The estate feels like a fortress when I arrive, all stone walls and iron gates designed to keep the world out. Or maybe to keep us in. Right now, I can't tell which.
My hands are still shaking from the confrontation with Noah. Not from fear—from the adrenaline crash that comes after you've stared down a predator and realized you might be the bigger monster. The kiss is still burning on my lips, a brand that tastes like possession and promises I'm not sure either of us can keep.
But more than that, it's the look in his eyes when I told him he'd declared war. The way something dark and satisfied flickered across his face when I went from compliant to threatening. Like he'd been waiting for me to bare my teeth. Like he wanted the violence as much as I did.
The realization should disturb me. Should make me question what kind of fucked-up dynamic we're building. Instead, it makes me hungry. Makes me want to find him and push him further. See how much darkness he can handle before he breaks.
Or before I break him myself.
I find Valentina in the garden, curled up on the stone bench where we used to hide as children when our father's business meetings got too loud. She's picking at the edge of a book, not really reading, just needing something to do with her hands. The afternoon sun catches in her wild red curls, making her look younger than twenty-one. Vulnerable in a way that makes something protective and violent stir in my chest.
The need to hurt anyone who threatens her is immediate and consuming. It's the same possessive rage I feel about Noah, but purer. Cleaner. There's no twisted want mixed in, no sick satisfaction at being the cause of her fear. Just the absolute certainty that I would tear apart anyone who touched her.
"You look like hell," she says without looking up, which means she's been watching me since I walked through the gates. "Worse than when you left the hospital."
"Thanks, princess. Really what a man wants to hear."
"I'm serious, Enzo." She closes the book and looks at me with those sharp brown eyes that see too much. "You've got that look again. The one you get before you do something spectacularly stupid that I have to clean up later."
The one I get before I do something spectacularly stupid. Like confront Noah Aslanov in public. Like let him kiss me where anyone could see. Like threatening him when I should have played it smarter.
But I don't want to be smart anymore. I want to be honest. Want to stop pretending that what I feel for Noah is anything resembling normal or healthy or safe.
"I'm fine," I lie, settling beside her on the bench. The stone is warm from the sun, solid and real in a way that grounds me when everything else feels like it's spinning out of control.
"Bullshit." She shifts to face me completely. "You're wound tighter than a piano wire, your hands are shaking, and you've got that wild look in your eyes that usually means someone's about to bleed. What happened?"
Someone's about to bleed. The words make something dark and satisfied uncurl in my chest. Because she's right. The need for violence is building under my skin like pressure in a cracked pipe. Usually I'd head to The Pit, let someone break me open until the need subsided. But my ribs are still healing, and more than that, the violence I want isn't the kind I can get from strangers.
I want to hurt Noah. Want to pin him down and make him admit what his silence did to me. Want to watch him break the way I broke during those seven days of nothing. Want to be the cause of his unraveling the way he's been the cause of mine.
The thought should horrify me. Should make me question what kind of monster I'm becoming. Instead, it makes my mouth water with anticipation.
"I saw Noah today," I say instead, because it's the simplest truth I can manage without admitting I'm fantasizing about making him bleed.
"And?"
"And it's complicated."
Valentina snorts. "It's always complicated with you. The question is what kind of complicated. The kind where you brood for a week and punch walls, or the kind where I have to talk you out of burning down half the city?"
Burning down half the city. The casual way she says it, like it's a reasonable possibility, should be concerning. Instead, it makes me want to laugh. Because she knows exactly what I'm capable of when something I care about is threatened. She's seen me destroy people for less than what Noah's put me through.
Before I can answer, footsteps crunch on the gravel path behind us. Heavy. Measured. The kind that belong to someone who's been trained to move like a weapon.
Matteo.
"Enzo." His voice carries that edge of authority that means family business. "We need to talk."
I turn to find my cousin standing there with his phone in his hand and an expression that promises nothing good. Behind him, Luca emerges from the house, moving with that predatory stillness that means he's in full strategist mode.
"What now?" I ask, but I'm already getting to my feet. Because when Matteo and Luca both show up looking like that, it's never good news.
Matteo holds up his phone. "This."
The video starts playing before I can process what I'm seeing. Campus. The humanities building. Me surrounded by those girls, looking relaxed and charming and completely in control.
Then Noah's voice, cold and cutting. The girls scattering. The confrontation that followed.
And the kiss.
Jesus Christ, the kiss.
It's all there. Every word. Every touch. Every moment of our fucked-up dynamic played out in high definition for anyone to see. The way Noah pinned me against the railing. The way I pushed back. The way we went from fighting to fucking kissing like we were trying to consume each other.
The way I looked at him afterward like he was everything I'd ever wanted and everything that could destroy me.
Watching it from the outside is like seeing a car crash in slow motion. Inevitable. Brutal. Impossible to look away from. We look unhinged. Desperate. Like two people who've completely lost control of anything resembling normal human behavior.
We look exactly like what we are.
"Fuck," I breathe, because there's nothing else to say. Nothing that could possibly cover the magnitude of how completely we've just exposed ourselves.
"Yeah," Matteo says grimly. "Fuck is right."
Valentina grabs the phone from his hand, watching with wide eyes as our private moment gets broadcast to anyone with an internet connection. "Holy shit, Enzo. This is—"
"Everywhere," Luca finishes. "Twitter, Instagram, TikTok. Someone tagged it #MafiaHeirs and now it's got half a million views and climbing. The entire campus is talking about it. People are picking sides, making bets about what happens next."
Half a million views. Half a million people watching me kiss Noah Aslanov like my life depended on it. Half a million witnesses to the moment I stopped pretending this was anything other than an obsession that could get us both killed.
The thought should terrify me. Should make me want to crawl into a hole and disappear until the attention dies down. Instead, it makes something primitive and satisfied purr in my chest. Because now everyone knows. Now there's no taking it back, no pretending it didn't happen, no careful political maneuvering to make it go away.
Now Noah can't run from this even if he wants to.
"Who posted it?" I ask, though I'm not sure it matters. The damage is done.
"Some freshman with a journalism major and too much time on her hands," Matteo says. "Posted it with a caption about 'campus drama' and 'forbidden romance.' It's already got thousands of views and it's spreading fast."
Forbidden romance. Like we're some tragic star-crossed lovers instead of two fucked-up heirs playing with fire that could burn down both our families.
"And now?" I ask, though I already know the answer from the look on Luca's face.
"Now it's a circus. The Russian heirs are being asked for comments. Other families are watching to see what this means. Professors are debating whether this violates campus conduct codes." Luca runs a hand through his hair, a rare sign of stress from someone who usually keeps his emotions locked down tight. "This isn't just personal anymore, Enzo. This is about campus politics, family reputation, everyone trying to figure out if this changes the power structure."
Campus politics. Of course it is. Because nothing in our world gets to stay simple. Nothing gets to just be about two people who want each other in ways that probably aren't healthy for anyone involved.
But maybe that's better. Maybe having it be public means we stop pretending this is something that can be contained or controlled. Maybe it forces both our families to confront exactly what we are and what we're willing to destroy to have each other.
"What are they saying?" Valentina asks quietly.
"What do you think we're saying?" Matteo's voice is sharp with frustration. "That you've lost your fucking mind. That making out in public like that draws exactly the kind of attention we're supposed to avoid. That whatever's going on with Noah Aslanov, it should be handled with more discretion."
"And which do they think it is?" I ask.
"Honestly? They can't decide. Which is almost worse." Luca settles onto the bench across from us, pulling out his own phone. "But they want answers. Real ones. Not the vague bullshit you've been feeding us about 'complicated feelings' and 'figuring things out.'"
Complicated feelings. If only it were that simple. If only I could explain that what I feel for Noah isn't love or even lust but something darker and more consuming. Something that makes me want to crawl inside his skin and live there. Something that makes me understand why people do insane things for the chance to be close to someone who might destroy them.
Something that makes me want to hurt him as much as I want to fuck him.
"There's something else," Matteo says, and his tone makes my blood go cold. "About Declan."
Declan. Fuck. With everything that happened with Noah, I'd almost forgotten about the psychological warfare he's been waging against my family. Almost forgotten about the threats against Valentina.
The rage that hits me is immediate and brutal. Because I've been so consumed with my obsession with Noah that I've let someone else threaten what's actually important. Let my need for one person override my responsibility to protect the people who matter most.
"What about him?"
"He's been escalating. Sent three more messages to Valentina since yesterday. Each one more graphic than the last." Matteo's jaw tightens. "And now with this video, he's got ammunition. Proof that you're 'distracted' by the Russians instead of focused on protecting family."
The words hit like physical blows. Because he's right. I have been distracted. So consumed with wanting Noah that I've been useless for anything else. So focused on my own pain that I've ignored the real threats to the people I'm supposed to protect.
The guilt tastes like poison. But underneath it, something much darker is building. The kind of rage that makes you forget about strategy and politics and careful planning. The kind that makes you want to find someone and tear them apart with your bare hands.
"Show me the messages," I say quietly.
"Enzo—" Valentina starts.
"Show me the fucking messages."
Matteo hands over his phone reluctantly. The texts are worse than I expected. Detailed. Specific. Full of exactly the kind of graphic threats that are designed to make you understand that the person sending them has thought about this. Has planned it. Has probably already figured out logistics.
By the time I finish reading, my hands are shaking with something that has nothing to do with adrenaline crashes and everything to do with the escalation. The threats are getting worse, more detailed, more specific. What started as psychological warfare has become something that sounds like actual planning.
"Enzo," Valentina's voice is small, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tight. "Promise me you won't do anything crazy."
I look up at her, seeing the fear she's trying to hide behind forced calm. "I can't promise you that, princess."
"But you're not well enough to go up against him again, Enzo. Please promise me you won't do it at least until your ribs have fully healed." Her voice cracks, and I can see tears gathering in her eyes, making them bright and desperate. "We need you whole. I need you whole."
The tears are what break me. Have always broken me where she's concerned. I reach out and brush them away with my thumb, the gesture automatic and tender despite the violence building under my skin.
"Dammit, princess," I say softly. "You know I'm a sucker for your tears."
The violence building under my skin is different from what I feel for Noah. Cleaner. More focused. This isn't about possession or obsession or twisted want. This is about protection. About making sure that anyone who thinks they can escalate threats against my sister understands exactly what that will cost them.
"Where is he?" I ask.
"Unknown. He's been smart about it, keeping mobile, staying off the grid." Luca leans forward. "But Enzo, rushing in right now would be exactly what he wants. You charging in angry and unfocused while everyone's already questioning your judgment because of this video."
"So what? I'm supposed to let him threaten her while I play politics?"
"You're supposed to think strategically instead of emotionally," Matteo snaps. "Which is something you've been struggling with lately."
The accusation hits exactly where it's supposed to. Because he's right. Everything I've done since that night with Noah has been driven by emotion instead of strategy. The confrontation today. The public kiss. The way I've been letting my obsession override every survival instinct I've spent twenty-two years developing.
But maybe that's not weakness. Maybe that's honesty. Maybe I'm finally admitting what I really am instead of pretending to be something civilized and controlled.
"This is about the video, isn't it?" Valentina says quietly. "You're worried about what it means for the family if Enzo's involved with Noah."
"Of course we're worried," Luca says. "Do you have any idea what kind of position this puts us in? The way other families look at us when our heir is publicly making out with someone who should be a strategic consideration, not a personal obsession?"
"But also," Matteo adds, looking directly at me, "we're worried about you. Because that video doesn't look like someone making a calculated political move. It looks like someone who's completely lost control. And to everyone watching, that means your mind isn't on protecting yourself or us—the family. That in general makes you a target, and we can't have that."
Lost control. The words hit harder than they should because there's truth in them. I have lost control. The moment I decided Noah Aslanov was worth risking everything for, I stopped being the careful, strategic heir I was raised to be and became something else entirely.
Something that kisses Russian heirs in public and threatens them when they try to claim dominance. Something that would rather burn down the world than let anyone else have what's mine.
Something that fantasizes about making the person I want bleed just to watch them break.
"So what do you want me to do?" I ask. "Pretend it never happened? Issue some public statement about temporary insanity?"
"We want you to think," Luca says. "About what you want. About what this costs. About whether Noah Aslanov is worth all of this. And also how your father would handle this, so I guess you need to make time to deal with that too. Because he's going to find out, and I'd rather it be from you."
Worth all of this. The same question Valentina asked me in the hospital. The same question I've been avoiding because I already know the answer.
Yes. He's worth it. Worth the political complications and family drama and potential bloodshed. Worth everything, because the alternative—pretending this doesn't exist, walking away, going back to the empty, violent life I had before—feels like dying slowly from the inside out.
Worth it because I want to own him completely. Want to be the only person who can make him lose control the way he makes me lose control. Want to be the obsession that consumes him the way he consumes me.
"He is," I say quietly. "Worth everything."
The silence that follows is deafening. I can see them processing this, trying to decide if I'm being honest or if I've completely lost my mind.
The answer is both.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. A text notification that shouldn't matter right now, with my family staring at me like I've just admitted to being completely insane and Declan O'Reilly sending graphic threats to my sister.
But I pull it out anyway. Because there's only one person who would text me right now, in the middle of this chaos.
The message is just an address. No explanation. No context. Just a location dropped like a gauntlet.
Then a door code. Six digits that promise privacy and isolation.
And below it, four words that make my blood sing with anticipation and rage in equal measure:
You have 30 minutes.
Not a request. A command. An ultimatum that makes it clear Noah is done with games and ready to escalate this as far as it needs to go.
The apartment is his next move in whatever game we're playing. A private space where we can have this out without cameras or witnesses or family members analyzing every word.
A cage match for two monsters who've finally stopped pretending to be human.
The thought makes something dark and hungry uncoil in my chest. Because this is what I wanted. This escalation. This proof that he's as fucked up as I am. This admission that neither of us knows how to walk away from something this destructive.
"What is it?" Valentina asks, probably seeing something in my expression that she doesn't like.
I look up at my family—Luca with his strategic mind already calculating political ramifications, Matteo with his protective instincts warring against his frustration, Valentina with her fear barely hidden behind forced casualness.
They want me to think strategically. To be smart. To consider what this costs the family before I make any more moves that could destabilize everything we've built.
They're right. I should think. Should plan. Should probably spend the next few hours in family meetings, doing damage control and figuring out how to minimize the fallout from that video.
But Noah just summoned me like he has every right to expect me to come running. Like he knows exactly how much power he has over me. Like he's testing whether I'll choose him over family responsibility.
The smart thing would be to ignore the message. To stay here and deal with the Declan situation and the family concerns and all the political ramifications of that video.
The honest thing is to admit that I stopped caring about smart the moment I tasted him.
I stand up and start walking toward my car.
"Where are you going?" Luca calls after me.
"To finish what we started," I call back without stopping.
Because Noah Aslanov just made his move. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let him think he can summon me like some obedient pet.
Time to show him what happens when you try to control a Moretti.
Even if part of me wants to be controlled by him.
Starting right now.