous understanding.

His hand came up, slow and deliberate, cupping Steve’s jaw, his thumb brushing gently over Steve’s bottom lip. His eyes, dark with unshed emotion, searched Steve’s face, tracing the lines of fatigue and pain, as if memorizing the reality of his presence, the undeniable fact that he was alive and breathing.

Danny’s fingers lingered for a heartbeat longer on Steve’s jaw, the light tremor in his touch betraying the steel beneath his calm exterior. His breath hitched—just barely—like the ghost of a sigh caught somewhere between vulnerability and fierce restraint. The air between them crackled, thick with things neither dared voice.

Steve felt it too—an electric pulse that ran down his spine, tightening his throat, stirring a restless shiver beneath his skin. His eyes didn’t leave Danny’s, silently pleading for a sign, anything, that what they shared wasn’t just a flicker, a borrowed moment in the dark.

When Danny finally drew back, the warmth of his hand lingered on Steve’s skin—a phantom heat that made the sudden chill of absence sting sharper than any bullet wound.

Steve’s gaze dropped for the barest second, tracing the faint imprint left behind, before flickering back up, searching Danny’s face for the man who’d kissed him in a moment of raw, reckless truth.

Danny’s jaw clenched, his eyes dark pools of conflicted fire. He swallowed hard, the briefest tremor shaking his composure like a fault line cracking open. The vulnerability vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by the familiar mask—the predator, the capo, the man who’d been burned too many times to show weakness.

Steve’s chest tightened, a silent ache blooming in the space where Danny’s warmth had been. For a long, suspended moment, neither spoke. The only sound was their breathing, uneven and loaded.

Finally, Danny’s voice cut through the silence—rough, low, laced with steel and something softer, almost like a confession.

“Don’t think for a second I’m soft because of tonight.”

His gaze held Steve’s, unyielding.

“But… maybe I’m more fucked up than I realized.”

Steve’s lips twitched, a dry, almost sad smile breaking through.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly.

Danny’s eyes flickered, a sharp pulse of something almost hopeful beneath the shadows.

“And I’m going to make sure you don’t.”

Chapter 20: The Debt Paid in Blood

Summary:

Still recovering from the shootout, Steve wakes under Danny’s roof—injured, conflicted, and haunted by the memory of their porch kiss and the brush of Danny’s thumb the night before. As emotional boundaries blur, Danny hands over critical evidence linked to the murder of Steve’s father. But the conspiracy runs deeper than either of them anticipated, and a new, darker name emerges from the shadows: Wo Fat. With the lines between ally and enemy vanishing fast, Steve must face the truth—not just about his case, but about the man he kissed and can't seem to forget.

Notes:

This is where everything begins to shift. Steve’s not just recovering from a physical wound—he’s unraveling emotionally, haunted by a kiss that meant more than either of them is ready to admit.
Thank you for sticking with this slow-burn chaos.

Steve surfaced slowly, the dull throb in his shoulder a constant companion. The bed was too soft, the sheets too fine.
Sunlight, filtered through heavy drapes, painted the high ceilings of Danny’s compound in muted gold.

He was off-grid, wounded, and utterly at the mercy of the man he was sworn to take down. The paradox was a knot in his chest, tighter than any bandage.

And somewhere beneath all of that, the memory pulsed—uninvited but insistent.

Not the firefight. Not the wound.
The kiss.
On the porch.

His hand had gripped Danny’s collar, his mouth had pressed forward in a moment that felt like falling and fighting and finally breathing, all at once. Danny hadn't pulled away—not then. He'd held on, lips parting, returning the kiss with a kind of desperate intensity that haunted Steve more than any bullet ever could.

And then… the aftermath. The retreat. The avoidance. Danny had never mentioned it. Neither had Steve. But it hadn’t vanished. It waited, crouched in the corners of Steve’s mind like a truth with teeth.

He felt the phantom brush of Danny’s thumb on his lip from last night in the infirmary. That brief, startlingly intimate moment echoed the porch—different in setting, but just as raw. Maybe more so.
Steve hadn’t processed it fully in the whirlwind of Danny’s promise and his own lingering shock.
Now, in the quiet aftermath, both touches replayed. Echoes layered atop one another. A spark of heat under his skin. Something impossible to forget.

The door creaked open.

Danny entered, not with his usual swagger, but with a quiet, almost grim determination. He was dressed in fresh clothes, the dried blood gone from his wrist, but the lines of exhaustion were etched deep on his face.

He looked like a man who hadn't slept, still running on pure adrenaline and the desperate relief of a father.

"Grace?" Steve asked, his voice rough. He winced slightly as he tried to shift more comfortably in the bed.

"Sleeping. Safe." Danny’s shoulders eased, just a fraction. "Thank you. For her. You didn’t have to do that."

"She’s a kid," Steve repeated, the words a faint echo of his own desperation last night. "There are no lines there."

Danny’s lips twitched in a faint, tired smile. "Still drawing them, huh? Good for you." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

"About your father. I told you I'd balance the scales. The Bellinis were just the tip of the iceberg, a convenient distraction. The real players… they're older. Deeper. They don't deal in street corners, they deal in power."

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, encrypted thumb drive. "This is a start. Old family ledgers, a few intercepted comms, names you won't find in any public records. Politicians. Judges. Board members. People with old money and even older secrets." He tossed the drive onto the blanket. "It’s a network that stretches from Jersey to here, a pipeline John McGarrett was too close to exposing."

Steve picked up the drive, the cold plastic feeling heavy in his hand, his bandaged shoulder protesting with a fresh throb. This was it. The truth, delivered by a man he should be arresting, a man whose hands were far from clean.

The ultimate paradox.

"How do you know all this?" Steve asked, his voice low.

Danny met his gaze, his eyes shadowed. "Let's just say I've been watching them longer than you have. And they stepped on my turf. They took Grace."

Steve stared at him, his thumb brushing unconsciously over his own bottom lip. That kiss—both of them, the desperate one in the rain and the one on the porch—were blurring the line between the man and the mission.

He needed to compartmentalize.

He was failing.

 

---

 

He must have drifted off, because later that afternoon, he registered the scent of something warm and savory. The door creaked open again, and Danny entered, carrying a bowl of homemade chicken broth, steaming and fragrant. He set it down without a word, the domestic gesture feeling strangely out of place in the sterile room.

"You don't have to," Steve mumbled, pushing himself up slightly higher.

"I know, Babe," Danny replied, his voice raspy with exhaustion, the Jersey accent thick, the endearment a soft, almost involuntary murmur. He pulled up a chair, not too close, but close enough to imply permanence. "You lost a lot of blood. You need to eat."

Steve's head snapped up, his gaze locking onto Danny's. Danny held his eyes, a profound weariness etched around them, but no evasion. It was a simple statement, stripped of the usual veiled threats and biting sarcasm. Just... care.

And again, it brought him back to that night on the porch.

Steve had kissed him.

He hadn’t planned it. He hadn’t expected it. But he’d needed it. Needed him.

And now... now Danny was feeding him soup like a man who had always been in his corner, even if they stood on opposite sides of a battlefield.

"By the way," Danny said, his voice dropping, almost an afterthought. "My guy, Toast? He was doing a sweep of the shipyard, cleaning up. Found some prints. Old. And a whisper. Not Bellini. Something else, something... familiar. The Bellinis are pawns. The real puppet master... he’s been around for a long time. Goes by Wo Fat."

The name hung in the air, a foreign sound to Steve, yet weighted with an ominous significance. He saw the grim set of Danny’s jaw, the subtle tightening around his eyes, and knew this was a name that carried a heavy price. It wasn't the Bellinis, or the old Jersey families, but this Wo Fat that made Danny's composure flicker.

"Who's that?" Steve asked, his voice a low, steady demand, trying to gauge the depth of the threat.

Danny's gaze was fixed on something far away, in the past. "He moves in the deepest shadows. A ghost. He has connections everywhere, and a way of making problems disappear. Permanently. He's... someone even my family tries to avoid. A different kind of monster."

The words were clipped, filled with a rare, chilling dread from Danny. "If he's behind this, McGarrett, we're not just fighting a war. We're fighting a legend."

Danny stood, the chair scraping faintly on the polished floor. "You get some rest. We'll talk about how you're going to explain your sudden disappearance to your friends later. For now, you're indisposed. And the world outside these walls… it’s about to get a lot messier."

Danny turned to leave, pausing at the door.

"One more thing, Commander." He didn't turn back, his voice a low, almost reluctant murmur.
"Don't underestimate him. He plays for keeps. Always has."

The door clicked shut, leaving Steve alone in the quiet room, the thumb drive a small, heavy weight in his hand—and the chilling, unknown name of Wo Fat echoing in his mind.

The truth about his father, a path illuminated by the very darkness he sought to fight, lay before him.

But it wasn’t just the mission that consumed him now.

It was a kiss in the rain, a kiss on a porch, a touch in the infirmary, and a man who somehow managed to be both his greatest threat… and the only person who’d ever looked at him like that.

Chapter 21: Unsanctioned Alliance

Summary:

Wounded and off-grid, Steve is forced into a shaky alliance.
They've uncovered a massive conspiracy tied to Wo Fat and now must work together, navigating their intense tension and a whole lot of danger to get revenge.

Notes:

I'm having a blast with this! The tension between Steve and Danny is at an all-time high, and it's so much fun to write about these two, who are so different, being forced together. I love exploring the moral gray areas they're now operating in as they blur the lines between right and wrong. Things are about to get wild!

The pain in Steve's shoulder was a dull throb, a constant reminder of the shipyard and the bullet that had put him in Danny Williams’ infirmary. Sunlight, filtered through the villa's heavy drapes, mocked the turmoil churning inside him.

He was a SEAL, a commander, bound by rules and oaths. Yet here he was, off-grid, injured, and indebted to a capo, holding a thumb drive that promised to shatter everything he thought he knew about his father's murder.

His phone, resting on the bedside table, vibrated incessantly. Incoming calls from Lou, Chin, Kono. He'd let them go to voicemail, then sent curt, vague texts about being "indisposed" and "handling something sensitive."

He knew how to go dark—had done it on highly classified ops for the Navy, and once or twice since becoming head of Five-0. But this was different. This wasn't just a rogue mission. This was a partnership with the devil, fueled by the terrifying name Danny had uttered: Wo Fat.

And layered over it all, like a bruise he couldn't stop pressing, was the memory of Danny’s kiss in the rain. Brutal. Furious. Shattering. And Steve’s own kiss, offered days later on the porch of his home, full of guilt and something dangerously close to need. Neither of them had spoken of either moment. But the air between them now—charged, quiet, sharp—spoke volumes.

Danny entered without knocking, a silent, spectral presence, carrying a fresh pot of coffee. He poured two cups, setting one on the table beside Steve with a quiet clink.

"Your loyal crew is getting antsy," Danny said flatly. "Your friend—the big one with the hat? Grover. He’s called my house number three times. Threatening to send the National Guard, among other colorful suggestions about your likely demise."

Steve grunted, pushing himself upright, the movement stiff. “They’re just worried.”

“Worried is an understatement, Commander,” Danny replied, with a dry amusement that didn’t reach his eyes. “You got shot. You disappeared from a crime scene with three dead Bellini soldiers. And the media’s been having a field day with Grace’s kidnapping. I’ve been playing the distraught father on every news channel. Now, thanks to my people, the official word from HPD is she’s been found, alive and safe, at the shipyard. But your team is going to connect your injury and disappearance to that.”

He leaned against the doorframe, sipping his coffee. His posture was casual, but his gaze burned.

Steve took a sip of the coffee, grateful for the distraction, even as tension curled in his chest. “You know, for a guy who claims to be so busy, you really spare no expense on the decor. Those curtains probably cost more than my first car.”

Danny’s eyebrow twitched. “Deflecting by mocking my interior design. Bold strategy, McGarrett.” He paused. “You really don’t want to call your team, do you?”

Steve didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because it wasn’t just about logistics or optics. It was the way Danny’s voice softened when he mentioned Grace. The way his hand had curled around Steve’s collar after the bullet wound. The way they’d stood too close in the dark, trading fire and fury and kisses they couldn’t explain.

He picked up the thumb drive instead. “You got anything more on this… Wo Fat?”

Danny’s expression hardened. “Working on it. He’s a ghost. Operates through layers. But if he’s tied to your father, then he’s tied to a network that makes the Bellinis look like amateurs. This isn’t about money. It’s about power. Control. People in high places. Mainland and here.”

He crossed the room and pulled a chair closer. “The Bellinis were just a distraction. The money trail, the names on that drive? They point to the architect. The real one. Wo Fat. And make no mistake, Bellini wasn’t just small-time. They murdered my father. They murdered my wife. And they helped bury yours too.”

Steve flinched slightly. “So, what’s the play?”

Danny gave him a long look, quiet for a beat. “You need to get back to your team. At least establish contact that doesn’t scream ‘kidnapped by the mob’. Here’s what you tell them: You left the villa, followed a lead on Grace. Your solo pursuit led you straight to the shipyard. You engaged the kidnappers, killed them in self-defense, and got shot in the process. Typical McGarrett. HPD was alerted after the fact, thanks to my people. Grace was recovered. Case closed.”

There was sarcasm in his tone, but also a weary understanding.

Steve scoffed. “And me being here?”

“You were injured. And you’d uncovered something too dangerous to trust through official channels.” Danny gestured at the drive. “So you went off-grid to recover and secure the intel. Sell it like a top-secret operation. They’ll believe that more than the truth.”

Steve nodded slowly. Then, his gaze flicked toward Danny, more raw than before. “And after that?”

“Then,” Danny said, voice low and hard, “we dig into that drive. You use your badge. I use my network. And we burn them all down. Wo Fat. The Bellinis. Every last one.”

Steve didn’t respond right away. The silence between them crackled, thick with more than strategy. A pause too long. A glance too intense. Something unspoken and dangerous stretching thin between them.

Steve set the mug down. “You never mentioned the porch.”

Danny looked up sharply. “You never mentioned the rain.”

The space between them shrank by nothing and everything.

Steve exhaled. “We’re going to war together now, Danny.”

Danny’s voice was quieter now, rougher. “We already were.”

Steve knew the risks. He knew the line he was crossing—professionally, ethically, personally.

But for the truth about his father—and to keep someone like Grace from ever being touched by this again—he would do it.

He would walk through fire, with the devil himself at his side.
And somewhere between the lies and the blood and the ghosts, he would figure out what that kiss—those two kisses—really meant.

Chapter 22: Between Truth and Trust

Summary:

Steve reconnects with his team under a carefully crafted cover while deepening his tense alliance with Danny. Their shared mission brings them closer, mixing duty with undeniable attraction as they prepare to face a dangerous enemy.

Notes:

Who says saving the world can’t come with a little heat? Steve and Danny’s “just business” is getting seriously personal—brace yourselves for sparks flying on and off the clock! Thanks for sticking with these two troublemakers.

Steve pushed himself out of bed, each movement still stiff but manageable. The sterile quiet of Danny’s infirmary, once a sanctuary, was now starting to feel like a gilded cage. He had a team, a job, and a life waiting—one he’d put on hold for too long. It was time to face the music, or at least play a very convincing tune. Danny’s cover story, distasteful as it was, made sense. Pragmatic.

He found Danny in a lavishly appointed study, eyes fixed on multiple monitors streaming complex data like a spider weaving a web. Steve’s voice broke the silence with a brittle edge. “Time to make the call.”

Danny glanced up. Their eyes locked, and for a heartbeat, the weight of everything between them flickered in his gaze—a haunted echo of the night’s intensity and the porch moment that followed. A faint, teasing smirk tugged at Danny’s lips, but his eyes held that same sharp vulnerability. “Took you long enough. They’re probably drafting your obituary by now. Or worse—thinking I finally got you.”

His gaze drifted briefly to Steve’s shoulder, the silent acknowledgment between them a secret language born of pain, survival, and something far more complicated. He gestured toward a sleek comms unit resting on the polished desk. “Secure line. Best you’ll get outside of a five-star hotel in Geneva.”

Steve settled into the chair, leather cool against his skin, the receiver a small comfort. His thumb hovered over Lou’s contact. “They’re going to be pissed.”

Danny’s tone was dry, but the concern behind his sarcasm was unmistakable. “You think? Just stick to the story. Deep undercover, went south, took a round, no comms. They’ll buy it. Eventually.”

The line rang twice before Lou’s furious voice shattered the quiet. “MCGARRETT! Where the hell have you been?!”

“Lou, calm down,” Steve’s voice was rougher than usual. “I’m fine. After I left the villa, I went rogue—unsanctioned pursuit of Williams’ daughter’s kidnappers led me straight to the shipyard. Things went south fast. Found them, took them out in self-defense, and took a bullet. Priority was securing the scene and making sure she was safe. Couldn’t risk compromising the operation or intel by making contact while injured and in the field.”

“A round?!” Lou’s shout echoed distorted. “You got shot and went off-grid with no word? Do you know the shitstorm this caused?”

Steve heard Chin’s calmer voice trying to mediate in the background. “I know, Lou. It was unavoidable. Sensitive intel. Highly sensitive. I’m close to something big—something tied to my father.”

Steve’s glance shifted to Danny, whose eyes held a faint trace of approval, warm and unexpected. “The Bellinis were a distraction. We need to look higher. Much higher.”

Lou fell silent, the anger simmering into frustration. “Higher? What are you talking about? The Bellinis are mob. We have bodies and evidence.”

“I took out the Bellinis at the shipyard in self-defense, protecting the victim,” Steve said, the truth finally feeling cleaner, solid, aligned with the story they’d crafted.

“Williams’ daughter is safe,” Steve added. “But this goes beyond anything we’ve seen. Pull every string you have—offshore accounts, political favors, anything that doesn’t fit the usual profile.”

Chin’s voice cut through again, clearer this time. “Are you alright, Steve? Really?”

“I will be,” Steve said, the gratitude in his voice genuine. “Just recovering. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Keep this quiet. And don’t mention any ‘asset’ on open lines.”

After terse instructions and reluctant acceptance, Lou agreed to follow up on the vague leads. Steve hung up, a slow breath escaping him.

“See?” Danny said, pushing off the desk, closing the gap between them. His presence was warm, encompassing—too close, but exactly where Steve needed him. “They bought it. Mostly. You’re a natural at deception, Commander. Always knew you had it in you.”

Their eyes locked, and the room seemed to contract around them. The air thickened, electric with the unspoken, the dangerous intimacy neither dared name. Steve’s gaze drifted to the subtle pulse beating at Danny’s throat—the memory of that kiss, the ghost of fingers on his jaw.

“So, I’m cleared to leave this... fortress?” Steve gestured around the opulent room, the words feeling like an easy dismissal he didn’t quite mean.

Danny’s expression sharpened, the raw edge of focus returning. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. But yeah, you can go. Sal will get you a car. Just remember, McGarrett, this is a new game. You’ve got your badge, your rules. I’ve got mine. But we’re after the same ghosts. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. And that whole ‘Bellini killed my family’ thing? That’s not just a police case for me. You understand?”

Steve met Danny’s gaze. The current humming between them deepened, almost tangible. “I understand.”

He reached for the thumb drive on the desk, their fingers brushing—a spark, a heat that Steve barely suppressed. He felt the ghost of Danny’s thumb on his lip again, that unsettling warmth spreading through him. This wasn’t just an alliance. It was a tangled, beautiful mess he wasn’t sure he wanted to unravel—but knew he had to.

“We start with this. Every name. Every connection.”

Danny nodded, jaw tightening with grim determination. He stepped closer, adjusting the collar of Steve’s shirt—a gesture so tender, so possessive it froze Steve in place. Danny’s fingers brushed the sensitive skin of Steve’s neck, lingering just a beat too long. His thumb traced the line of Steve’s jaw, cupping his chin to tilt his head slightly downwards.

Danny’s eyes darkened, gleaming with a knowing challenge. “Just so we’re clear,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “you’re still in my jurisdiction, Commander. Don’t forget that.”

A faint, amused smirk played at his lips, reveling in the tension binding Steve’s posture.

Steve held Danny’s gaze, his own hardening with quiet resolve, intensity unwavering. Danny’s hand still cradled his jaw, thumb resting near his lip. Instead of pulling away, Steve mirrored the gesture, his fingers firm and sure against Danny’s cheekbone.

Their eyes locked, then dropped briefly to Danny’s mouth—an unspoken promise, a challenge.

Steve leaned in, breath ghosting over Danny’s lips.

Danny’s eyes widened, flickering with surprise and something unreadable —but he didn’t pull away.

“Understood, Williams,” Steve whispered, voice gravelly and low, cutting through the sudden, suffocating quiet, leaving a potent heat lingering.

Their gaze held for a charged moment, then Steve slowly pulled his hand away. Danny’s hand fell, as if released from a spell.

Without looking back, Steve strode from the study. The heavy door closed behind him.

Danny stayed rooted, hand rising to his jaw, still feeling the phantom pressure of Steve’s fingers, the ghost of his breath.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips—a private, pleased triumph.

Chapter 23: A New Game

Summary:

As Steve drives back into the night, he knows this uneasy partnership is both his greatest asset and his biggest risk. Once the truth is uncovered, Danny will become more than just a partner—he’ll be a problem Steve can’t ignore.

Notes:

Watch out, McGarrett and Williams, because mixing business with that much chemistry? Disaster… or something way more interesting. Buckle up, folks—this ride’s just getting started! 🔥😉

The heavy oak door of Danny’s study clicked shut behind Steve, the soft finality lingering in the sudden quiet. He hadn’t just left a room—he’d walked away from a moment where boundaries blurred and something volatile was ignited between them.

The weight of what had come before pressed on him—the rain-drenched kiss from Danny, fierce and raw, the unexpected claim that had shaken him to his core. And then the porch, under the porch light’s muted glow, where Steve had kissed Danny back, a silent but undeniable declaration, fingers tracing the sharp line of Danny’s jaw. Those kisses were more than just fleeting; they were markers of a complicated and dangerous intimacy neither wanted to fully name.

Steve still felt the phantom pressure of Danny’s hand, the ghost of his own thumb mirroring the earlier tenderness. Danny’s eyes—wide, surprised, something fragile hiding beneath that fierce exterior—haunted him. He had pushed Danny, challenged him, and in return had been pulled into an unexpected orbit of desire and danger.

Sal materialized silently from the hallway, extending a set of keys with a faint, unreadable smile. “The car is ready, Commander. Mr. Williams thought you might appreciate something… more reliable, after everything.”

Steve took the keys, the cold metal grounding him, a sharp contrast to the lingering heat beneath his skin. No words. No thanks. Just a nod.

The black SUV waited, leather new and engine humming as he slipped behind the wheel. The humid Honolulu night blurred past Waikiki’s neon glow and Diamond Head’s stoic silhouette. The adrenaline of confrontation ebbed, replaced by cold, sharp focus.

The thumb drive burned in his pocket—his leverage, his path home.

He’d played the game Danny set, but with his own moves.

How Danny would respond was a question Steve couldn’t answer, but the message was clear.

Now he was the SEAL, the commander, the man with a badge and a mission.

He’d feed his team enough truth to protect Danny’s world from exposure, while steering their hunt toward the deeper corruption lurking beneath.

For now, this uneasy alliance was a weapon.

But once the threat was neutralized, Danny would become a problem Steve couldn’t afford—not legally, not emotionally.

Those kisses—the storm-soaked confession, the porchlight challenge—they’d complicated everything.

And made Danny all the more dangerous.

The highway stretched ahead, the city lights bleeding into streaks. Steve’s fingers toyed with the thumb drive, cold and heavy in his palm.

A lead, a partner, a tangled connection.

No turning back.

No clean breaks.

Only the long road forward—and ghosts lurking in every shadow.

Chapter 24: Unpacking the Ghosts

Summary:

Steve digs into the encrypted files on the thumb drive Danny gave him, uncovering a tangled web of corruption that reaches deep into the island’s justice system. The stakes are higher than ever as Steve realizes his father’s murder was part of a much larger conspiracy. Trust is scarce, and Danny remains both an uneasy ally and a complicated presence in Steve’s life. The mission intensifies—and so does the personal tension between them.

Notes:

Oh, the plot thickens and so do the feelings! Steve’s diving headfirst into dangerous waters—and Danny’s right there, keeping things messy and magnetic. Who knew uncovering a conspiracy could come with so much… heat? Buckle up, folks, this alliance is only going to get more tangled and tantalizing from here!

Steve’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as the sleek SUV glided silently through the quiet streets. He didn’t head straight to Five-0 Headquarters—not yet. His team would swarm him with questions, concern, maybe even accusations. He needed leverage. Answers. Control.

His sanctuary awaited: the quiet beachfront house that had once been a refuge from chaos, now just a fragile illusion of normalcy. Pulling into the gravel drive, the endless Pacific stretched beyond his lanai like a silent witness, offering a rare moment of fragile calm.

Inside, the silence was almost oppressive. Too empty, too still. Steve moved straight to his study—the war room where his father’s legacy lived in files, notebooks, and memories. He cleared a spot on the ancient desk, the scarred wood whispering stories of decades past, and retrieved his personal, secure laptop. It was a fortress against compromise, just like Steve aimed to be.

The small, black thumb drive felt heavier in his palm than its size suggested—the key Danny had handed him. The promise of truth, of exposure. He inserted it carefully, heart steadying. The screen flickered to life, revealing a single encrypted folder.

A passphrase prompt blocked entry.

Danny wouldn’t have given him a dead-end. There had to be a key, a connection—something Steve would understand, something Danny expected him to unravel.

His mind flicked back to the tension in Danny’s study, the way Danny had dragged him into his world, forced him to acknowledge what Steve tried so hard to ignore: the human element beneath the hardened exterior.

What mattered most to Danny?

Grace.

The word slipped from his mind onto the keyboard, a silent dare.

The folder unlocked.

Files spilled across the screen: spreadsheets, surveillance photos grainy with age, audio logs, encrypted messages—a tangled web of Bellini-linked crimes. This wasn’t just local mob noise. This was the shadow his father had been chasing.

Then, deep in a subfolder labeled ‘ARCHIVE,’ Steve found something that froze him.

Detailed transaction logs mapped out payments from Bellini-controlled shell companies—flows funneling into accounts Steve recognized from his father’s notes. Legitimate local businesses. Politicians with facades too clean to be trusted.

And names.

Local enforcers, money launderers, and most dangerously—the names of mid-level police officials and a state prosecutor.

A photo showed a known Bellini enforcer meeting clandestinely with a Honolulu detective Steve vaguely recognized. The accompanying audio clip confirmed the payoff.

This was no ordinary crime family.

This was rot.

Eating away at the core of the island’s justice system—the very system sworn to protect.

The kind of rot that had killed his father.

Steve’s eyes sharpened, the cold thrill of the hunt flooding back.

The weight of uncertainty faded, replaced by purpose. A mission.

But Steve wasn’t naive. This was no case to bring to the conference table, not with HPD names stained in the mess.

Trust was a luxury Steve couldn’t afford.

This lead was dangerous—more than just a clue.

And Danny Williams was no longer just a partner in the shadows.

This alliance, forged in blood and secrets, had already become something fiercely personal.

There was no turning back.

No clean break.

Only forward.

 

Chapter 25: The Reckoning

Summary:

Steve returns from the shadows with the weight of explosive intel—corruption that runs through HPD like a poisoned vein. He reconnects with Chin under the guise of duty, but every step forward is compromised by the truth he can’t share and the feelings he’s starting to admit. His mission hasn’t changed… but his heart has. And Danny Williams is no longer just the target—he’s the tether Steve didn’t see coming.

Notes:

Ohhh boy. Steve’s back, the secrets are heavier, and our emotionally repressed SEAL is officially catching feelings for the crime boss he was supposed to destroy. Oops. 😇 The lines are blurring fast, and this isn’t just cops and robbers anymore—it’s personal. Strap in. It’s only going to get messier from here.

Steve sat rigid at his desk, the glow of the laptop casting harsh lines across his face. The weight of what he’d uncovered pressed down on him like armor he couldn’t take off. This wasn’t just about his father anymore—it was about the soul of the island, about the badge he wore, about the people he trusted. And somewhere in the tangled mess of corruption, secrets, and danger, there was Danny Williams. Complicating everything.

He couldn’t bring this to HQ hot. Not with names on that drive he recognized from morning roll calls. He needed to get ahead of this, spin a story just convincing enough to buy him space—but not so convincing that it cut him off from the people who still had his back.

He picked up his secure phone, the one that only rang in emergencies. Chin’s name glowed on the screen. He hit call.

Three rings.

“McGarrett! About time!” Chin’s voice was a cocktail of anger, worry, and raw exhaustion. “Do you know what kind of hell you’ve put us through?”

Steve’s response was measured. “Chin. I’m okay. I was following up on a lead—Grace Williams. The trail led me to the shipyard. Things went sideways. I had to go dark.”

“You had to go dark? Steve, your truck was found crumpled like a soda can. No body. No blood. No signal. We thought you were dead! Kono hasn’t slept. Lou’s threatening to tie you to a desk. We even thought—” Chin stopped himself.

“That Williams got me?” Steve finished, voice flat but heavy with implication.

There was a beat of silence. Chin didn’t deny it.

Steve exhaled, jaw tight. “I took a hit. I’m fine now. Comm lines were compromised. I couldn’t risk contact. But I got what I went in for. Intel. Serious stuff.”

“Serious enough to justify complete radio silence?” Chin barked. “You scared the hell out of us. You owe us a damn explanation.”

“You’ll get it,” Steve said, softer now. “I’m on my way in. But I need you to trust me. Not everything I found can be shared. Not yet.”

The pause on the line stretched until Chin finally gave in with a sigh. “Fine. But when you walk in here, we’re locking the door and you’re telling us everything. None of your SEAL cryptic routine. You scared us, man.”

“I know,” Steve murmured. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

He hung up. The silence of his house crept back in like fog.

 

---

 

Driving through the city, the familiar landscape blurred past his window—officers he might have once greeted, precincts he used to trust. But now, each face flickered with suspicion. Each badge felt like a question mark.

The files on the drive played in his mind like a reel on repeat: officers, prosecutors, trusted allies, all tangled up in Bellini money. His father had died chasing this. And now it was Steve’s burden to carry.

And Danny…
Danny had known.
Danny had handed him the drive.

He was still a criminal. Still dangerous. Still operating from the shadows.
But Steve couldn’t stop seeing the man behind it all—the one who risked his life to protect Grace, who kissed him in the rain, who stood in the ruins of a warehouse and called him by his first name like it meant something.

Steve had started this mission with every intention of taking Danny down. But now… the thought of Danny being dragged into this war and crushed by it made something twist painfully in his chest.

He wasn’t sure when it had started. Maybe that kiss on the porch. Maybe before.
But somewhere along the way, Steve had stopped seeing Danny as the enemy.

And started seeing him as something else.

Something dangerous in a way Steve hadn’t expected. Something personal.
Maybe even something close to love.

But right now, there was no room for that.

He couldn’t trust anyone.
He couldn’t tell the full truth.
And he couldn’t let his feelings get in the way of the mission.

But he couldn’t ignore them anymore either.

Not when the only man who understood the war he was walking into…
was the one he should have left behind.

Chapter 26: The Hidden Truth

Summary:

Steve digs into his father’s past and finds a journal that confirms a deep web of corruption—and a mysterious undercover agent tied to the Bellinis. Now armed with intel and a slowly unraveling heart, Steve’s suspicions turn toward someone who knows more than he lets on… and who he definitely shouldn’t be falling for.

Notes:

Steve accidentally discovers government secrets and his feelings—one’s hidden in a desk, the other on Danny’s damn face. Oops.

The secure line went dead with a soft click.

Steve stood motionless in the silence that followed, the phone still clutched tight in his hand as if the conversation might somehow continue if he refused to let it go. But there was nothing. Only the faint hum of the ceiling fan overhead, chopping the air with a lazy, uneven rhythm. The sound filled the study, echoing against the dark wood and framed photographs until it seemed louder than it should have been.

The waves below the cliffs crashed faintly, too distant to offer comfort. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Chin’s voice still rang in Steve’s ears, sharp with suspicion under the relief. You’re not telling me everything, brah. Don’t shut us out again.

And he wasn’t wrong. Steve had dodged the truth with clipped phrases and calculated silences. He’d given just enough to hold the team steady, to stop Chin and Kono from pushing harder. But he’d told them nothing about the drive in his pocket, nothing about the shadows stretching long from his father’s past into his present.

He couldn't trust anyone else with this yet. Not with HPD names tangled in corruption. Not with his father’s death echoing like unfinished business. Not with Danny. Because this wasn’t just about dirty cops.
Not just about the corruption threaded through HPD like rot in the foundation.
This was personal.

Especially not with Danny.

His eyes swept the study, drawn inevitably to the desk.

The old mahogany monster had been there for as long as he could remember, its surface etched with scars and cigarette burns. As a boy he’d sat on the floor by that desk while his father pored over case files, his legs sticking to the leather of the chair in the summer heat. Later, as a teenager, he’d been forced to do homework at it, the grain of the wood distracting him as he traced lines with a pencil while his father lectured about discipline.

Back then, the desk had seemed unshakable, like his father himself. Solid. Immovable. Eternal.

Now it looked different. The same way the house had felt different when he first stepped back inside after years away—familiar but heavier, as if the walls themselves knew what secrets had been buried here.

John McGarrett hadn’t been careless. He hadn’t left loose ends. If he’d been circling something this dangerous, this corrosive, he would have left a trail. Something to be found. Something meant for Steve.

Steve crossed the room in three long strides, his movements sharp and purposeful. He yanked open the top drawer: neat stacks of tax records in manila folders. Nothing unusual. The second drawer: envelopes of faded Polaroids. Fishing trips, baseball games, birthdays. Steve’s throat caught at one—him at ten years old, his father’s hand on his shoulder, both of them squinting at the camera.

The memory stabbed at him, sharp as glass. He shoved the photo aside and slammed the drawer shut.

The third opened with a reluctant groan. Inside: medals, ribbons frayed with age but still gleaming in the dim light. Steve ran a thumb over one, remembering the day his father had explained each of them, the pride in his voice tempered with warning: These don’t come free. They’re paid for in blood.

And then—

His fingers found something. A line, subtle, running along the back of the drawer. Almost invisible.

His pulse jumped.

He pressed.

Click.

The latch gave way, the wood shifting with a hiss as the panel slid open.

Inside lay a leather-bound journal. Heavy. Worn. The spine cracked, the corners rounded with use. The words across the cover, written in his father’s blocky hand, seemed to stare back at him: J.M. Case Notes – Eyes Only.

Steve lowered himself into the chair. The leather groaned under his weight. He laid the journal on the desk, his hand trembling as it rested on the cover. For a moment he closed his eyes, and he could almost hear his father’s voice: If you’re reading this, I didn’t finish the job.

He opened it.

The smell of old paper rose up. The pages whispered as they turned, filled with his father’s precise, hurried handwriting. Notes written on the fly. Addresses. Sketches of faces. Names.

Steve read.

05/22/XX: Contact at HPD confirmed bribes linked to Bellini front. Multiple officers compromised. Internal Affairs unreliable.

06/03/XX: Evidence suggests Costa expansion parallel to Bellini. Possible shared suppliers. Unclear if cooperation or rivalry. Both violent. Both willing to use island connections.

07/01/XX: Hawaii chatter increasing. Bellini interests in port contracts. Possible Costa counterplay. If either gains foothold here, island compromised.

Steve’s chest tightened. The handwriting was his father’s, but the names jumped out like knives. Bellini. Costa. Both families. Both circling Hawaii.

He turned another page.

07/14/XX: Met with Narco source. Alias: Anthony De Luca. Deep cover on Bellini East Coast Op. Tracking expansion strategies. Possible Hawaii interest confirmed. High value, high risk. Concerned for exposure. System compromised. Secure channel only. Must protect asset.

Steve’s throat constricted.

Anthony De Luca.

He stared at the name until the letters blurred. His father had marked him as critical, high risk, compromised. A man worth protecting at all costs.

And suddenly Steve’s thoughts cascaded into a timeline he didn’t want to acknowledge.

The Bellinis.
New Jersey.
Eight years ago.

The Costas.

Danny.

He was there. That much Steve knew. Danny had been a capo in the Costa family, moving in those same criminal circles, and undoubtedly aware of Bellini operations. If anyone on the island had historical proximity to De Luca or his mission, it was Danny.

Steve leaned back in his chair, the journal heavy in his hands.

Had Danny crossed paths with De Luca? Known him? Exposed him? Protected him? Killed him?

And yet... the ache in his chest wasn’t suspicion.

It was something far more dangerous.

Because despite everything, despite the blood on Danny’s hands, despite the fact that Steve McGarrett was sworn to dismantle men like him, he couldn’t shake the memory of Danny’s lips. 

That truth was undeniable.
He wasn’t just intrigued by Danny.
He wasn’t just wary of him.
He was falling.

Falling for a capo.
For a man his father would have hunted.
For a man his badge demanded he destroy.

Steve shut the journal with a thud, forcing himself to his feet. The floorboards groaned under his weight, the salt air through the window suddenly stifling.

His team expected answers. His father’s case demanded justice. The corruption ran deeper than he’d ever imagined. And at the heart of it, inevitably, stood Danny Williams—capo, confidant, partner.

The line between justice and betrayal had never been thinner.
And the one man Steve should bring down was the same man he couldn’t afford to lose.

Chapter 27: The First Lie

Summary:

Steve faces the Five-0 team for the first time since his disappearance, spinning a careful web of half-truths to protect the fragile intel he uncovered. The weight of betrayal runs heavy as he navigates blurred lines between friend and foe — and between duty and dangerous new feelings.

Notes:

Ah, the first lie — always the juiciest, right? Steve’s juggling secrets, wounded pride, and oh yes, some seriously complicated feelings.

The drive to HQ felt heavier than usual. Not in miles, but in weight.

Every uniform he passed, every patrol car at a red light, seemed tainted. Familiar faces from the precinct twisted in his mind into the ones he’d seen on that thumb drive. Detectives, a prosecutor, officers he’d greeted in passing or trusted with cases—all suddenly cast in an unforgiving light. The names were on the list Danny had given him. And now he couldn’t unsee them. Couldn’t unknow what he knew.

Beneath it all, deeper than the rest, was a single name from his father’s journal: Anthony De Luca.

De Luca had been embedded with the Bellinis, a man who knew the machinery of the enemy from the inside, someone so valuable that John McGarrett had felt the need to document him in a private, locked journal. Someone to protect. A man whose exposure could have devastated everything his father had built, who could have turned friends into enemies, allies into casualties.

Steve traced the contours of the name in his mind as he drove. Anthony De Luca. The letters carried weight, but not the kind you could measure. No, this was something heavier: the kind that made a man’s stomach tighten, made his pulse spike with questions he didn’t want to ask out loud. Who had De Luca become in the years since John McGarrett’s notes? Was he still alive? Did he still matter? And if he did… how tangled was he in Danny’s history?

Danny. The thought of him brought another layer of complication. Jersey. The Costas. The Bellinis. Steve had known Danny as a man of charm and danger, wit and edge, but he’d never truly understood the shadows he moved in. And now, with Anthony De Luca’s name carved into his memory, Steve realized the stakes were far higher than he’d imagined. Danny had operated in the same circles, seen the same machinery, known the same players. If anyone could give him answers—or make things even more dangerous—it was Danny.

He shifted slightly in the seat, gripping the wheel tighter. The radio was off. No music, no chatter—just the steady hum of the engine and the rhythmic thrum of his pulse. Every stoplight seemed to stretch longer than it should, giving him more time to dwell on the implications.

 

---

 

The glass doors of Five-0 HQ slid open with a practiced whoosh, and the noise of the bullpen surged up to meet him: the rhythmic clack of keyboards, distant voices carrying through the open office, phones ringing, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. Normal. And yet, all wrong.

Kono was the first to notice him. Her chair screeched back, sharp against the linoleum floor, and she rushed toward him. “Steve!” Her voice cracked, raw and uneven, a mix of disbelief and relief. Her eyes searched his face, the relief mingling with frustration.

Chin stood as if carved from stone, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. “McGarrett! You finally decide to check in?” His voice carried that sharp edge Steve had heard countless times before: equal parts accusation and relief.

Lou Grover emerged from his office, the weight of frustration evident in every step. “Well, damn. Look who decided to show up. Commander, do you have any idea what we’ve been through?”

Steve didn’t flinch. He’d rehearsed this, rewritten it over and over in his mind during the drive. Every potential line of questioning, every possible objection. And yet, now that he was here, standing in the chaos of the bullpen, it all felt simultaneously too simple and impossibly complex.

“I know,” he said, his voice even, carefully measured. “And I’m sorry. I was tracking a lead on the Bellinis. After leaving the villa, things escalated. Fast.”

“Escalated?” Chin repeated, voice rising slightly. “That’s what we’re calling radio silence and a destroyed truck now?”

“I went solo,” Steve said, continuing without hesitation. “Shipyard in the south. Found the men holding Williams’ daughter and got her out. Took a round for it. Had to lay low to protect the intel I recovered.”

Lou raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “Took a round? You disappear, leave your truck like a twisted beer can on the side of the road, and you think a shoulder graze gets you a pass?”

“It was more than a graze,” Steve said tightly. “My comms were compromised. I had to make sure what I found didn’t get lost or tracked. It was worth it.”

Chin’s eyes sharpened. “And what exactly did you find?”

Steve hesitated for the briefest moment, the weight of the truth pressing on his shoulders. “Financial records. Bellini shell companies, laundering operations, local ties.”

The safe truth. The incomplete one. No names. No prosecutor. No De Luca. He couldn’t bring them into the labyrinth of shadows his father had left behind, not yet.

“Stuff we can use,” he added, voice steady. “Explains how they’ve been staying ahead of us.”

Kono crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “And you couldn’t call? You couldn’t even send a signal?”

Steve met her gaze, steady, unwavering. “If I had, the girl might be gone. And that drive could’ve been compromised. I made the call. I stand by it.”

Lou let out a long breath, a huff that carried frustration, exhaustion, and begrudging understanding all at once. “You better hope whatever’s on that thing is worth the ulcer I just developed.”

Steve pulled the thumb drive from his pocket, holding it up like a challenge. “You tell me.”

He moved toward the central display, feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes on his back. Watching. Waiting. Wanting the full story.

But that was the first lie. And it wouldn’t be the last.

Because behind the file names, the financials, the safe half-truths, lay something deeper: the ghost of John McGarrett whispering from the pages of a journal, a guide no one else could read. And somewhere in Danny Williams’ past, a name that could crack everything open.

Steve placed the drive in the slot, watching the data load. His mind spun through the implications: De Luca’s identity, Danny’s connection, the Bellini and Costa families, the corruption threaded through the precinct, the people he trusted now under a new, unforgiving light. Every click, every file, was a reminder that the world he’d known was no longer reliable.

For now, Steve would keep the team pointed at the enemy. He’d let them believe the story they needed to hear. The safe, digestible story of shell companies, laundering operations, and local ties. He would carry the rest—Anthony De Luca, his father’s unfinished work—like a weight in his chest, heavy and immovable.

He glanced at Kono, Chin, and Lou as the first files appeared on the screen. Their faces reflected anticipation, concern, frustration. Steve offered them nothing beyond the surface. They didn’t need the deeper truths—not yet. And maybe they never would.

But in the back of his mind, the war was already inside the gates.

Somewhere in Danny’s past, somewhere in the folds of the Bellini and Costa histories, Anthony De Luca waited—real, present, and dangerous. Steve could feel the weight of it, the threads weaving between his father’s mission, the current investigation, and the man he couldn’t bring himself to fully mistrust.

Because despite all the shadows, despite the stakes and the potential for betrayal, there was Danny. And for Steve McGarrett, the line between duty and desire had never been thinner.

 

---

 

The first files scrolled across the screen. Safe. Expected. Necessary. But Steve already knew the next steps would demand something more: courage, restraint, and perhaps the willingness to confront ghosts from the past—both his father’s and Danny’s.

The thumb drive blinked steadily in the display, a silent pulse that matched the one in his chest. Anthony De Luca. Danny Williams. The Bellinis. The Costas. And all the questions Steve wasn’t ready to ask. Not yet.

He swallowed, steadying his resolve. For now, he would carry the shadows himself. But the day would come when he couldn’t, when the truth demanded to be spoken. And he would have to be ready—or risk losing everything.

Chapter 28: A Father's Price

Summary:

Danny’s got a war to win, but first, he’s got to send Grace somewhere safe—and that gut-wrenching goodbye only makes the battlefield feel colder. With Bellinis rattled and Wo Fat lurking, the dance of power heats up.

The first order of business wasn’t retaliation; it was protection. For Danny Williams, nothing—not the Bellinis’ audacious strike, not Wo Fat, nor the brewing war—came before Grace. She was his entire world, the one bright spot in a life carved from shadows. Every decision, every calculation, was a variable in the equation of her safety. He had faced down men with guns, stared into the eyes of madness, but the thought of Grace in danger, the memory of her small, terrified face, was a pain that seared him to the bone. This time, there would be no mistakes. The wound of her kidnapping was still too raw.

He found her in her room, the familiar space a comforting anchor amidst the turmoil. The scent of lavender and the soft light of a desk lamp created a cocoon of peace he desperately wanted to preserve. She was still too quiet, her usual spark dimmed by what she’d endured. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking beneath his weight. The silence between them was thick with unspoken fears. Danny reached out, and his fingers brushed the soft strands of her hair.

“Monkey, we need to talk,” he began, his voice softening to a register that few outside of Grace ever witnessed. It was a voice stripped of the armor of Capo Donato, a voice that was simply Danno. Grace’s eyes, wide and intelligent, met his. She was so much like her mother, but with an inherited toughness, a resilience forged in the crucible of this life he had tried so hard to keep her from.

“Because of Mr. Bellini?” she whispered, her small hand reaching for his. He noticed the way her grip was just a little too tight, a silent testament to her anxiety. Danny nodded, squeezing her hand in return.

“Yeah, monkey. Because of him. And because Daddy needs to focus completely on making sure he can’t hurt anyone ever again. That means I need to know you’re absolutely safe, somewhere far away from all this. You’re going to see Uncle Matt on the mainland.” He could see the questions forming in her eyes, the innocent hope that he would be with her. The words caught in his throat.

“To New York?” she asked, her voice small. The name of the city, of a world away, sounded so foreign on her tongue. “But… you’re coming too, Danno?”

Danny swallowed, the truth heavy. “Not right away, kiddo. Daddy’s got to finish this here. But Uncle Matt’s got a big house, and Auntie Izzy already misses you. Remember how much fun you had there last winter holidays? You’re gonna have a blast, and I promise, I will come for you as soon as I can. You know Daddy always comes back.” The last words were the most important, a solemn oath that he knew, with every fiber of his being, he had to keep. He pulled her into a tight hug, inhaling the scent of her hair, committing it to memory. He held her for a long time, the weight of his promise a physical burden, a vow whispered not only to her but to himself.

Danny had carried the weight of that choice for almost a decade, and he had never regretted it, not for a single moment. Matt lived a good, clean life on the mainland, a life Danny would protect fiercely, a life he would use as a shield for Grace.

Letting her go was like tearing a piece of his soul out, but it was the only way to truly focus on the coming storm. As he watched her small form disappear down the jetway, the finality of it was a bitter taste in his mouth.

 

---

 

“Status report,” his voice was low, stripped of all emotion, chillingly calm. It was a sound that made his men straighten their backs, a sound they knew preceded the storm.

One of his men, a young, sharp-eyed lieutenant named Kai, pointed to several red markers on the tactical map of Oahu. “The Bellinis’ supply chains are feeling the pressure, boss. Three shipments diverted. Two crews hit. Their leader, Ignazio Bellini, is trying to consolidate, but his ground game is fractured. We’ve been using our alliances in the shipping and customs networks to put the screws on them.”

Danny nodded, his eyes narrowed. “Good. I want to hit them where it hurts the most. Financially, operationally, and personally. Every family member, every key associate, every asset that gives the Bellinis strength—I want them to feel the squeeze.” He tapped a finger on a cluster of green markers—Bellini safe houses. “And I want to know everything about their remaining leadership. Their routines, their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities. Nothing that can be traced back to us. Accidents. Mistakes. The kind that happen when you’re desperate and exposed.”

His lieutenants nodded, understanding the cold precision of his orders. This was not a quick, vengeful strike; this was a methodical dismantling, a professional execution of a rival. This was a war, reignited.

Danny had taken down the Bellini leadership once before, systematically erasing their influence after Ignazio’s father, Vincenzo, ordered the Molotov attack on Danny and his family years ago. He had thought that chapter was closed, the ledger balanced. But Ignazio, even after being shot by Danny at the shipyard, had survived, and worse, he’d returned with alarming speed and resources. Danny knew why.

The intel had solidified in the days leading up to and immediately after Grace’s kidnapping: Wo Fat had rebuilt them. He had provided the resources, the connections, the strategic acumen that allowed the Bellinis to rise from the ashes of their previous defeat and execute this brazen strike. The Bellinis were not just a rival family; they were Wo Fat’s proxy, a puppet on strings, designed to be a persistent nuisance.

Now, though, after Grace’s kidnapping and Ignazio’s failure at the shipyard, Danny knew the Bellinis were exposed and vulnerable. Wo Fat was a master manipulator, never acting without direct benefit, and his strategic vision always encompassed the larger board. Danny understood that Wo Fat hadn’t just rebuilt the Bellinis for their own sake; he’d done so to create a persistent problem, a thorn in the side of the one man who held significant, undeniable sway in Hawaii’s underworld: Danny himself. Wo Fat most likely saw Danny as a problem that needed to disappear.

The Bellinis, having failed to deliver Danny and crippled his operations, would now be seen as a liability, their value to Wo Fat diminished. This was the critical moment to strike, to cut the head off the snake while it was isolated. He would dismantle Ignazio’s network brick by brick, not just to neutralize the Bellinis, but to sever the tentacles of Wo Fat’s influence and force him into the open, proving that even Wo Fat couldn’t control the tides of Danny’s island.

As his men began to execute their directives, the room filled with the quiet hum of clandestine communication. Danny walked to the large picture window, looking out at the glittering expanse of Honolulu below. It was a city he owned, a city he was now prepared to burn down to protect. Somewhere down there, Steve McGarrett was moving pieces on his own board.

 

---

 

Their alliance was uneasy, born of necessity and danger. It was an unspoken understanding between two men who, on paper, should have been on opposite sides of a battlefield. Steve, with his Special Forces background, a man of rules and a strict code of justice. Danny, with a name and legacy that commanded an entirely different kind of respect. Yet, the lines were blurred. They had worked together before, a grudging collaboration against a common enemy. But this was different. The stakes were higher, the cost more personal.

Beneath the surface, Danny found himself caring more than he wanted to admit. There was something in Steve’s quiet strength, his unyielding sense of justice, that chipped away at the walls Danny had spent years building. Steve wasn’t afraid of the darkness Danny inhabited; he simply demanded a light be shone on it. He didn’t judge, not truly, but he held Danny accountable in a way no one ever had. He was a constant, a presence Danny had not realized he needed, a force that grounded him in a world of shifting allegiances and constant betrayal.

And Steve—though slow to admit it—was beginning to feel the pull too. The steady tug of something more complicated than an alliance, something that made the cold calculus of their worlds blur at the edges. He saw the man behind the Capo, the father who would burn the world down for his daughter. He saw the burden Danny carried, a loneliness he understood instinctively. It was a connection born from shared trauma and a mutual, unspoken respect.

In this brutal dance of power and survival, their unspoken feelings added a volatile layer to an already dangerous game. Yet, that fragile understanding—the grudging respect and the spark of something raw and real—was perhaps the only thing that truly mattered. It was a lifeline in the coming storm, the one thing that made Danny believe that he could survive this war without losing himself completely. As he looked out over his city, he knew he wasn’t just fighting for Grace anymore. He was fighting for the life he could still have, for the possibility of a world where he and Steve didn’t have to stand on opposite sides of the line.

The first strike would be tonight. Danny turned from the window, his expression hardening. It was time to go to war.

Chapter 29: Shadow Play

Summary:

Danny’s pulling strings like a chess grandmaster, dismantling the Bellinis one legal blow at a time — and Steve’s watching, realizing this capo’s got brains, brawn, and a hell of a hold on his heart. Who knew mob tactics could be so… intoxicating?

The silence in Danny’s command center wasn’t quiet; it hummed with the efficient, predatory thrum of a perfectly oiled machine. Grace was safe, on a plane to the mainland, and with that certainty, the desperate father had fully receded, replaced by the chillingly precise architect of his empire. Capo Donato.

“Hit them where the light touches,” Danny murmured, his voice low, almost meditative, as his finger tapped a glowing cluster on the holographic map of Oahu dominating the room. This wasn’t just a mob boss in a tailored suit — it was a master tactician, honed by years on both sides of the law, now commanding the room with deadly calm.

His lieutenants, a grim-faced assortment of specialists, didn’t need further explanation. They knew Danny’s methods. He hadn’t built an empire on brute force alone; he’d done it by knowing the system’s weak spots and exploiting them relentlessly.

Within the hour, the Bellinis' world began to unravel with surgical precision.

From Danny’s meticulously built network of “legal” contacts and embedded operatives, a coordinated assault commenced. Financial regulators, suddenly armed with anonymous, irrefutable tips, descended on Bellini-linked shell corporations.

Bank accounts tied to the Bellinis’ import-export businesses, once considered untouchable, were frozen under the weight of documented irregularities. Licenses for their legitimate fronts—restaurants, construction companies, tourist agencies—were revoked swiftly, citing zoning violations, safety hazards, and falsified permits.

These weren’t random audits; these were targeted, rapid strikes on every pressure point Danny had identified over years of patient intelligence gathering. The Bellinis’ revenue streams, once roaring rivers, were now trickles, suffocated by official red tape.

 

---

 

 A phone rang, its shrill tone slicing through the tension in Ignazio Bellini’s makeshift command center across town. Marco, a lieutenant whose face was usually a study in calm indifference, snatched the receiver. He put it on speaker, and his voice was tight.

“This is Marco. I need to make a transfer to our holdings in Geneva. Now.”

There was a pause, a moment of sterile silence from the other end of the line, and then a cool, detached female voice replied, “I’m sorry, sir. That account is under review. All transactions have been temporarily frozen.”

Marco’s knuckles turned white. “Frozen? What do you mean, frozen? I don’t care about a review. I need to move the money now.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” the voice continued, unwavering. “However, our system has flagged numerous irregularities, and per protocol, we have been advised by a regulatory commission to cease all activity. The account is inaccessible until the investigation is complete.”

Marco's face, already pale from stress, seemed to drain of all color. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his eyes darting to Ignazio, who stood rigid, watching him with a burning intensity. “We can’t wait. I have a client on the phone right now who needs to be paid. This is a mistake. I’ll call my contact, this has to be a mistake.”

He ended the call, his hands shaking as he dialed another number. This time, the call went directly to voicemail. Marco stared at the phone in his hand, a look of pure dread crossing his face. He tried a third number, a fourth, but each time the result was the same. No one was answering his calls.

“This is impossible,” Marco whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief. “They’re not answering. No one is.”

 

---

 

In a makeshift command center across town, a scarred and bandaged Ignazio Bellini screamed into his phone, panic breaking his usually cold demeanor.

“What do you mean, frozen?! How?! This isn’t just bad luck, Marco. This is Williams! He’s burning us from the inside!”

His lieutenants shifted nervously, the ground game fractured, the men demoralized, and the legalistic attacks confusing them. They’d expected a gang war, not a paperwork apocalypse.

 

---

 

The manager of Il Fiore, a popular upscale Italian restaurant in Waikiki, was a man named Leo, who prided himself on his impeccable record. He was a Bellini cousin, and the establishment was a meticulously clean and profitable front. When a stern-faced woman with a clipboard and a faded HPD lanyard walked in, Leo’s smile didn’t falter. He’d handled surprise inspections before. A quick check, a friendly chat, a sealed envelope at the end. Standard procedure.

"Health inspection," she announced, her voice flat. "Routine."

Leo gestured grandly. "Of course, come, a pleasure. The kitchen is immaculate, I assure you." He followed her, his hands clasped behind his back, a picture of polite confidence.

But this wasn't routine. She moved with a chilling efficiency, her eyes scanning for flaws invisible to the average diner. She checked expiration dates on products that had been certified fresh just days ago, her pen scratching furious notes on her clipboard. She held a thermometer to the refrigerators, frowning at temperatures that were a degree or two off the legal minimum, violations that had always been overlooked before.

Her questions were relentless, a rapid-fire barrage that chipped away at Leo’s composure. "Where are the certified pest control records from last quarter?" she asked, her eyes narrowed. "The fire suppressant system in the kitchen—has it been serviced in the last six months? Show me the permits for the recent electrical work."

Leo stammered, his confidence turning to confusion. He pulled up documents on his tablet, but the inspector shook her head, her gaze never leaving the screen. "Falsified permits," she said, without a shred of emotion. "The digital signature is fraudulent. This permit for your wine cellar expansion—it was never filed with the city."

Leo’s smile was gone, replaced by a cold dread. This wasn't a standard inspection; this was a dissection. He had no answers, no bribes, no way to stop the steady, damning progress of her pen.

When she finally handed him the official notice, her face was a mask of cold professionalism. "Effective immediately," she said, her voice like ice, "the establishment is to be shut down. Your business license has been permanently revoked due to a myriad of health code violations, safety hazards, and falsified documentation. HPD will be here within the hour to secure the premises."

Leo stood frozen, the paper shaking in his hands. He looked up at her, a silent plea in his eyes, but she simply turned and walked out, leaving him alone in the suddenly silent dining room. He wasn't just losing a restaurant; he was losing everything. He was a Bellini, and they were supposed to be untouchable. But Danny Williams was finding every single one of their weak spots.

 

---

 

Simultaneously, Danny’s more traditional assets moved. Not with gunfire, but with whisper campaigns turning suppliers against the Bellinis, anonymous calls tipping off rivals to unprotected shipments, and “accidents” carefully engineered.

A warehouse full of illicit goods, supposedly secured by Bellini muscle, burned to the ground in a fire that started “accidentally.”

 

---

 

Frankie, a Bellini low-level enforcer, drove a beat-up sedan through the night, a half-eaten pizza box on the passenger seat. His radio crackled with garbled orders, but he’d stopped listening. The boss was screaming at everyone, and the whole crew was on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He pulled up to the warehouse, a grimy, squat building near the docks where they stashed everything from stolen electronics to contraband. He was supposed to be on guard duty, a simple night shift.

But a sickly orange glow was spilling from the loading bay doors. At first, Frankie thought it was just the floodlights. Then the smell hit him—the acrid, sickening odor of burning chemicals and melting plastic.

He killed the engine and got out, his gut tightening. The heat hit him like a physical wall, an oppressive wave that made his skin prickle. He squinted into the night, and saw it: a tiny flicker of red at the base of the warehouse wall, growing, spreading, and climbing. He didn’t need to get closer to know it was real. He could hear the low, hungry crackle of the flames, a sound that seemed to mock the silence of the docks.

He fumbled for his radio, his mind a panicked jumble. "Boss, the warehouse... it's on fire! The whole damn thing!"

He heard a curse on the other end, a roar of fury from Ignazio himself. "Who did it?! Who's there?!"

Frankie's eyes darted around the deserted street. He saw no one, no rival cars, no broken glass. It was too quiet, too clean. Just a fire that had started on its own. He backed away, the heat pushing him back, the glow of the flames lighting up his horrified face. This wasn't a hit. A hit was a bullet, a beating. This was different. This was precise. This wasn't a rival, this was someone with an agenda, someone who knew that the Bellinis weren't just about muscle, they were about assets. And those assets were burning, a silent, devastating declaration of war.

 

---

 

A key Bellini money launderer’s entire digital infrastructure was wiped clean in a “catastrophic system failure.”

 

---

 

Miles away from the burning warehouse, in a cluttered apartment, a man named Toast sat hunched over a keyboard. He was a creature of the night, fueled by half-empty Red Bulls and a singular focus on the monitors that bathed his face in an eerie blue light. He wasn't a soldier like Frankie; his battlefield was the digital world, and his weapon was a custom-built code. A crinkled bag of sour cream and onion chips lay open beside him, the scent mingling with the faint aroma of stale pizza.

On one screen, a command line filled with a steady stream of green text, a digital river flowing toward a pre-programmed destination. On a separate monitor, a live feed showed a pale, sweating man named Paolo, the Bellini money launderer, frantically staring at a series of rapidly failing servers.

“Just another few seconds, buddy,” Toast muttered to the blank screen, taking a sip of his energy drink. “Let’s get this level done.” He saw the panic growing in Paolo's eyes on the live feed, the man’s hands a blur as he tried to back up what was already gone. “You can hit that backup button all you want, pal. The primary drive is already in the garbage, and your off-site mirrors are about to get a little visit from my new friends. A total, elegant zero-out.”

As if on cue, a pop-up window appeared on Toast’s screen, a cheerful cartoon bomb going off. He heard a faint gasp from the live feed as Paolo’s face went from frantic to a mask of pure terror. The screen in front of him went black. The lights on his server towers flickered and died. A thin wisp of smoke curled from one of the mainframes, a small fire in a larger digital inferno.

“Bingo,” Toast said, a small, satisfied smirk on his face. He watched Paolo fumble with the power cords, a helpless expression on his face. The man could rebuild the hardware, but the data—the years of meticulous work, the complex ledgers, the hidden codes and encrypted files—was gone forever. The Bellinis were now financially blind. Their entire empire had just collapsed into a digital black hole.

Toast leaned back, stretched his arms over his head, and cracked his knuckles. He took a sip of his cold coffee, his eyes flicking to a final screen with a single, flashing icon: Job Complete. Danny Williams hadn't just hit the Bellinis; he had used a surgeon's scalpel to sever their lifelines.

The chaos was widespread yet untraceable back to Danny. It looked like pure bad luck, a rival taking advantage, or internal collapse.

 

---

 

Miles away, in a secure office, Wo Fat watched the unfolding chaos. His workspace was as minimalist and cold as a surgical theater—polished dark wood, a single, black leather chair, and a bank of monitors displaying a network of red alerts. He didn't pace or shout. He simply observed, his hands folded calmly on the desk.

His usual unreadable mask flickered with a rare flicker of intrigue. This wasn’t brute force; it was precision. He had expected a messy street war, a predictable cycle of violence and retaliation. Instead, he was witnessing a systematic dismantling, an empire being starved to death with paperwork and invisible strikes.

He recognized the signature. Danny Williams—the “pineapple king”—was fighting back not just with muscle but with brains, dissecting his proxy war with unnerving efficiency. Wo Fat had considered Danny a necessary obstacle, a pawn to be manipulated or removed. He had propped up the Bellinis, thinking they would be a persistent thorn, a useful distraction.

Now, that pawn had shown unexpected ferocity. The Bellinis, having failed to deliver Danny and botched their job, were proving a blunt instrument—too brittle to wield. A liability. Wo Fat watched the last of Paolo’s digital network die on one of his screens, the graph of the Bellinis' assets flatlining. It was a clean kill, an elegant solution he couldn't help but appreciate.

Wo Fat began pulling assets from the crumbling Bellini structure. He sent a series of encrypted messages to his operatives, not with orders to intervene, but to monitor the ongoing destruction and to begin severing any remaining ties. The Bellinis were no longer his concern; their value had been spent. He was content to watch the chaos he’d stoked, knowing that a variable like Williams was far more interesting than a predictable pawn.

Let Williams burn his own hand. Wo Fat would wait for the smoke to clear and assess the new landscape.

 

---

 

Back at his secure beachfront home, Steve sat hunched over his laptop, Danny’s intel spread across the screen. He cross-referenced names, phone numbers, offshore accounts. The cold, sterile glow of the screen did little to calm the storm raging inside him.

HPD reports popped up: a Bellini-owned restaurant shut for health violations, an import shipment seized over customs discrepancies. The narrative unfolding across the documents was too perfect, too devastating to be mere coincidence. The attacks were precise, devastating, and internal. He knew this wasn’t coincidence.

This was Danny.

The implications hit him like a physical blow, a punch to the gut that left him breathless. Danny wasn’t just a mob boss; he was a strategist dismantling an empire through its legal Achilles’ heel. A part of Steve, the deeply-ingrained, black-and-white part of him honed by years in the SEALs, saw a man operating outside the law, a criminal who needed to be taken down. But another part, the part that had seen the quiet father, the man who would tear down the world for his daughter, saw a kind of justice he couldn't replicate through official channels.

This complicated, fierce man wasn’t just an enemy or an asset. He was something dangerously close to… necessary.

He leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking softly, his hands running over his face. Duty and desire tangled in a web he couldn’t yet unravel. His training screamed at him to act, to bring Danny in, to end the operation before more chaos erupted. But a deeper, more primal instinct, one he was just beginning to understand, told him to wait. To watch. To trust that this man, who had shown him a brutal kind of honor, would see this through.

He had a mission. And Danny was the most challenging, unpredictable part of it. A man who was both the solution and the problem.

 

Chapter 30: The Cage Rattles

Summary:

Wo Fat makes his move, and it’s a brutal one.

The strike came fast.

Too fast.

Danny was stepping out of the SUV when the explosion tore through the parked car behind him — a sharp bloom of fire and force that sent him sprawling to the pavement, ears ringing, vision narrowed to smoke and pain. Somewhere, someone was yelling his name, but it was all static through the roar in his head.

His side burned.

He rolled onto his back, instinct taking over, adrenaline blunting everything but movement. Pain lanced through his ribs, hot and sharp, but he was breathing. Bleeding — yeah, definitely — but alive.

Gunfire cracked. Suppressed shots, sharp orders. One of his lieutenants hauled him behind a concrete barrier, hands firm and face pale.

“Boss, stay down!”

Danny sucked in a shallow breath and pressed his palm to his side. Wet. Sticky. His shirt was soaked through.

Not fatal. But close enough to piss him off.

He'd known Wo Fat was going to retaliate. He just hadn’t expected it to be this brazen. Not a bomb in broad daylight.

“Secure the perimeter,” he rasped. “Get eyes on rooftops. Don’t let them—”

His head spun. His body was trying to shut down. But his brain — his brain was fire. Every inch of this was a message. A warning.

Danny had rattled the cage. Now the monster was reaching through the bars.

 

---

 

Steve burst through the hospital doors like a storm in boots.

He’d been halfway through cross-referencing Bellini shipment manifests when the call came through: Danny Williams, admitted to Queen’s following a targeted explosion.

He didn’t bother with the nurse’s startled expression or the men standing guard outside the room. He was already pushing through, heart hammering like he’d run the entire stretch of Kalakaua.

Danny was propped in a hospital bed, pale under the fluorescent lights but alert — of course he was alert — arguing with a nurse about discharging himself.

Steve’s stomach unclenched in stages.

“You are—” he began, but the words jammed up behind his teeth.

Danny looked up, eyes catching on Steve’s face, and something in his expression shifted. Not surprised. Not relieved, either. Braced.

“You gonna yell at me or punch a wall first?” Danny asked.

Steve crossed the room in three strides. “You were blown up, Danny.”

“It was a small explosion.”

Steve’s voice dropped. “You’re bleeding in three places.”

“Two,” Danny corrected. “The third one’s a graze. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you thought I wasn’t gonna make it.”

Steve didn’t answer. He just stared at Danny — the hospital bracelet around his wrist, the IV line taped to his hand, the dried blood on his temple.

Danny must’ve seen something in his face, because he shifted, his usual sarcasm faltering.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “I’m fine. Really. I’ve been through worse.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m okay with this.”

Danny tilted his head, watching him. “It was a warning.”

Then Danny added, quieter: “You shouldn’t have come.”

 

---

 

From a blacked-out SUV perched on a distant ridge, Wo Fat watched the hospital entrance through a long-lens camera, his expression unreadable.

“Missed him,” his associate said from the passenger seat. “Williams survived.”

“I didn’t intend to kill him,” Wo Fat murmured. “I wanted to see what McGarrett would do.”

“And?”

Wo Fat smiled faintly. “He came running.”

He powered down the screen. “Just like I knew he would.”

 

---

 

Danny hated hospitals.

Not just for the obvious reasons — the smell, the food, the lack of dignity — but because they made him feel vulnerable. Trapped.

Steve hadn’t left his side. Not since the first nurse tried to change Danny’s bandage and Steve nearly hovered her into quitting.

Danny watched him now, sitting rigid in the corner chair, fingers laced like he was holding himself together with tension alone.

“What are you thinking?” Danny asked.

Steve didn’t look at him. “That I’m going to kill Wo Fat.”

Danny offered a dry smile. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”

Then, quieter: “You know that explosion wasn’t about me, right?”

Steve looked over, brow furrowed.

Danny met his gaze, serious now. “It was a warning. A probe. He wanted to see what I’d do. But more than that—” He nodded toward Steve. “He wanted to see what you’d do.”

Steve didn’t answer, but his jaw clenched.

Danny sighed. “And now you’ve gone and made yourself a target.”

“I’m not going to pretend I don’t care what happens to you.”

“Yeah, well…” Danny leaned back against the pillows, wincing slightly. “Next time you charge in here like a damn hero, just remember someone’s watching to see how deep you’re in.”

There was a beat.

“I’m in,” Steve said quietly. “You know that.”

Danny glanced at him. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”

 

---

 

Steve stayed the rest of the night. Not because he had to, but because he couldn’t leave. Not yet.

He watched the soft rise and fall of Danny’s chest as the man finally dozed off — hospital monitors blinking steadily beside him.

Steve’s phone buzzed once. A report.

More pressure on the Bellinis. A port seizure, a double-cross from a supplier, another permit revoked.

None of it mattered. Not tonight.

Wo Fat had drawn blood again.

He’d killed Steve’s father. And now he’d come for Danny.

This wasn’t about strategy anymore. It was personal.

And Steve had finally seen it for what it was: a test.

He failed it the moment he walked into the hospital.

Because Danny wasn’t just a target anymore. He wasn’t just a source.

He was his.

 

---

 

Danny shifted slightly in the hospital bed, the pain dull and insistent. He could still hear the soft beep of the monitors, the rhythmic hush of Steve’s breathing from the chair nearby.

But his mind wasn’t in the room.

It was somewhere darker. Colder.

A night dock. A burlap sack. The weight of chain and silence.

He hadn’t needed to say much. Ignazio had known what it was for the moment the blindfold came off and he saw Danny standing there, calm and quiet as the tide rolled in.

"You touched my kid," Danny had said, voice low and flat.

That was it.

No grand speech. No second chances.

Just the splash, and then nothing.

Back in the hospital, Danny exhaled through his nose, slow.

Some men deserved to swim with the sharks.

And Ignazio Bellini? He’d earned the long dive.

Danny didn’t feel guilt.

He felt peace.

Notes:

Boom. Literally. Danny gets blown up, Steve gets feelings, and Wo Fat gets way too close for comfort.

Chapter 31: Bad for Business

Summary:

Danny wakes up in the hospital, bruised but not broken — and, of course, Steve hasn’t left his side.

Notes:

This chapter was a mix of soft hospital vibes and “oh no, Danny’s about to go full mafia don.” Honestly, I love letting Steve realize just how powerful Danny really is — and how far he’ll go to protect what’s his.

The beeping came first. Then the dull ache in his ribs. Then the awareness of weight—a blanket pulled halfway over him, a pulse monitor clipped to his finger, and the metallic taste of saline in the back of his throat.

And then, finally, the silhouette slumped in the chair beside him.

Steve. Asleep. Still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Arms crossed, chin tilted down, tension written even into unconsciousness.

Danny let his eyes rest on him for a moment. Just a moment.

He didn’t remember drifting off, but he remembered Steve being there. Staying.

Of course he did.

And of course he hadn’t left.

Danny turned his head slightly, pain flickering down his side. The bandages were tight. His ribs were bruised or cracked. But he was alive.

Wo Fat missed on purpose.

The clarity of that hit like a second explosion—quiet, but definitive.

It wasn’t a kill shot. It was a signal flare.

A warning. A test. And now Steve was sitting here like he’d stamped a bullseye between his own shoulder blades.

Danny shifted, hissing softly.

Steve stirred immediately. Eyes opening, alert in an instant. The SEAL in him never slept.

“You’re awake,” Steve said, voice rough. “You okay?”

Danny snorted. “Define okay.”

Steve leaned forward. “You need anything?”

“I need you to stop looking at me like that,” Danny muttered.

“Like what?”

“Like you’d throw yourself in front of the next bomb if it meant proving something.”

Steve held his gaze. “It’s not about proving anything.”

“No,” Danny said. “It’s about you not knowing how to keep yourself out of my war.”

A beat of silence.

And then Steve said, too quietly, “Is that what this is now? Yours?”

Danny let out a breath. “You were here all night.”

Steve didn’t reply.

Danny sat with that. Sat with the part of him that noticed. That wanted him there. That hated what it meant—and wanted it anyway.

He shifted again, grimacing. “You made yourself a target. And I can’t protect you from what comes next.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know,” Danny said. “And that’s the problem.”

Steve stood then, restless. Walked to the window and back. Agitation in every line of him. Like he didn’t know where to put it.

Danny watched him. And for a moment, something almost came to the surface.

But it didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he said, quieter now, “You’re not good at staying away.”

And Steve, without turning, replied, “No. I’m not.”

 

---

 

The hospital room was no longer a place of recovery—it was a war room.

Danny was already dressed, his shirt half-buttoned over the fresh bandage on his side, pacing the small space like a caged animal. One hand held a burner phone. The other gestured sharply as he barked commands in rapid-fire Italian, tone clipped and lethal.

Steve stayed silent in the corner. Watching.

This wasn’t the Danny who flirted and bantered and kissed him like he was playing with fire.

This was something else.

But the man standing in front of him didn’t just command power. He was power.

"...e se lo vedete prima di me, assicuratevi che capisca che questa volta non c'è misericordia. Questa volta rispondiamo con sangue." ¹

The call ended. Danny tossed the phone onto the rolling tray without a glance and turned to face him. There was no warmth in his expression—just calculation.

“You planning on hovering all day, McGarrett?”

Steve crossed his arms. “You’re not cleared to leave.”

Danny’s smirk was tight, humorless. “Wasn’t asking for permission.”

There was a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the hospital’s AC.

“This wasn’t just a hit,” Danny continued. “It was a message. To me. To you. To anyone watching.”

“I know,” Steve said.

“No, you don’t.” Danny stepped closer. “You still think this is a game of cops and criminals. You still think you’re in control. But he knows the truth. Wo Fat doesn’t play games. He plays for keeps.”

“And you?”

Danny’s voice dropped to something just above a whisper. “I stopped playing the moment he put you in his sights.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut.

For the first time, Steve saw it clearly—how much of this Danny had been managing, allowing him to think he had power. How far out of his depth he’d really been.

Danny turned back toward the tray and grabbed another burner. No hesitation. No pause. The man was a one-man war council in a wrinkled dress shirt and a bloodstained bandage, issuing commands in Italian, in English, in silence where a single look to Sal, who was waiting at the door, said enough.

Steve stood there, pulse ticking in his throat, watching something click into place.

This wasn’t rage.

This was precision.

This was a response built from infrastructure—quiet loyalty, ironclad favors, debts called in from dark corners of the island. One name murmured into a phone and Steve could feel the weight of it ripple outward, the impact measured in whispered movements and quiet disappearances.

Danny wasn’t spiraling.

He was orchestrating.

And Steve—former SEAL, current task force leader, man who’d spent a career on the edge of control—had never seen anything like it.

Sal leaned in to murmur something low, and Danny nodded once. Not deferential. Final.

"Make sure the port is locked down. No one in or out without my say so."

Steve blinked. “You have pull at the port?”

Danny glanced at him, one eyebrow raised like the question was naïve.

“I have pull everywhere Wo Fat’s ever made a deal. You think I let him operate here without knowing every route he uses? Please.”

It should have sounded arrogant. It didn’t. It sounded inevitable.

Steve stepped closer without realizing. “This isn’t just retaliation.”

“No,” Danny said simply. “This is a reckoning.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten. Didn’t boast. And that quiet steel was the most dangerous thing Steve had heard in years.

“You’re cutting off his supply lines,” Steve said, slowly, eyes narrowing. “You’re hitting his infrastructure.”

Danny finally looked at him then—really looked. “I’m doing what you couldn’t. What the badge wouldn’t let you.”

Steve flinched at that, but Danny didn’t press the blade further.

He didn’t have to.

It was true.

And Steve, god help him, wasn’t just intimidated by it.

He was in awe.

This man—who kissed like a dare and kept secrets like religion—was moving faster than anyone Steve had ever seen. And suddenly Steve realized: Danny had never been reacting. He’d always been planning. Calculating. Biding his time.

“Jesus,” Steve whispered, more to himself than anyone. “You’re going to burn his empire down.”

Danny’s mouth curved into something like a smile. Not warm. Not cold. Just real. “No. I’m going to salt the earth.”

 

---

 

Danny’s phone call ended, and he tucked the burner into his pocket. He moved toward the window, looking out over the city that both protected and imprisoned him. His voice dropped, almost to himself.

“This isn’t just about Wo Fat anymore. It’s about every shadow he’s cast. Every deal, every dirty cop, every thread in his web. I’m pulling them all. No exceptions.”

Steve stayed close, the weight of those words settling in his chest. It wasn’t bravado. It was a cold promise. And he knew Danny meant it.

Steve’s heart hammered, his throat tightening. The man in front of him was danger and desire rolled into one, and Steve felt himself caught between respect, fear, and something far more complicated.

The tension between them crackled like static electricity, charged and undeniable.

Steve wanted to tell Danny he was ready.

Wanted to tell him he wasn’t just following.

Wanted to tell him that no matter how much this war tore them apart, or pulled them deeper into chaos, he was staying right there—beside him.

Because this wasn’t just about survival anymore.

It was about something dangerously close to hope.

Danny’s phone rang again. He caught it, glanced at the caller ID, then nodded to Sal, who waited silently by the door.

“Go. Make the calls,” Danny said without missing a beat.

Steve watched him walk away, already spinning the threads of a counterstrike that would shake Wo Fat’s world to its core.

Notes:

¹ "... And if you see him before me, make sure he understands that this time there is no mercy. This time we respond with blood."

Chapter 32: The Lion’s Den

Summary:

Less than twelve hours after the bombing, Danny is no longer just reacting—he’s taking over. Commanding power, orchestrating chaos, and revealing the terrifying precision behind his empire. Steve, stuck between duty and something more dangerous, begins to see Danny not as an ally or enemy—but as a force of nature.

Back at HQ, the team is growing uneasy. Steve’s loyalty is shifting, and no one’s sure if he’s still in control—or if he ever was.

Notes:

This chapter is where the gloves really come off. Danny’s not just fighting back—he’s revealing who he’s always been. And Steve? He’s caught between admiration, attraction, and the sinking feeling that he may already be in too deep.

It had been less than twelve hours since the bombing, and already the villa felt like a war room.

Danny wasn’t resting. He wasn’t healing. He was commanding. Shirt rolled to the elbow, bandage fresh beneath fabric, voice sharp and cutting as he switched between Italian and English on call after call. Orders went out like bullets. Names, locations, assets to be moved, contacts to be called in—some legal, most not.

Steve stood just inside the threshold, forgotten—or ignored.

This wasn’t the Danny who smirked over espresso or traded jabs just to get under his skin. This was the man who once claimed Hawaii like a kingdom and ruled it like one. Sharp. Cold. Untouchable.

"Se ci fosse ancora un dubbio, adesso è il momento di eliminarlo. Ogni legame, ogni favore, ogni uomo."¹

The burner phone hit the marble counter with a hard clatter. Danny turned, eyes hard and unreadable.

“You’re still here,” he said. Not surprised. Not angry. Just noting a fact.

“I wanted to see what you’d do next,” Steve said.

Danny raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Steve’s gaze swept the room—maps, a laptop running some encrypted network, a list of names that would make federal agents lose sleep.

“I think Wo Fat made a very stupid mistake.”

That earned a flicker of something. Not quite a smile. Approval, maybe.

Danny walked past him, grabbed a bottle of water, didn’t offer one. “He played his hand too early. Gave me cause.”

“Cause for what?” Steve asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear it.

Danny looked up. “To burn down everything he’s ever built.”

And Steve believed him.

There was no performance here. No posturing. No bluff. Danny was going to dismantle Wo Fat’s empire piece by piece—and not with warrants or rules, but with quiet calls and shadowed alliances. With favors owed and old debts called in.

And Steve, who once thought himself a hunter, realized he’d been circling a far more dangerous predator all along.

 

---

 

Steve didn’t move. Just watched him.

Watched the ease with which Danny commanded power. The quiet efficiency of a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to make the world shift. He wasn’t asking for help—he was issuing ultimatums. Not negotiating—claiming.

It should have scared Steve. Maybe it did. But fear had always run close to adrenaline for him, and adrenaline had always bled into attraction. And now—

Now he couldn’t take his eyes off him.

Danny uncapped the bottle, drank, then set it down with the kind of deliberateness that said he was still wired for violence. He was running on instinct, on blood and purpose and some old Jersey fire that wouldn’t die, not even in paradise.

“You ever wonder what this looks like from the outside?” Steve asked, voice low.

Danny gave him a look. “Define this.”

“You. In here. Running an operation like a damn general. With half the island probably answering your calls.”

He stepped closer, until Steve could see the faint bruise along his jaw, the shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.

“I don’t hide who I am, McGarrett. I never did. You’re the one who kept trying to stuff this into something tidy. Like I could be one of your sources, or one of your suspects. A piece on your board.”

His voice dropped, heat curling behind it.

“But I’m not a piece. I own the board.”

Steve swallowed hard.

“And you,” Danny added, close enough now that Steve could feel it—the gravity of him, the pull—“you walked right into my game, and didn’t even see it.”

“Was that the plan?” Steve asked, not moving back. “Let me think I was running this? Let me think I had any control?”

Danny’s mouth twisted—not quite a smile. “No. The plan was to keep you alive.”

Silence stretched.

Steve’s pulse was hammering, something dark and hungry curling beneath his ribs.

“I don’t know if I want to kiss you or arrest you,” he said.

Danny leaned in. “You won’t do either.”

“Why?”

“Because you want to see how it ends.”

And the truth hit, sudden and sharp—Steve did. God help him, he wanted to know just how far Danny would go. What he’d do. Who he’d become when no one was holding him back.

 

---

 

Steve stepped out onto the terrace, the villa behind him glowing warm in the dusk. The surf echoed far below, steady and indifferent. He connected his comm, bracing himself.

Kono’s voice crackled through immediately. “Finally. You miss the part where you’re supposed to check in, McGarrett?”

“I told you this wasn’t a clean op,” he said, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Radio silence was necessary.”

“Chin’s covering your ass so hard he’s got blisters,” she snapped. “And Lou’s two seconds from calling in a full recon.”

“Lou can stand down,” Steve said. “I’ve got it under control.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Lou cut in, dry as ever. “Because from where we’re sitting, it looks like you’ve gone native. You’re holed up with a known crime boss.”

“He’s not—” Steve stopped, jaw tight. “Danny’s not what you think.”

Silence.

“Oh,” Kono said slowly. “So we’re on a first name basis now.”

Steve didn’t take the bait. “He’s not the one who bombed a car in the middle of Waikīkī. That was Wo Fat. This thing is spiraling, and Danny’s the only one who’s actually doing something about it.”

“That’s the part that’s confusing,” Lou said. “You sound like you trust him.”

Steve leaned forward against the railing, staring out at the dark horizon. “I trust that he wants Wo Fat gone. That he’ll burn down whatever he has to in order to do it. Right now, that makes him an ally.”

“Uh huh,” Kono said. “And what about tomorrow? Or the day after? What happens when the smoke clears and you’re still in bed with a man who owns half the island’s dirty money?”

“He saved my life,” Steve said, sharper than he meant to. “And while I was sitting on my hands waiting for intel, he had half the island on the move within the hour.”

“That sounds like a man who runs a syndicate,” Chin murmured.

“That sounds like a man who’s pissed off and dangerous,” Steve shot back. “And for once, he’s pointing all that fury in the right direction.”

Kono was quiet for a moment. Then: “Steve… what happens when this is over?”

Steve didn’t answer.

Didn’t know how to.

 

---

 

The room was dim, the only light spilling from the big wall of glass that looked out over Honolulu’s night skyline. Kono dropped her phone on the conference table with a sharp thud.

“So,” she said, folding her arms. “We gonna talk about the fact that Steve’s compromised, or pretend everything’s fine?”

Chin glanced at Lou, who hadn’t moved since the call ended. “You heard it too.”

“He went full defense mode,” Lou muttered. “Over Williams of all people.”

“Danny,” Kono corrected, with a hint of a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “He called him Danny.”

Chin sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “He’s in deep. Maybe deeper than he realizes. I’ve never heard him talk like that. Not even when we were dealing with Jenna.”

Kono tapped a finger against her bicep. “You think he’s in love with him?”

“Not the point,” Lou said. “The point is he’s got blind spots. And we’re chasing a ghost—Wo Fat—while Steve’s sleeping in the lion’s den.”

“We don’t even know what Williams wants,” Chin added. “He’s not just some guy. He’s got muscle. Territory. Money. If he flips on Steve tomorrow, we’ll be the ones scrambling to pick up the pieces.”

Kono’s voice softened. “But what if he doesn’t? What if he’s legit trying to take Wo Fat down?”

“Then we still need to figure out what Steve’s plan is,” Lou said, finally looking up. “Because right now, I’m not convinced he knows. And I sure as hell don’t like flying blind.”

Silence settled between them, thick and uneasy.

Then Chin said, “We keep digging. Background, financials, anything. Quietly.”

“And if Steve finds out?” Kono asked.

“We don’t let him,” Lou said. “Not yet. Not until we know who Daniel "Donato" Williams really is.”

Notes:

¹ If there is still a doubt, now is the time to eliminate it. Every bond, every favor, every man.

Chapter 33: The Cost of Loyalty

Summary:

The walls are closing in, and the truths are coming out. As the Five-0 team uncovers pieces of a long-buried FBI operation.

The mood in the task force room was heavy. Chin rubbed the bridge of his nose, Kono’s arms were crossed tight, and Lou kept pacing in front of the screen.

“We can’t sit on this anymore,” Lou muttered.

“McGarrett finds out we’ve been keeping things from him, we’re finished.”

“He asked us to dig,” Chin countered. “That doesn’t mean he asked us to blindside him with whatever we found.”

Kono’s gaze flicked to the tablet, the redacted file glowing faintly. “Except this isn’t just some case. His father’s name is all over it.”

Silence stretched.

Finally, Chin exhaled. “Then we tell him. All of it. Better from us than from anyone else.”

Lou gave a sharp nod. “Agreed.”

 

---

 

The sun was bleeding gold across the windows of HQ when Steve stepped into the task force room. The team was already there—Lou by the monitor, Chin leaning against the desk, Kono with her arms folded tight.

Chin looked up first. “You said to keep digging. We found something weird.”

Steve gave a small nod. “What kind of weird?”

Kono tapped the tablet, brought up a scan of a redacted FBI case file. “It’s old. Buried under layers of classification. Operation tied to the Bellini family takedown in Jersey.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Go on.”

“We don’t have much—just fragments,” Chin said. “But there’s a name that shows up repeatedly. Anthony De Luca. Trusted by the Bellinis. Disappeared right after the family fell apart.”

Lou frowned. “What’s strange is—your dad’s notes match up with the timeline. Names, locations. It's the same window.”

Steve felt his pulse thrum low in his throat. “And?”

Kono gave him a look—hesitant, not accusatory. “And John McGarrett’s name shows up too. Not directly. But he was running point on an off-book joint task force. Jersey PD, internal affairs, and deep cover agents.”

Steve leaned forward slowly, gaze on the screen. “You're saying this De Luca might’ve worked with my father.”

“We think he was handled by your father,” Chin said quietly.

Steve didn’t respond right away. His thoughts were already spinning, looping back to the journal tucked away in his duffel. A name underlined in fading ink. De Luca. Trusted. Dangerous. But ours.

He straightened. “I’ll follow this up.”

Lou stepped in. “You still think trusting Williams is a good idea?”

Steve met his eyes. “I think there’s more to him than we know. But I also think if he wanted to burn me, he would’ve done it by now.”

No one pushed back.

Not yet.

 

---

 

Danny stood at the center of the room, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, a map of the island spread out over the coffee table, marked with red pen. His voice was low, clipped, rattling off coordinates and fallback plans in that sharp Jersey rhythm Steve had stopped pretending not to enjoy.

Steve lingered near the window, arms folded. Outside, dusk was settling in—long shadows and the occasional flicker of headlights on the distant road. Inside, Danny's voice cut off, the call ending with a snap.

“Your people ready to move?” Steve asked, not looking at him yet.

“They will be,” Danny said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Two of ‘em owe me favors. The rest... well. Let’s say no one’s thrilled about Wo Fat trying to blow me up in broad daylight.”

Steve turned finally, leaning against the wall. “You’ve got a lot of reach for a guy who was supposedly just running a security firm.”

Danny didn’t smile. “You knew I wasn’t just running a security firm the day we met.”

“True.”

Silence stretched between them. The villa felt too quiet without the sound of strategy being barked into a burner phone.

Steve spoke carefully. “You ever hear of someone named Anthony De Luca?”

Danny’s reaction was so small, it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. Just a pause—no breath, no blink, like a wire had snapped taut behind his eyes.

Then: “Found that name in your dad’s notes?”

Steve nodded once. “You know him?”

Danny snorted. “Jersey’s full of De Lucas. Why?”

“Because he was in deep with the Bellinis. Then disappeared right after they went down.” Steve tilted his head slightly, watching. “My father had notes about him. Said he was dangerous. But loyal.”

“That what it says?” Danny’s voice was casual. But he didn’t sit. Didn’t move.

“Yeah.” Steve kept his tone just as light. “And my  team found traces of a joint task force. My father might’ve been involved. Handling someone deep undercover.”

Danny gave a low chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “You know, when I first got to this island, I thought it’d be nice to leave Jersey behind. Sand, surf, none of the ghosts.”

“But some followed you.”

Danny didn’t deny it.

Steve took a step forward. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m asking if there’s something I should know. About De Luca.”

Danny met his gaze then, all the charm gone from his face, replaced with something harder. Older. “Jersey was a different world,” he said quietly.

Steve’s brow furrowed. “What happened?”

But Danny didn’t answer. He picked up his phone again, thumb tapping the screen like they hadn’t just veered toward something raw and dangerous.

“We’re moving out in two days,” Danny said. “You still in?”

Steve hesitated.

Then: “Yeah. I’m in.”

But the echo of that name—De Luca—stayed lodged in his chest, sharp and unfinished.

 

---

 

Steve didn’t sleep.

He lay on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the wooden beams overhead like they held answers. The villa was quiet now. Danny had disappeared into his room hours ago after a muttered good night and a refill of something dark and expensive.

The kind of quiet that demanded reflection.

Steve’s hand drifted to the old folder he’d pulled from his bag—John McGarrett’s personal notes, the ones tucked in the hidden latch. A few pages had been redacted so heavily they were barely legible. Others were crisp with hand-scribbled dates, clipped phrases.

“Asset unreliable. Still loyal.”
“A.D.L.  won’t back down. Warned him he won’t survive this.”
“If anything happens to him, it’s on me.”

Steve exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Goddamn it, Dad.”

He hadn’t opened the folder to find Danny in it. But once the suspicion had lodged in his chest, it had started coloring everything — the Jersey edge, the way Danny always seemed ten steps ahead, the grief behind his eyes every time someone mentioned John McGarrett.

He ran a hand through his hair and stood, restless.

The hallway was dark. One door at the end was cracked open just slightly, golden light spilling out into shadow. Not enough to be an invitation—but not closed either.

Steve hesitated at the threshold.

Inside, Danny was still awake, sitting in an armchair with a glass in his hand and his reading glasses on, half a file open on his lap. He didn’t look up.

“You pacing or sneaking up on me?” he asked, voice rough with exhaustion.

“Neither,” Steve said. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Danny hummed like he already knew. He didn’t offer the second chair. Just took a sip and said, “You figure out whatever you were brooding about?”

“Maybe.” Steve leaned against the doorframe. “Maybe not.”

Danny finally looked up. His face was all shadows and angles in the lamplight, but his eyes were clear.

“You’re wondering if I’m De Luca.”

Steve didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Danny studied him for a moment, then gave a tired little laugh and looked away. “He was reckless. Too young. Thought he could change the game just by surviving it.”

“And did he?”

Danny’s smile faded. “He walked out of Jersey with more blood on his hands than any cop ever should. And a handler who bet everything on him.” A pause. “No one’s heard from him since.”

“You’re speaking like you knew him.”

“I knew who he was trying to be.” Danny’s voice dropped lower. “That guy died when the Bellinis went down.”

Silence again.

Steve shifted, then said quietly, “My father trusted him. Enough to protect him. Enough to warn him.”

Danny looked at him sharply. “You read all that?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah.”

Danny swirled the drink in his hand. “Then maybe he was a better man than I gave him credit for.”

“He trusted you,” Steve said. “That’s why you stuck your neck out for me. Why you kept showing up even when you didn’t have to. It wasn’t just about the case.”

Danny’s eyes shuttered, and something old passed over his face like a storm cloud.

“I didn’t want to owe anybody,” he murmured. “Least of all a dead man I couldn’t save.”

Steve didn’t speak. Just watched him.

Eventually, Danny set the drink down, removed his glasses, and leaned back in the chair, rubbing his eyes like it all suddenly weighed too much.

When he opened them again, Steve was still there.

“I’m not who you thought I was,” Danny said softly.

Steve’s answer came after a beat.

“No,” he said. “You’re not. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

Danny didn’t reply.

But he didn’t look away, either.

 

“You’re not gonna ask for the rest?” Danny said, low, not looking at him.

Steve blinked.

Danny didn’t move. “Most people would. Want the whole story. Want to know what I did, what I didn’t. What it cost.”

“I want to,” Steve said, carefully. “But not tonight. Not like this.”

Danny finally turned to look at him. “Why not?”

Steve hesitated. Then, with an exhale: “Because you’re not a case file.”

Danny’s breath caught just slightly.

Steve stepped into the room slowly, as if not to spook him. His hands were in his pockets, but his whole posture had shifted—less guarded, more open. Like he’d stopped interrogating a suspect and started listening to a man.

“You think I haven’t been trying to figure you out since day one?” Steve said. “Since the minute you cornerd me at that beach?”

Danny’s eyes met his. Steady. Tired. Honest in a way that knocked the breath out of Steve’s lungs.

“I don’t know everything,” Steve admitted. “Not yet. But I know what matters.”

“And what’s that?” Danny asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“That you’re still here.” Steve’s jaw clenched. “That you’ve had a dozen chances to walk away, to burn me, to disappear—and you didn’t.”

Danny didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

There was a gravity in the room now. Something delicate, almost dangerous. A thread stretched taut between them.

Steve looked at him for a long moment, then added, softer, “And I want to understand. Whatever you’ll give me, whenever you can. I want to understand you.”

Danny looked like he might say something—then stopped. A flicker of emotion crossed his face, then vanished behind practiced composure.

“I’m not easy to understand,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” Steve replied. “I got that memo somewhere between your fifth fake name and the fourth time you saved my ass.”

A small, reluctant laugh escaped Danny.

Steve smiled, just barely.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said eventually, nodding toward the hallway.

Danny didn’t stop him. But he didn’t look away either.

“Steven,” he said as the other man turned to go.

Steve paused.

Danny’s voice was quiet, but it carried. “I didn’t mean for any of this to get personal.”

Steve looked back at him. “Too late.”

Then he disappeared down the hall.

And for the first time in a very long time, Danny sat there alone, staring at the door, with something like hope flickering in his chest—and the terrifying knowledge that Steve McGarrett had just decided not to run.

Notes:

This chapter was 70% quiet revelations, 20% yearning glances, and 10% Steve having a folder-related identity crisis.
Danny tried to say “don’t make this personal” like that wasn’t five chapters too late, bless his lying heart.
Also: Steve absolutely was pacing outside that cracked door like a feral cat waiting to be let in.
We love growth.

Chapter 34: Between the Cracks

Summary:

Late at night in the villa, Steve watches Danny with new eyes — not as a suspect or an enemy, but as a man forged by grief, guilt, and choices that never stopped costing him.

The next day passed in fragments Steve couldn’t hold on to. A briefing here, a call there, maps spread and folded, strategy shifting with every new piece of intel.

He moved through it all on instinct, a soldier falling into formation—but never at the center.

That place belonged to Danny.

Steve caught himself watching more than once—how Danny commanded the room without raising his voice, how every decision seemed pre-calculated, how even silence bent toward him like gravity.

It should’ve grated.

Steve had spent his whole life fighting to keep control, to keep the upper hand. But the longer he watched, the more he wondered if that was the point—if maybe control wasn’t what he wanted anymore.

When the calls ended, the villa still hummed with activity. Men drifted in and out with updates, radios crackled in bursts, weapons were checked and rechecked. Every small motion orbited Danny.

Steve lent his weight where he could—vetting routes, double-checking fallback points, running surveillance sweeps. He didn’t need to be asked. Years in the Navy had trained him to fill the gaps, to move with the unit. But even then, he felt the difference. This wasn’t his command.

The weight of his father’s notes burned at the edges of his mind.

Trusted.

Dangerous.

Ours.

The man John McGarrett had written about and the man Steve couldn’t stop looking at—they weren’t two separate people.

They were one.

And Steve was only just beginning to understand what that meant.

 

---

 

The villa had finally settled into silence. No more calls, no more shuffling of men through the hall. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional groan of wood in the night air.

Danny stood at the counter, sleeves pushed up, glass in hand. The lamplight caught on the rim of his watch, glinted off the dark liquid as he swirled it absently. He looked more like a man waiting for a storm than one stealing a drink.

Steve lingered in the doorway, arms folded, weight braced on one shoulder. He didn’t speak. He just watched—the set of Danny’s jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes never quite met his own reflection in the glass.

Danny broke the silence first, voice rough but steady. “You gonna stand there all night, McGarrett?”

“Maybe,” Steve said. It came out lower than he intended. “Depends.”

“On?” Danny asked, still not looking.

“Whether you’re gonna tell me the real reason you haven’t slept since the bombing.”

Danny huffed a laugh, sharp and humorless, and tipped his glass back. “I’ve got a city to lock down. Sleep’s a luxury.”

Steve pushed off the doorframe and moved closer, each step deliberate. “That’s not it. You’ve had men cover shifts for less. You’re running yourself down because you don’t want to stop.”

Danny’s hand stilled around the glass. He glanced sideways, quick, sharp, like testing how far Steve was willing to push. Whatever he saw made him exhale and lean heavier against the counter.

“You stop moving,” he said finally, quieter now, “you start remembering.”

Steve’s chest tightened. “Newark?”

Something flickered behind Danny’s eyes—old grief, worn but not dulled. He stared into the glass, watching the amber catch the light.

“Among other things.”

Steve was close enough now to see the exhaustion etched into Danny’s face—the kind carved by years, not nights.

He realized then that this wasn’t just about the bombing, or Wo Fat, or the operation Danny had been orchestrating like a man playing a game with no margin for error.

It was about weight Danny carried long before Hawaii.

And Steve, for the first time, didn’t want the upper hand. He wanted the truth.

He stayed silent long enough that Danny finally looked at him, something shuttered in his gaze, like he was deciding how much to give.

Then Danny spoke, voice low, almost tentative. “You ever wish you could be someone else?”

The question landed heavier than Steve expected. Not the kind of idle wondering you toss out at midnight, but something pulled from the marrow. Steve blinked, thrown by the rawness of it.

“All the time,” he admitted before he could second-guess it.

Danny’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Yeah. Well. Some of us got the wish.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The hum of the refrigerator seemed louder, the air denser, every sound sharpened by the weight of what wasn’t said.

Steve felt the words catch in his chest. They weren’t hypothetical—they were a confession. Danny wasn’t asking. He was telling.

And suddenly the name in his father’s notes, the redacted lines, the fragments of truth—all of it snapped into place with a clarity that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the man standing in front of him.

Steve was staring at Danny Williams, at Anthony De Luca, and realized it wasn’t important what name he used.

Important was the man in front of him. The one who carried too much weight on too little sleep. The one who ran a city like it was a battlefield, but still leaned against a kitchen counter at midnight like he might come apart if no one was there to see it.

For the first time, Steve understood: it wasn’t about trust earned or secrets kept, wasn’t about names traded like weapons. It was simpler than that.

It was Danny. Whoever he had been, whatever he had done, it didn’t change the gravity of what Steve felt now—an inevitability pulling him closer.

And in that quiet, Steve knew with startling clarity: he didn’t care which name Danny answered to. He just wanted him.

Notes:

Look, Steve thinks he’s in charge — until Danny starts pouring a drink in the dark and asking existential questions like a noir antihero with unfinished business.
And Steve? Suddenly he’s not solving the case. He’s catching feelings.
This chapter brought to you by men staring at each other silently until one of them breaks first.
(He did. It was Steve. It’s always Steve.)

Chapter 35: What Was Never Said

Summary:

In the quiet aftermath of rain and revelations, Steve confronts Danny about his past — and finally learns the truth behind “Anthony De Luca.”

The rain had returned by morning, soft and steady, slicking the windows of the villa in silver streaks. Steve stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a mug of coffee cooling in his hand as he watched Danny across the room.

He was on another call, Italian murmured low and fast, his posture tight. Whatever the storm outside was doing, it was nothing compared to the one brewing behind Danny’s eyes. Something had shifted. Since the night Steve confronted him — or tried to — there was a new edge to Danny’s focus. Not anger. Not fear. Something quieter. Sharper.

Steve didn’t know if it was trust or resignation.

The call ended. Danny set the phone down with care, fingers lingering like he hadn’t quite returned to the room yet.

“You sleep?” Steve asked, breaking the silence.

Danny glanced at him. “You’re funny in the morning.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That a yes or a no?”

Danny didn’t answer. He poured himself a cup of whatever brew Steve had started — didn’t even grimace, which was saying something. Maybe that was another sign things were changing.

Steve leaned against the counter. “We need to talk.”

Danny exhaled through his nose. “Christ. That’s never a good opener.”

“This isn’t about Wo Fat,” Steve said. “Not directly.”

Danny went still. His eyes didn’t move from his cup. “So it’s about me.”

“You tell me.”

Another pause. Then Danny looked up, the weariness cracking through his expression for just a second. “You want to ask about De Luca.”

Steve nodded once. “Yeah. I do.”

 

---

 

Danny didn’t answer right away.

He took a slow sip of coffee instead, the kind of stalling tactic Steve would’ve called him out for any other day. But this wasn’t any other day, and Steve didn’t push.

Finally, Danny spoke. “Jersey was a long time ago. Feels like a different life.”

Steve nodded, waiting.

Danny set the cup down. “Anthony De Luca was a name. A job. A way in.”

“So you were undercover,” Steve said quietly. “With the Bellinis.”

Danny’s gaze flicked to him, guarded. “Yeah.”

“You were deep.”

“Too deep,” Danny said. “Longer than I should’ve been.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with all the things that hadn’t been said yet. Steve’s fingers tightened around the mug.

“Was it your op?” he asked.

“No,” Danny said. “It was John's.”

That made Steve’s stomach twist. “My dad.”

Danny nodded, eyes distant. “John was my handler. The only one who knew how far in I’d gone. He kept me tethered. Kept me from going under completely.”

Steve’s throat worked. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Danny’s laugh was low, bitter. “You think that would’ve gone over well? ‘Hey, by the way, the guy you think might’ve had something to do with your father’s death? Turns out he was working for him years ago.’”

“You were protecting his reputation.”

Danny looked at him, finally. “Yeah. And you.”

The honesty in it knocked something loose in Steve’s chest.

“I owed him,” Danny said softly. “Still do.”

Steve didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Because now he understood what had always lived beneath the surface — Danny’s protectiveness, the way he inserted himself between Steve and danger without hesitation, the way he looked at Steve sometimes like he was someone worth saving. It wasn’t just loyalty.

It was guilt.

It was history.

It was something deeper than duty.

Something personal.

 

---

 

Steve stepped back, running a hand over his face. The weight of everything they’d uncovered pressed on him, but there was something else — a quiet strength in Danny that didn’t fade, no matter how dark the past.

“You never talk about what you lost,” Steve said softly, voice low in the quiet room.

Danny’s eyes flicked away for a moment, shadows crossing his face. “What’s there to say? Rachel’s gone. My life burned down with her. I spent years just trying to keep Grace safe, keep her out of the mess I was left with.”

Steve glanced toward the pictures on the walls, looking at the little girl who’d grown up in the middle of all this chaos — the one thing Danny fought tooth and nail for.

“It’s why you’re the way you are,” Steve said. “Why you can’t just walk away.”

Danny’s gaze sharpened, and his voice dropped to something raw and honest. “The system failed me. The law didn’t protect my family. It let them hurt what mattered most.”

He paused, his jaw tightening. “So I stopped waiting for justice to show up. I made my own.”

Steve’s heart tightened, understanding the price Danny had paid — every choice carved from loss and a fierce determination to protect what was left.

“And now?” Steve asked, stepping closer. “Where do you go from here?”

Danny looked at him, a flicker of something softer breaking through the armor. “Forward. For Grace. For me.”

Steve closed the small distance between them, his eyes locked on Danny’s. Slowly, he reached up and cupped Danny’s jaw, his thumb tracing the sharp line beneath his cheekbone.

“I want to know everything,” Steve said, voice low but fierce. “Not just the fight — the man behind it all. Let me in.”

Danny’s breath hitched, his defenses flickering as Steve leaned in and pressed a heated, searching kiss to his lips — urgent but tender, a promise and a challenge all at once.

When they finally broke apart, Danny’s eyes burned with something raw and fierce.

They stood there, breath mingling, the past heavy around them — but no longer a chain. Something new was unfolding, dangerous and real.

 

---

 

The villa’s warm light flickered softly against the walls as Steve and Danny sat close on the worn leather couch, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air.

Danny broke the silence first, voice steady but guarded. “Grace’s safe. She’s with my brother, Matt — out on the mainland. Away from all this chaos.” His eyes locked onto Steve’s, sharp but honest.

Steve absorbed the weight of that trust, the stakes laid bare.

“For eight years,” Danny continued, voice roughened with memory, “I wasn’t just surviving. I was running the show—making moves on my terms because the system failed me. I built something solid, something no one could touch.”

Steve’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’ve done what you had to. And you’re still standing.”

Danny’s eyes flickered with a mix of pain and pride. “Standing, yeah. But this war—it’s far from over. Wo Fat is a cancer. I’ll end it. Once and for all.”

Steve reached out, closing the last bit of space between them. “And I’ll be right here. At your side.”

Danny’s jaw relaxed into a steady, determined line. “Good. Because I’m going to need you.”

They shared a charged look, a promise spoken without words.

Notes:

I swore I wouldn’t hurt Danny more. And then I let him talk.
What can I say? I’m just the typist — he brings the angst, the secrets, and the jawline.
Steve, meanwhile, has finally unlocked the "Ask Danny Instead of Spying" achievement.
Progress!
(Also: yes, they kissed. No, I’m not sorry. You knew what this was.)