I hate being still. But more than that, I hate the silence.
Four days of lying in this fucking bed, ribs wrapped tight enough to make breathing an exercise in patience, and the quiet is eating me alive. Not the comfortable silence of solitude—the poisonous silence of abandonment. Of being forgotten by the one person who saw my monster and chose it anyway.
Four days. Ninety-six hours. Five thousand seven hundred and sixty minutes since Noah Aslanov choked a man unconscious to protect me, looked at me like I was something worth saving, then disappeared like none of it mattered.
The pain medication makes everything hazy around the edges, but not hazy enough to dull the rage building in my chest. The kind of rage that makes you want to hurt yourself just to feel something real. The kind that makes you understand why caged animals gnaw off their own limbs.
My phone sits on the nightstand like a loaded weapon. Twenty-three times I've checked it since midnight. Forty-seven times yesterday. Sixty-two times the day before that.
Four times I've written texts I didn't send.
Are you okay?
Do you regret what you did for me?
Did saving me mean anything, or was it just adrenaline making you temporarily honest?
Why won't you fucking talk to me?
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
Because Morettis don't beg. We don't chase people who don't want to be caught. We don't lie awake at night wondering if we imagined the whole thing, if the hunger in someone's eyes was real or just a reflection of our own desperation.
Except I do. All of it. Every pathetic, desperate, weak thing I was raised never to be.
The worst part isn't the silence. It's the knowing. Knowing that somewhere on this campus, Noah is continuing his life like nothing happened. Going to classes, eating meals, sleeping peacefully in his bed while I count ceiling tiles and inventory every reason he might have for pretending I don't exist.
Maybe he's embarrassed. Maybe what he did that night scared him more than what Declan did to me. Maybe saving me was an impulse he regrets, a moment of weakness that revealed something about himself he wasn't ready to face.
Or maybe—and this is the thought that makes me want to claw my own skin off—maybe I was never as important to him as he was to me. Maybe this obsession is one-sided. Maybe I created a connection that exists only in my head.
Maybe I'm exactly as pathetic as I feel.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number, but for a split second my heart stops completely. For one desperate moment, I think it might be Noah. That he might have finally—
Still laid up in bed while life goes on without you. Must be lonely.
My blood turns to ice. Not Noah. Never Noah. Just Declan O'Reilly, playing his psychological games from whatever hole he's crawled into.
I delete the message without responding, but thirty seconds later another one comes through.
Heard the campus has been quiet without you around. Interesting how quickly people move on.
That one hits like a physical blow. Because it could be true. For all I know, my absence has been nothing more than a minor inconvenience in everyone else's routine.
Another message:
Your sister's been asking around about making things right with my family. Sweet girl. Shame she knows this is all her fault.
The mention of Valentina makes something violent flare in my chest. Because that's my fault too. I've been so consumed with my own pain that I haven't noticed hers. Haven't seen the guilt eating her alive from the inside out.
Stay away from her.
The response comes immediately:
Or what? You'll limp across campus and threaten me? Face it, Moretti—you're helpless. Broken. Just another spoiled prince who can't handle the real world.
Leave my family out of this.
Why? They're the only interesting part left. Your sister feels responsible. Guilty. Makes her do stupid things.
The phone slips from my hands, hits the floor with a crack that echoes through the empty room. The screen spiders but doesn't go black. I can still see his message glowing up at me from the floor.
I should pick it up. Should respond. Should do something other than lie here feeling like I'm coming apart at the seams.
Instead, I close my eyes and try to breathe around the rage building in my chest. The kind of fury that makes you want to burn down everything you've built just to feel the heat.
"You look like shit," Matteo announces, kicking the door shut with more force than necessary. "Also, you smell like a pharmacy exploded."
"Thanks, cousin. Really what I needed to hear."
"What you need to hear is that moping around like a lovesick teenager isn't doing anyone any favors." He drops a bag on my desk with enough force to make everything on it rattle. "Including your sister, who's been stress-eating her way through the estate's entire chocolate supply."
Despite the darkness consuming me, I almost smile. "How much chocolate?"
"Enough that the cook threatened to quit. Apparently Valentina rage-ate an entire tray of brownies because you wouldn't stop 'sighing dramatically' yesterday."
"I don't sigh dramatically."
"You sighed so hard yesterday that you fogged up the window. Val timed it—four seconds of pure tragic romance bullshit." Matteo settles into the chair across from my bed, unwrapping what looks like the world's most expensive sandwich. "She's also been asking if she should 'accidentally' run into Noah on campus. Her words, not mine."
The mention of Noah's name sends a spike of something sharp through my chest. Want and rage and desperate hope all twisted together into something that tastes like poison.
"She better not."
"Why? Scared she'll find out he's been doing just fine without you?"
The words hit exactly where he intended them to. Because that's exactly what I'm afraid of. That Noah is fine. That this week of silence doesn't mean anything to him. That I'm spiraling into madness over someone who's barely given me a second thought.
"Turkey or roast beef?" Matteo continues, apparently deciding to torture me with normalcy instead of addressing the elephant in the room.
"I'm not hungry."
"Bullshit. You haven't eaten since yesterday." He tosses me a wrapped sandwich without waiting for an answer. "Eat. You're already pathetic enough without adding starvation to the list."
I catch the sandwich with my good arm and immediately regret the movement. Everything pulls wrong, sends sharp stabs through my torso that make my vision go white for a second. The pain is almost welcome. At least it's something I can understand. Something with a clear cause and effect.
Unlike whatever the fuck is happening in my head.
"You're spiraling," Matteo observes, studying my face with clinical detachment. "The self-destructive kind. How long since you slept?"
"I sleep."
"Passing out from pain medication doesn't count as sleep." He leans forward, expression getting serious. "Enzo, what happened that night—"
"Don't."
"You need to talk about it. About him. About whatever's eating you alive from the inside out."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Bullshit. You're obsessing over someone who—" He pauses, studying my expression. "Jesus Christ. You're in love with him."
The words hit like a physical blow. Because love isn't what this is. Love is soft and gentle and safe. Love is poetry and flowers and promises of forever.
This is possession. This is hunger. This is the kind of want that makes you willing to burn down everything you've built for five minutes of someone's undivided attention.
This is exactly what my father warned me about. The weakness that would make me useless as an heir. The need that would compromise every decision I make.
"I'm not in love with anyone."
"Right. And I'm the fucking Pope." Matteo unwraps his own sandwich with deliberate slowness. "How long?"
"How long what?"
"How long have you been lying to yourself about what this really is?"
Since the first time I saw him. Since that basement fight ring when our eyes met across a crowd of animals and I felt something shift in my chest. Since I realized that all the violence and chaos and carefully orchestrated brutality in my life had been building to that single moment of recognition.
Since I understood that Noah Aslanov was either going to be my salvation or my destruction, and I didn't care which.
"It doesn't matter," I say instead. "He made his choice. Four days of silence is pretty clear communication."
"Is it? Or maybe he's processing what happened. Maybe he's trying to figure out what it means that he lost control for you. What it means that he became something else to protect you."
The possibility sends heat racing through my veins. Because if Matteo's right, if Noah is struggling with what happened as much as I am, then maybe this isn't one-sided. Maybe the silence isn't rejection—it's fear.
Fear of what we could become together. Fear of what admitting this would mean for both our families. Fear of the kind of connection that changes everything and can't be taken back.
"And if you're wrong?" I ask. "If he's just moved on with his life and I'm sitting here torturing myself over someone who doesn't give a shit?"
"Then you'll know. And you can stop torturing yourself and start torturing someone else."
My phone buzzes against the nightstand again. Another unknown number message. Another twist of the knife.
Time to check on the little princess. Maybe we should play hide and seek.
I delete it without reading it to Matteo, but the damage is done. The words burrow under my skin like parasites, feeding on every insecurity I've been trying to ignore.
"Who keeps texting you?" Matteo asks, noticing my expression.
"Nobody important."
"Right. The way you look every time that phone buzzes says otherwise." He reaches for it, but I'm faster. The movement sends fire through my ribs, but I manage to pull it away from his grasp.
"Don't."
"Enzo—"
"I said don't." The words come out sharper than I intended. Sharp enough to make Matteo's eyes narrow with suspicion.
"Someone's fucking with you."
"Someone's always fucking with us. That's the world we live in."
"This is different. This is personal." He leans forward, studying my face like he's reading a map of my destruction. "Who is it?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me. You're my cousin. My—"
The door opens without warning, cutting him off. Valentina sticks her head in, wild red curls escaping from whatever attempt she'd made to tame them. Her eyes are bright with something that looks like mischief, but there's worry underneath it.
"How's our patient?" she asks, looking between me and Matteo with suspicious eyes.
"Plotting," Matteo says cheerfully. "He just found out someone's been sending him anonymous messages."
"Matteo—"
"Anonymous messages?" Valentina steps fully into the room, closing the door behind her. "What kind of messages?"
"The kind that are none of your business."
"Everything about you is my business. You're my brother." She moves closer to the bed, expression getting serious. "Show me."
"No."
"Enzo." Her voice carries that tone of absolute authority that reminds me she's a Moretti too. That underneath all the wild curls and bright laughter, she's just as dangerous as the rest of us. "Show me the messages."
I could refuse. Could tell her to fuck off and mind her own business. Could protect her from the knowledge that someone is using her guilt against me.
But looking at her face—at the worry she's trying to hide behind false cheer—I realize she already knows. Knows something is wrong. Knows I'm falling apart from more than just physical injuries.
Knows she's part of the reason why.
I hand her the phone without a word. Watch her face change as she scrolls through the messages. Watch the color drain from her cheeks as she reads Declan's psychological warfare laid out in black and white.
"That fucking bastard," she whispers.
"Val—"
"That absolute fucking bastard." Her hands shake as she scrolls through more messages. "He's been doing this for days? And you didn't tell us?"
"There was nothing to tell."
"Nothing to—" She looks at me like I've lost my mind. "Enzo, this is harassment. This is psychological torture. This is—"
"This is exactly what he wants," I cut her off. "A reaction. A response. A way to drag the family into something that should stay between him and me."
"Between him and you?" Valentina's voice rises to something dangerous. "This stopped being between you and him the moment he brought me into it. The moment he started using my guilt against you."
"Your guilt?" Matteo asks, looking between us. "What guilt?"
Valentina goes very still. I can see her realizing that she just revealed something she wasn't supposed to reveal. Something that makes everything so much worse.
"Val," I say quietly. "What guilt?"
She doesn't answer immediately. Just stands there holding my phone like it's evidence of her own crime. When she finally speaks, her voice is small and broken and completely unlike the fierce girl who raised hell throughout our childhood.
"I called them. The O'Reillys. When the fight was getting bad, when I saw you getting hurt, I called Siobhan because I was scared and I didn't know what else to do." Tears start streaming down her face. "This is my fault. All of it. Your ribs, Noah disappearing, Declan threatening us—it's all my fault because I panicked."
The room goes completely silent. I can hear my own heartbeat. Matteo's breathing. The distant sound of traffic outside the estate walls.
"Val," I say finally.
"I'm sorry." The words come out between sobs. "I'm so fucking sorry, Enzo. I ruined everything because I couldn't handle watching you get hurt and now that bastard is using it against you and Noah won't even talk to you and—"
"Valentina." My voice cuts through her spiral like a blade. "Look at me."
She does, eyes bright with tears and guilt and the kind of self-hatred I know too well.
"This is your fault."
"It is—"
"Yes. It is." I struggle to sit up straighter, ignoring the fire in my ribs. "You called them. You brought the O'Reillys into our business. You panicked instead of trusting family to handle family problems."
"But if I hadn't—"
"If you hadn't, this would have stayed between Italians and Russians. Clean. Contained. Instead, you gave Declan leverage over both of us." I meet her eyes, making sure she understands. "Your guilt? Your fear? That's what he's using as a weapon now."
"But Noah—"
"Noah made his choice to fight for me. That part isn't on you. But everything else? The reason Declan even knows about any of this? The reason he has ammunition to threaten us?" I pause, letting the truth settle between us. "That's all you, Val."
She stares at me for a long moment, searching my face for deception. For signs that I'm just trying to make her feel better. She won't find any. Because every word I just said is true.
"Then why won't he talk to you?" she asks quietly.
The question I've been avoiding. The one that cuts deepest. The one that makes me want to curl up in this bed and never face the world again.
"I don't know."
"Maybe he's scared," Matteo suggests. "Maybe what he did that night scared him more than what happened to you."
"Or maybe he's processing," Valentina adds, wiping tears from her cheeks. "Maybe he's trying to figure out what it means. What you mean to him."
"Or maybe," I say quietly, "he's just moved on with his life and I'm the only one still obsessing over something that was never real to begin with."
The words taste like poison. Like admitting defeat. Like acknowledging that everything I've been feeling might be completely one-sided.
"You don't believe that," Valentina says.
"Don't I?"
"No. Because if you believed that, you wouldn't be checking your phone every five minutes. You wouldn't be torturing yourself over his silence. You wouldn't look like someone's been slowly killing you from the inside out."
She's right. I don't believe it. Can't believe it. Because admitting that would mean admitting that I'm exactly as pathetic as Declan's messages suggest. That I created an entire fantasy around a moment of temporary insanity.
That I'm weak. Delusional. Everything my father warned me not to become.
My phone buzzes again. This time Valentina is the one who checks it.
Her face goes white. Then red with fury.
"What?" Matteo asks.
"He's escalating." Her voice is deadly quiet. "He's not just fucking with Enzo anymore. He's threatening to make this public. To tell everyone about—"
She stops abruptly, eyes flicking to me.
"About what?" I ask.
"About you and Noah. About what happened that night. About what it could mean."
The words hit like ice water. Because making it public wouldn't just destroy me. It would destroy Noah too. Would force our families into a conflict neither of us wants. Would take something private and painful and turn it into a political weapon.
"Let me see."
She hands me the phone reluctantly. The message is longer this time. More detailed. More cruel.
Time to make a choice, Moretti. Either you give me what I want, or I start talking. About you. About what really happened that night. About what kind of heir needs another man to fight his battles. Imagine what your father would say. Imagine what both families would do to protect their reputations.
Below that, another message:
24 hours. Then I start making calls.
"Fuck," Matteo breathes, reading over my shoulder.
"He can't do that," Valentina says, but there's no conviction in her voice. "Can he?"
"He can do whatever he wants," I say quietly. "That's the problem with the truth. It doesn't care who it destroys."
The room falls silent again. Each of us processing what this means. What it could cost. Not just me, but Noah. Our families. Everything we've all worked to build.
"So what do we do?" Valentina asks.
"We don't do anything. I handle this."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But I will."
My phone buzzes one more time. A single message that makes my blood run cold:
Your sister looks beautiful today, by the way. Shame she feels so guilty about everything. Makes her reckless. Makes her do stupid things to try to fix problems they caused.
"That's it." Matteo's voice is deadly quiet. "That's fucking it."
He's already reaching for his phone, probably to call Luca. To escalate this into a family matter. To turn psychological warfare into actual war.
"No." I grab his wrist before he can dial. "This is what he wants. A reaction. A way to involve the families."
"He just threatened Valentina—"
"He's been threatening Valentina for days. The only difference is now you know about it."
"All the more reason to—"
"All the more reason to handle this carefully. Strategically. Without giving him exactly what he wants."
Matteo stares at me for a long moment. I can see him warring with himself. Family loyalty versus strategic thinking. The desire to protect versus the need to be smart.
"What do you want to do?" he asks finally.
"I want to get better. I want to get strong enough to handle this myself. I want to stop being helpless while someone fucks with my family."
"And Noah?"
The question hits harder than I expected. Because Noah is the variable I can't control. The unknown factor in an equation that could destroy everything.
"Noah made his choice. Four days of silence is his answer."
"What if you're wrong?" Valentina asks quietly. "What if he's just scared? What if he's trying to protect you the only way he knows how?"
"Then he's doing a shitty job of it."
But even as I say the words, I can feel something shifting in my chest. Something that feels like possibility. Like hope. Like the understanding that maybe this isn't as simple as I thought.
Maybe Noah's silence isn't rejection. Maybe it's protection. Maybe he's staying away because he knows what being close to me could cost both of us.
Maybe he's just as scared as I am.
"We need to be smart about this," I say finally. "Declan wants a reaction. Wants us to do something stupid that gives him more ammunition. So we don't give him that."
"Then what do we give him?" Matteo asks.
I think about it for a moment. About the psychological games Declan's been playing. About the way he's been using my silence against me. About the fact that sometimes the best defense is a good offense.
"Nothing. We give him nothing. No responses. No reactions. No acknowledgment that his messages even exist."
"That's it?" Valentina sounds skeptical. "We just ignore him?"
"We ignore him until I'm strong enough to handle this properly. Until I can face him without looking weak. Until I can make him understand exactly what happens when someone threatens a Moretti's family."
"And if he follows through on his threat? If he starts talking about you and Noah?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke. Because that's the real fear, isn't it? Not just that Declan will hurt me, but that he'll hurt Noah in the process. That he'll take something private and sacred and turn it into a weapon.
"Then we deal with the consequences. But until then, we wait."
"For what?"
"For me to heal. For me to get strong enough to end this. For me to prove that some things are worth fighting for."
I look at both of them—Matteo with his concern and frustration, Valentina with her guilt and fierce loyalty. My family. My blood. The people I'd die to protect.
"And if Noah never breaks his silence?" Matteo asks quietly.
The question I've been avoiding. The one that cuts deepest. The one that makes me want to curl up and never face the world again.
"Then I'll know where I stand. And I'll handle Declan accordingly."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning some wars are worth fighting even when you're fighting them alone."
The response comes immediately:
Time to check on the little princess. Maybe we should play hide and seek.
Something violent and primal explodes in my chest. The protective rage that's been simmering for days finally finds its target. My hands shake with fury as I type back:
Touch my sister and I'll make what Noah did to your throat look like a gentle massage. I'll peel you alive and feed you to the fucking rats.
Getting better. Getting stronger. Getting ready to show everyone exactly what happens when they underestimate a Moretti.
Even if I have to do it without the one person I thought would stand beside me.
Even if Noah Aslanov has already decided I'm not worth the risk.
Even if I'm facing this alone.
Because sometimes being alone is exactly what you need to remember who you really are. And what you're really capable of.
Three more days until I'm cleared for light activity. Three more days of healing and planning and preparing for whatever comes next.
Three more days to decide whether I'm fighting for something real, or just fighting to prove I can.
Either way, the war is coming. And I intend to win.