I stay at the apartment until nearly noon, cataloging every mark I left on Noah's skin, every place my teeth and hands claimed territory. The silence feels different now—not empty, but full of promise. Full of him.
But reality has a way of crashing through even the most perfect moments, and mine comes in the form of three missed calls from Matteo and a text that makes my blood run cold.
Get to the estate. Now. He's here.
I don't need to ask who "he" is. There's only one person who can make my cousin's messages sound that tense, that carefully neutral. Only one person whose presence turns our sanctuary into a battlefield before I even arrive.
My father.
The drive to the Moretti estate feels like driving toward my own execution. Every mile brings back memories I've spent years trying to bury—the sound of his voice when nothing I do is ever enough, the way he looks at me like I'm a disappointment he's still trying to figure out how to fix. The weight of expectations I'll never be able to carry.
I see the extra security before I even reach the gates. Black SUVs with tinted windows. Men in expensive suits who move like predators. Alessandro Moretti doesn't travel light, and he doesn't make social visits. This is business. The kind of business that usually ends with someone bleeding.
The iron gates swing open as my car approaches, and I catch sight of Marco standing near the entrance. He gives me a look—equal parts warning and sympathy. It's the same look he used to give me when we were kids and I was about to walk into another one of my father's lectures about what it means to be a Moretti.
I park next to one of the black SUVs and sit for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel. The marks Noah left on my back sting against the leather seat, reminders of tenderness and violence intertwined. Of what it feels like to be wanted instead of barely tolerated.
But those marks might as well be targets painted on my skin now. Because if my father is here, it means he knows. Knows about Noah, about the video, about every single choice I've made that's brought us to this moment.
I walk through the front doors of the estate like I'm walking through the gates of hell.
The main sitting room has been transformed into a war room. My father sits in the leather chair that used to be my grandfather's, hands steepled, dark eyes tracking my every movement. Alessandro Moretti at fifty-two is what I'll become in twenty years if I'm lucky—silver at the temples, lines carved deep by violence and calculation, the kind of presence that makes grown men confess their sins without being asked.
Uncle Dominic stands to his left, arms crossed, but there's something in his expression that looks almost... sympathetic. To my father's right, two men I recognize as enforcers from the old country. The kind who speak in bullets and ask questions later.
Behind them, I spot Matteo leaning against the wall, and beside him, Luca. My cousins exchange a look when they see me, and I catch the subtle nod Matteo gives me. Not approval exactly, but acknowledgment. Understanding.
And in the corner, trying to look invisible, is Valentina. My sister's face is pale, her usual fire dimmed to smoldering embers. She won't meet my eyes.
"Enzo." My father's voice cuts through the silence like a blade. "Sit."
It's not a request.
I take the chair across from him, the same chair where I used to sit as a child while he explained why my latest screwup was unacceptable. The distance between us might as well be an ocean, but his disapproval crosses it easily.
"We need to talk."
"About what?" I ask, though we both know the answer.
"About the video that's been making rounds on social media. About the Russian boy who's apparently caught your attention. About the fact that my heir has been making decisions that affect family business without consulting me."
His voice is calm, controlled. Which somehow makes it worse than if he were screaming. Alessandro Moretti's quiet fury has ended wars.
"Noah Aslanov," he continues, and hearing my father say Noah's name makes something violent twist in my chest. "Son of Sergei Aslanov. Heir to the Russian operations back in New York. Your... what would you call him, Enzo? Your boyfriend?"
The way he says it makes it sound like a disease.
"He's..." I start, then stop. Because how do I explain Noah to a man who sees everything in terms of profit and loss? How do I tell him that Noah isn't just some boy, but the missing piece of my soul I didn't know I was looking for?
"He's what?" My father leans forward slightly. "Important to you? Worth risking everything we've built here?"
"Yes."
The word comes out harder than I intended. More final. But I'm done pretending this is something I can walk away from.
My father's expression doesn't change. "I see. And did it occur to you to discuss this with me before broadcasting your... relationship... to the entire island?"
"You were in Rome."
"Have I ever stopped you from fucking whoever or whatever you wanted? No. But this public claiming, you know damn well is where I draw the line."
"I was handling business that keeps this family protected and profitable. Business that you're now complicating with your personal choices."
The familiar weight of disappointment settles on my shoulders. I'm twenty-two years old and I still feel like that twelve-year-old boy who could never do anything right in his eyes.
"The Aslavnovs aren't our enemies," I say.
"They're not our allies either. And now, because of your very public display, every family on this island is watching to see what it means. Watching to see if the Morettis are going soft."
"Nobody thinks we're going soft."
"Don't they?" He stands, moving to the window that overlooks the gardens. "You started a brawl at The Anchor that brought police attention to our operations. You've been seen publicly with the Aslanov heir, making it look like we're forming an alliance without consulting our actual allies. And now there's video evidence of you... what was it... claiming him in front of half the student body?"
My jaw clenches. "It wasn't like that."
"Then enlighten me. What was it like?"
I think about Noah. About the way he looked at me during the fight at The Forge, like he was seeing something in me worth fighting for. About the way he feels in my arms, like coming home and going to war at the same time.
"It's complicated."
My father turns back to face me. "Complicated. That's your explanation for potentially destabilizing relationships we've spent decades building?"
"The relationships will survive."
"Will they? Because I've already had three phone calls today. The O'Reillys are demanding to know what your relationship with the Russians means for their... concerns about recent events. The Al-Fayeeds are asking if this changes our position on their shipping deals. And the Takahashis are wondering if they need to reconsider their neutrality."
Each family name hits like a physical blow. Because he's right—in our world, nothing is ever just personal. Every choice ripples outward, affecting alliances and business deals I'm barely old enough to understand.
"What do you want me to do?" I ask quietly.
"I want you to remember who you are. What you represent. I want you to think about whether this boy is worth the chaos you're creating."
"He is."
The words come out before I can stop them, and I see something flicker in my father's eyes. Not anger. Something worse. Disappointment so deep it feels like drowning.
"Is he worth your sister's safety?" my father asks quietly. "Because Declan O'Reilly has been making noise about payback. About how the Morettis think they can humiliate Irish blood without consequences."
My blood turns to ice. "What kind of noise?"
"The kind that involves late-night phone calls and thinly veiled threats. The kind that has me putting extra security on family members who should be safe in their own dormitories."
Valentina finally looks up, and I see the fear she's been trying to hide. My sister, who's never backed down from anything, looks like she's been carrying the weight of the world.
"This is my fault," she says quietly. "I called the O'Reillys for help. I escalated it."
"No." The word comes out like a growl. "This is Declan's fault for being a piece of shit who can't take a loss."
"Language," my father says automatically, but there's no heat in it.
"You want me to remember who I am?" I stand up, and for the first time in my life, I don't feel small in his presence. "I'm a Moretti. We don't back down from threats. We don't sacrifice what we love to appease cowards. And we sure as hell don't let the O'Reillys dictate our personal lives."
"And what happens when your personal life gets someone killed?"
The question hangs in the air like smoke. Because that's always been the heart of it, hasn't it? The reason my father keeps everyone at arm's length, the reason love is a luxury we can't afford. In our world, caring about someone makes them a target.
"Then we make sure the people doing the threatening don't survive to regret it," I say.
My father studies my face for a long moment. "You sound like your brother."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Because we don't talk about Marco. Haven't talked about him in five years, not since the car accident that wasn't an accident. Not since my older brother died because he fell in love with the wrong girl and trusted the wrong people.
"Marco was reckless," my father continues quietly. "He thought love was more important than caution. He thought his happiness mattered more than family safety. And it got him killed."
"Marco died because the Calabrians wanted to send a message. Not because he loved someone."
"He died because his love made him vulnerable. Made him predictable. Made him take risks he should have avoided." My father's voice is quiet, almost gentle. "I won't lose another son to the same mistake."
And there it is. The truth I've been dancing around my entire life. My father doesn't keep me at a distance because he doesn't love me. He does it because he loves me too much to watch me die the way Marco did.
"Noah isn't going to get me killed," I say.
"Can you guarantee that? Can you promise me that this relationship won't put you in situations where you have to choose between protecting him and protecting yourself?"
I think about the bar fight. About the way I threw myself into that brawl without thinking, without calculating the risks. About how I would have let Declan beat me to death before I let him insult Valentina and walk away unpunished.
"No," I admit quietly. "I can't promise that."
"Then you understand my concern."
"But I can promise you that he's worth the risk. That what we have... it's not just love, Dad. It's partnership. He makes me stronger, not weaker."
My father flinches slightly at the word "Dad." It's been years since I called him anything but "father" or "sir."
"You think you know what love is," he says quietly. "You think it's all passion and poetry and grand gestures. But love in our world is sacrifice, Enzo. It's choosing safety over happiness. It's protecting the people who matter by staying away from them."
"That's not love. That's fear."
"Sometimes they're the same thing."
We stare at each other across the space that's always existed between us. Father and son. Don and heir. Two men who've never figured out how to bridge the gap between duty and affection.
"I'm not asking for your permission," I say finally. "I'm twenty-two years old. I can make my own choices."
"Yes, you can. But choices have consequences. And if your choices put this family at risk, I'll make choices of my own."
The threat hangs in the air like a loaded gun. Because my father doesn't make empty promises, and when he says he'll make choices, people disappear.
"Are you threatening Noah?"
"I'm telling you that family comes first. Always. And if I have to choose between protecting you and indulging your romantic fantasies, the choice is already made."
I look at Valentina, who's watching this conversation with the kind of horror reserved for watching car crashes in slow motion. At Luca, who looks like he wishes he were anywhere else. At the enforcers who are memorizing every word in case they need to act on them later.
And I realize that this conversation isn't about Noah at all. It's about whether I'm going to be the kind of man who lets fear make his decisions for him.
"Then I guess we have a problem," I say quietly.
My father's eyes narrow. "What kind of problem?"
"The kind where I choose him anyway. The kind where I decide that some things are worth fighting for, even if it means fighting you."
Uncle Dominic steps forward, hands raised. "Okay, that's enough. Both of you are saying things you don't mean—"
"Have I ever said anything I don't mean, brother?" My father's voice cuts through the room like ice, never taking his eyes off me.
Uncle Dominic tries again, his voice more urgent. "Alessandro, Enzo, let's just calm things down. We can work through this—"
But it's not working. The room feels charged, electric with the kind of tension that comes right before violence erupts. My father and I are staring at each other across a gulf that feels impossible to cross, both of us too stubborn, too set in what we believe, to back down.
"There's nothing to work through," my father says finally, his voice deadly quiet. "My son has made his position clear."
"So have you," I reply.
The silence that follows is deafening. Because I've just crossed a line that sons don't cross in families like ours. I've just chosen love over loyalty, personal desire over family duty.
My father stands slowly, and for a moment, I think he might actually hit me. Instead, he walks to the door.
"You have twenty-four hours," he says without turning around. "Twenty-four hours to decide what kind of man you want to be. The kind who puts family first, or the kind who gets people killed chasing fairy tales."
He pauses at the doorway. "Choose wisely, Enzo. Some decisions can't be undone."
Then he's gone, taking his enforcers with him, leaving me alone with the wreckage of everything I thought I knew about my place in this family.
Valentina approaches cautiously, like I might explode at any moment.
"Enzo..."
"I'm not changing my mind," I say before she can finish.
"I know. That's what scares me."
I look at my sister, this fierce girl who's never backed down from anything, and see that she's genuinely afraid. Not of our father, not of the O'Reillys, but of what I'm about to do.
"He's worth it, Val. Noah... he sees me. Not the heir, not the monster, not the disappointment. Just me. And I can't give that up."
"Even if it gets you killed?"
"Even then."
She nods slowly, like she expected this answer but hoped for a different one.
"Then I guess we'd better figure out how to keep you alive."
I pull her into a hug, and she feels smaller than she should. More fragile. Like the little girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms, believing I could protect her from anything.
"I'm sorry," I whisper into her hair. "I'm sorry I brought this down on us."
"No, you're not," she says, and I can hear her smile. "You're scared, and you're worried, but you're not sorry. Because you love him."
"I need some time to think," I tell her.
She nods and heads toward the door, but pauses. "For what it's worth, Enzo... I've never seen you fight for anything the way you just fought for him. Maybe that means something."
Then she's gone, and I'm alone in the sitting room where my father just gave me an ultimatum that could destroy everything.
Twenty-four hours.
I sink back into the chair and let the weight of it all crash over me. The silence feels different now than it did at the apartment this morning. There, it was full of promise, of Noah's scent on the sheets and the memory of his hands on my skin. Here, it's full of ghosts and the echo of my father's disappointment.
Marco would have known what to do. My older brother always had a plan, always saw three moves ahead. But Marco's been dead for five years, and his last plan got him killed because he trusted love over caution.
Five years ago...
"You should see her, Enzo." Marco's face was lit up like Christmas morning as he showed me the picture on his phone. Isabella Calabrian, daughter of our father's business rival, but Marco talked about her like she was sunshine incarnate. "She laughs at my terrible jokes. She doesn't care about the name, about the business, about any of it. When I'm with her, I'm just... me."
I was seventeen then, still young enough to think love was for other people. Still believing that Morettis were built different, that we didn't need soft things like affection and partnership.
"Dad's going to lose his shit when he finds out," I told him.
Marco's grin didn't fade. "Let him. Some things are worth the fight, little brother. Some things are worth risking everything for."
He leaned against my bedroom door, and I could see the change in him. The way his shoulders sat differently, like he'd found something worth carrying the weight for. The way he looked... settled. Complete.
"You'll understand someday," he said. "When you find someone who sees past all the blood and violence to who you really are underneath. When you find someone worth being better for."
I made a promise to myself that night, watching my brother plan his future around a girl who would get him killed. I promised I would never let love make me weak. Never let it cloud my judgment or make me vulnerable.
I was such an idiot.
The memory hits like a physical blow, because now I understand what Marco was trying to tell me. He wasn't weak—he was the strongest person I knew. Strong enough to choose love in a world that punishes it. Strong enough to believe that some things matter more than survival.
Marco didn't die because love made him weak. He died because other people saw his love as a weapon they could use against him. But that doesn't mean he was wrong to love her. It means the people who killed him were wrong to think love was something they could exploit.
But this time will be different. This time, love won't be my weakness—it'll be my strength. The thing that drives me to be smarter, faster, more ruthless than anyone who tries to use it against us. Marco tried to protect Isabella by hiding their relationship, by keeping her separate from the family business. It got them both killed.
I won't make that mistake. Noah and I are partners, equals, two monsters who chose each other with full knowledge of what that choice means. We won't hide. We won't apologize. And anyone who thinks they can use our love against us will learn exactly why that's a fatal miscalculation.
I make a new promise to myself, sitting alone in the aftermath of my father's ultimatum. I promise that I'll use every skill he taught me, every lesson about power and strategy and violence, to protect what Noah and I have built. I'll be twice as smart, twice as careful, twice as dangerous as I was before. Not in spite of loving him, but because of it.
Love didn't kill Marco. Fear and secrets and trying to keep two worlds separate killed him.
I won't repeat his mistakes. But I also won't dishonor his memory by choosing fear over the kind of happiness he died trying to protect.
Because my father wasn't wrong about the danger. In our world, love is a weapon that can be used against you. People you care about become targets. Weaknesses to exploit. Marco learned that lesson too late, and it cost him everything.
But Noah isn't some innocent civilian who stumbled into our world. He's Sergei Aslanov's son. He grew up in this life, understands the rules, knows how to handle himself in a fight. He proved that at The Forge when he destroyed Marcus Chen, and again at The Anchor when he put Declan in a chokehold that could have killed him.
Noah isn't Marco's mistake. He's not some soft target waiting to be exploited.
He's my equal. My partner. Someone who can stand beside me in this war instead of behind me.
My phone buzzes. A text from Noah.
How did your day go?
I stare at the message for a long time. Because how do I explain that my father just gave me twenty-four hours to choose between him and everything I've ever known? How do I tell him that loving him might get us both killed, but that I'm going to do it anyway?
It could have gone better. Can we meet tonight?
Of course. Everything okay?
Let me tell you when I see you.
What does that suppose to mean?
Just come home as soon as you can.
I pocket the phone and stand up, looking around the sitting room one more time. This is where I learned what it meant to be a Moretti. Where my father taught me that family comes first, that love is a luxury we can't afford, that showing weakness gets you killed.
But Noah taught me something different. He taught me that strength isn't about building walls around your heart—it's about finding someone worth tearing those walls down for. Someone worth fighting beside instead of fighting alone.
My father gave me twenty-four hours to choose what kind of man I want to be.
I already know the answer. I knew it the moment Noah kissed me back in that restaurant bathroom. I knew it when he stepped into that ring at The Forge with violence in his eyes and my name on his lips. I knew it when he looked at me this morning like I was something worth keeping.
I'm the kind of man who chooses love over fear. The kind who believes that some things are worth the risk, worth the chaos, worth defying everything I was taught about survival in this world.
I'm the kind of man who's going to fight for Noah Aslanov, even if it means fighting my own family to do it.
The drive away from the estate feels like driving toward a war I'm finally ready to fight. Not the kind of war fought with fists and blood—though it might come to that eventually. The kind fought with choices and consequences and the willingness to stake everything on the belief that love is stronger than fear.
But first, I need to think. Really think about what I'm going to tell Noah, how I'm going to explain the impossible position we're in now. And there's only one way I know how to process the kind of chaos churning in my head when fighting isn't an option.
I pull into the parking lot of Romano's Market, the little Italian place that reminds me of the shops back home. The old man behind the counter nods at me like he always does—no questions, no small talk. Just the quiet understanding that some people shop for groceries, and others shop for sanity.
I made up my mind on the drive over: I'm skipping classes today. There's no way I can sit in some lecture hall pretending to care about international business theory when my father just gave me twenty-four hours to choose between my family and the man I love. Some days require different kinds of education.
The familiar ritual of shopping calms something in me. San Marzano tomatoes. Fresh mozzarella. Good ricotta that doesn't taste like chalk. Ground beef and Italian sausage from the butcher who knows his trade. Fresh basil that smells like summer and memories of my grandmother's kitchen.
Lasagna. Something that takes time and attention and keeps my hands busy while my mind works through the impossible equation my father's ultimatum has created. Something that will fill our apartment with the kind of warmth that makes hard conversations feel less like battles and more like... planning sessions.
I grab ingredients for garlic bread too—the real kind, with butter and fresh garlic and parmesan that you have to grate yourself. The few times we've shared meals together, I've noticed how Noah appreciates good food. Not just eating it, but actually tasting it, taking his time with flavors most people rush through.
At the wine section, I pause. Normally I'd grab something expensive, something that announces itself. But tonight calls for something different. Something honest. I select a bottle of Chianti—not the flashiest label, but the kind that tastes like tradition and promises made in kitchens where love is measured in time spent stirring sauce.
The drive back to our apartment feels different than the drive away from the estate. Less like fleeing, more like preparing. By the time Noah gets home, I'll have something cooking that smells like hope. And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll have figured out how to tell him that our love just declared war on both our families without making it sound like a death sentence.
Twenty-four hours.
It's going to have to be enough time to figure out how to keep everyone alive while refusing to give up the one thing that makes life worth living.
Because I'm not losing Noah. Not to my father's fear, not to Declan's threats, not to the politics of families who think love is a weakness to be exploited.
I'm keeping him. Whatever it takes.
Even if it destroys everything else.