The apartment is perfect. Modern, expensive, isolated. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Heights district, but high enough that no one can see in. Neutral territory that belongs to neither Russian nor Italian influence. A space where we can be honest about what we are without family interference.
I've been here for twenty minutes, positioning myself strategically. Not by the door like I'm waiting. Not on the couch like I'm relaxed. Standing by the windows with my back to the entrance, projecting control even though every nerve in my body is buzzing with anticipation.
The door code beeps. Six digits. Then the sound of the lock disengaging.
He's here.
I don't turn around immediately. Let him take in the space. Let him realize what this means. What I've done. The calculated move of purchasing neutral ground where neither of our families can interfere.
"Summoning me now?" Enzo's voice cuts through the silence, sharp with amusement and something darker. "How very... presumptuous."
I turn slowly, letting him see the deliberate nature of my movement. He's standing just inside the door, still holding it open like he might leave. But his eyes are already scanning the apartment, cataloging details, understanding exactly what kind of power play this represents.
"You came," I say simply.
"Did you think I wouldn't?" He steps inside and lets the door close behind him with a soft click. The sound seems to echo in the space between us.
"I thought you might be smarter than you look."
His smile is all teeth. Dangerous and beautiful and absolutely predatory. "Careful, beautiful. That almost sounded like a challenge."
Beautiful. The way he says it makes something dark and hungry stir in my chest. Not like a compliment. Like a claim. Like he's naming something that belongs to him.
"Everything's a challenge with you," I say, moving away from the windows. Not toward him. Not yet. I want to see what he does with the space between us.
"Is it?" He moves deeper into the apartment, but his eyes never leave mine. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're the one playing games. Buying apartments. Sending ultimatums. Acting like you have some kind of authority over me."
"Don't I?"
The question hangs in the air between us. Loaded. Dangerous. The kind of truth that changes everything once it's spoken.
Enzo goes very still. Then he starts moving toward me with that predatory grace that makes my pulse spike. "You want to find out?"
I hold my ground as he approaches. Don't step back even when he's close enough that I can smell his cologne. Close enough to see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
"I already know," I say quietly.
"Do you?" He reaches out, not to touch me, but to trace the air just beside my jaw. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his fingers. "Because you're standing very still for someone who thinks he's in control."
"Maybe I want to see what you'll do."
"Dangerous game, Noah."
My name on his lips sends electricity racing through my veins. "I like dangerous games."
That's when he moves. Fast enough that I don't have time to react. One hand fists in the front of my shirt, the other comes up to wrap around my throat—not tight enough to restrict air, but firm enough to make his point. Before I can process what's happening, my back hits the wall with enough force to drive the breath from my lungs.
"You think you can handle me?" he hisses, his face inches from mine.
The hand around my throat should terrify me. Should trigger every survival instinct I've spent years developing. Instead, it makes something wild and desperate unfurl in my chest. Because this is what I wanted. This honesty. This proof that underneath all his charm and control, Enzo Moretti is exactly as dangerous as I need him to be.
"Handle you? No." My voice is rougher than usual, affected by his proximity and the pressure of his hand. "I want to unleash you."
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or hunger. His grip on my throat tightens slightly, and I can see him processing my words. Trying to understand what kind of game I'm playing.
"Careful," he growls, but there's something different in his voice now. Something that sounds like genuine warning mixed with anticipation.
I lean forward as much as his grip allows, close enough that my lips almost brush his ear when I speak. "My beautiful devil."
He freezes. Just for a heartbeat. Like no one has ever dared name him for what he truly is. Then his grip on my throat shifts, becomes more possessive than threatening, and I can feel the change in him. The way my words hit exactly where I intended them to.
"What did you call me?" His voice is barely a whisper.
"You heard me."
"Say it again."
"My beautiful devil." The words taste like power on my tongue. Like claiming something that was always meant to be mine.
When his grip loosens slightly, I move. Fast enough that he doesn't have time to react. My hand comes up to wrap around his throat while my other arm braces against his chest, and I spin us around until he's the one pressed against the wall.
The movement makes him wince—a sharp intake of breath that tells me his ribs are protesting the sudden shift. But instead of backing off, I press closer. My forearm rests against his chest, right where I know the healing bones are still tender.
"Noah—" he starts, but I increase the pressure slightly. Not enough to damage anything. Just enough to make him feel the ache. Just enough to remind him of the violence he's been denied while healing.
His eyes go dark, pupils dilating as pain and something else entirely war across his expression. I can feel his pulse racing under my palm, can see the way his breathing changes from careful to ragged.
"You've been craving this," I say quietly, watching his face. "Haven't you? The outlet you can't have because of your ribs. The intensity you've been denied."
"You don't know what you're talking about," he says, but his voice is strained. Not from my hand around his throat. From the pressure against his healing bones and the way his body is responding to it despite the pain. Or maybe because of it.
"Don't I?" I lean closer, close enough that he can feel my breath against his skin. "I see the way you hold yourself. Too careful. Too controlled. You're going crazy without The Pit, aren't you? Without somewhere to bleed."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't deny it. Can't deny it when I can feel the way his pulse is hammering against my palm.
"So let me give you what you need," I murmur, applying just a fraction more pressure to his chest. Enough to make his breath hitch. Enough to send that sharp reminder of injury through his system. "Since you can't have it anywhere else."
"Fuck," he breathes, and there's something broken in his voice. Something grateful and desperate and absolutely wrecked.
"That's what I thought," I say, easing the pressure but not removing my hand entirely. "You don't need me to be gentle with you. You need me to understand what you are."
"And what am I?"
"Someone who gets off on pain because it's the only thing that makes you feel real. Someone who's been slowly going insane without an outlet for all that violence." I trace my thumb along his pulse point, feeling how fast his heart is beating. "Someone who needs this as much as I need to give it to you."
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then something shifts in Enzo's expression. His eyes go dark, pupils blown wide with something that's pure fire and lust and desperate hunger all rolled into one. The careful control he's been maintaining since his injury cracks completely, and I can see the real him underneath. Raw. Honest. Beautiful in his brokenness.
"Fuck, Noah," he breathes, and his voice is wrecked in the best possible way.
That look in his eyes—like I've just given him exactly what he's been dying for—sends heat racing through my veins. This is what I wanted to see. Not the charming mask or the careful control. This. The fire that burns underneath when someone finally understands what he needs.
I lean forward and kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Without any of the hesitation from before. This time, I'm the one claiming. I'm the one taking what I want. My hand tightens slightly around his throat while my other arm presses more firmly against his chest, and the small sound he makes against my mouth is perfect.
He kisses me back like he's starving for it. Like the controlled pain and the recognition of what he is has unleashed something that can't be contained. His hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer despite the pressure against his ribs. Despite the way it must hurt. Or maybe because of it.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His eyes are still dark with that fire I love, and his lips are swollen from the kiss. He looks like violence and want and everything I've ever craved.
"You're dangerous," he says quietly.
"So are you."
"I want to touch you."
"Then touch me."
His hands slide from my shirt to my waist, fingers pressing into my skin through the fabric. Not gentle. Not careful. Just claiming what he wants with the same intensity I'm claiming him. When his thumbs brush along the line of my ribs—mirroring the pressure I'm applying to his—I can't suppress the sharp intake of breath.
"You like that," he observes, and there's satisfaction in his voice.
"I like when you stop pretending to be civilized."
"Good. Because I'm done pretending."
He leans forward and captures my mouth again, and this time there's nothing controlled about it. It's all teeth and desperation and the kind of hunger that makes you forget about breathing. My hand around his throat becomes less about dominance and more about anchoring myself to him. About making sure this is real.
When his teeth catch my bottom lip, the sharp pleasure-pain makes something primal respond in my chest. A sound that might be a moan or might be his name. Either way, it makes him smile against my mouth like he's won something.
"My beautiful boy," he murmurs, and the possessive claim sends electricity through my system.
"My beautiful devil," I respond, applying just enough pressure to his throat to make his breath hitch.
We stay like that for another moment, pressed against the wall, hands on each other, both of us understanding that we've crossed some kind of line. That this isn't just physical attraction or even obsession anymore. This is recognition. The acknowledgment that we're both broken in ways that fit together perfectly.
Finally, I ease the pressure and step back, but I don't let go completely. My hand slides down from his throat to rest against his collarbone, feeling his pulse still racing under my palm.
"We should eat," I say, even though food is the last thing on my mind.
"Should we?" His voice is rough, affected by everything that just happened.
"I stopped and picked up something on my way here. It's in the kitchen."
"Right. Food." He looks at me for a long moment, like he's trying to figure out how I can go from that intensity to domestic practicality so quickly. "You're going to drive me insane."
"That's the plan."
His laugh is breathless and absolutely delighted. "My beautiful, manipulative boy."
"Your beautiful, manipulative boy," I agree.
We move to the kitchen, and I unpack the takeout containers I brought while Enzo gets plates and utensils. Italian food, as it turns out—something that makes him raise an eyebrow.
"Hedging your bets?" he asks, amused.
"Being practical. Figured you'd appreciate something familiar."
The normalcy of sharing a meal after everything that just happened should be jarring. Instead, it feels perfect. Like we've established something real and now we get to live in it.
"This is good," Enzo says, taking another bite of the pasta. "You chose well."
"Seemed like the safe bet. Penne arrabbiata from that place near campus."
"Safe?" He looks amused. "Nothing about this is safe, beautiful."
"Maybe not. But the food is familiar."
"I like that you thought about it. About what would make me comfortable."
"I think about everything when it comes to you."
The admission hangs between us, more intimate than anything we've done physically. Because it's true. Every interaction, every choice, every move I make gets filtered through the question of how it affects him. How it affects us.
"Dangerous territory," he says quietly.
"Everything about us is dangerous territory."
We finish eating in comfortable silence, both of us processing what we've committed to. What this apartment represents. What we're building together.
It should feel overwhelming. Should make me question whether I'm making the right choice. Instead, it feels like the first honest thing I've done in years.
When we're done, Enzo moves away from the table, walking to the windows, looking out at the city lights below. For a moment, I think he might actually leave. Might decide this is too complicated or dangerous or fucked up to pursue.
Then he turns back to me, and there's something different in his expression. Something settled. Like he's made a decision.
"If we're going to do this," he says quietly, "we need rules."
"Rules?"
"Ground rules. Boundaries. Ways to make this work without destroying each other."
I wasn't expecting this. Wasn't expecting him to approach this strategically instead of emotionally. But maybe that's what we need. Structure for something that feels completely out of control.
"What kind of rules?" I ask.
He moves back toward me, but slower this time. More deliberate. "This place is ours. Equal claim. No one else knows about it."
"Agreed." I pause, considering. "When things turn sexual—and they will—no one leaves that night. We see it through to whatever conclusion we reach."
The certainty in my voice makes something flicker in his eyes. "Agreed. And we take turns with domestic shit. Cooking, cleaning, whatever. This isn't a hotel."
"Agreed." I step closer. "No one else touches you. If I see it or hear about it, not only will they have to deal with me, so will you."
"Absolutely agreed." His voice carries an edge of possessiveness that makes heat race through my veins. "And when I call or text, you answer. When you call or text, I answer. Communication isn't optional."
"Agreed. And what happens here stays here. No using this against each other with families. No weapons except the ones we choose to give each other."
"That's the most important one," he says quietly. "Because in our world, information is power. Vulnerability is weakness. What we're asking for is trust that could get us both killed if it's betrayed."
"Agreed," I say.
"Then we have a deal."
"We have a deal."
But neither of us moves to shake hands or seal it in any formal way. We just stand there, close enough to touch, letting the weight of what we've just committed to settle between us.
"So what now?" Enzo asks.
"Now we see what happens when two monsters stop pretending to be human."
His smile is sharp enough to cut. "I thought you'd never ask."
I start to turn toward the kitchen to clear the dishes, thinking we should probably establish some normalcy before this escalates further. But Enzo's hand shoots out, catching my wrist and pulling me back.
"Don't turn away from me," he says, and there's an edge to his voice that makes something primitive respond in my chest.
"I wasn't—"
"Yes, you were. You were retreating. Finding safe ground." His grip tightens. "We just agreed to stop pretending. So don't start now."
He's right. I was retreating. Finding something normal and domestic to focus on instead of acknowledging what's building between us. Instead of admitting that the hand around my throat felt like coming home.
"What do you want me to do?" I ask.
"Look at me. Really look at me. Stop calculating and planning and trying to control every second of this."
I turn to face him fully, letting him see whatever expression is written across my face. Letting him see the want and fear and desperate need I've been trying to hide behind strategy.
"There," he says softly. "There's my beautiful boy."
The possessive phrase sends heat racing through my veins. Because that's what I am now, isn't it? His. Whatever fucked up dynamic we're building, whatever rules we've established, whatever this apartment represents—I belong to him now in ways I've never belonged to anyone.
"Mmm," I murmur.
"Mine," he confirms. "Just like I'm your beautiful devil."
"Just like that."
We stand there for another moment, letting the new dynamic settle between us. Then the weight of everything we need to discuss settles between us.
"There's something we need to talk about," I say.
"The rules weren't comprehensive enough?"
"Not about us. About Declan O'Reilly."
The name makes something cold and sharp settle in his expression. "What about him?"
"He's been escalating. Sending graphic threats to Valentina. And now that we're..." I gesture between us. "Whatever this is, he's going to see it as ammunition. Proof that I'm distracted."
"Are you? Distracted?"
"Yes." The admission is immediate and honest. "Completely fucking distracted. And that makes my family vulnerable."
I move closer. "Tell me about the threats."
"You don't want to know the details."
"Yes, I do. If we're doing this—really doing this—then your problems become my problems. Your family's safety becomes something I care about."
Enzo looks at me for a long moment, like he's trying to decide if I'm serious. Then he pulls out his phone, scrolling through messages before handing it to me.
The texts are worse than I expected. Detailed. Specific. Full of exactly the kind of graphic violence that's designed to make you understand this isn't just psychological warfare anymore. This is someone who's moved past threats into actual planning.
"Fuck," I breathe.
"Yeah. And he's been smart about it. Staying mobile, keeping off the grid. But Noah..." Enzo's voice drops to something dangerous. "I'm going to kill him. Not strategically. Not as part of some larger plan. I'm going to tear him apart with my bare hands for thinking about touching what's mine."
The possessive violence in his voice sends heat racing through my veins. Because that's what Valentina is to him. Not just family. His to protect. His responsibility. The one person in the world who matters more than his own survival.
"No," I say quietly.
"No?"
"You're not going to kill him alone." I hand his phone back, meeting his eyes directly. "We are."
Enzo goes very still. "We?"
"I said your problems become my problems. Well, someone threatening your sister is definitely my problem now."
"Noah, this isn't a game. This is real violence. Real danger. The kind that gets people killed."
"I know exactly what kind of violence this is." I step closer, close enough to see the surprise flickering in his eyes. "And I know exactly what I'm capable of when someone threatens what belongs to me."
"Valentina doesn't belong to you."
"No. But you do. And anyone who hurts what you care about is hurting you. Which means they're hurting what's mine."
The logic is twisted and possessive and probably unhealthy for everyone involved. But it's also honest. Because that's what this is—ownership disguised as care. The recognition that we're both so broken that we define ourselves through what we can protect and control.
"You're serious," Enzo says slowly.
"Completely serious. You want to tear him apart? Fine. But we do it together. We do it smart. And we do it somewhere that isn't this island."
His eyebrows draw together. "What?"
"There are only a few rules on this island, Enzo. No killing is one of them. You kill Declan here, and both our families get expelled. Is your revenge worth destroying everything?"
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed immediately by frustration. "So what? We just let him keep threatening her?"
"We make him leave the island. Force him into a situation where the rules don't protect him anymore. Then we kill him."
"And what makes you think you can think strategically when it comes to protecting me?"
"Because I'm not the one whose sister is being threatened. I can stay objective while you lose your mind with rage." I pause, studying his face. "And because you're still healing. Your ribs aren't fully recovered yet."
Enzo's expression hardens immediately. "My ribs are fine."
"Bullshit. I saw you wince when you moved too fast earlier. You're not ready for the kind of fight Declan's going to bring."
"I'm a grown ass man, Noah. I can handle myself just fine."
"I'm sure you can. When you're at full strength. But right now?" I step closer, letting him see the concern I'm trying to hide behind logic. "Right now you're compromised. And compromised gets you killed."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? How long did the doctors say full recovery would take?"
His jaw tightens, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes. Pride versus practicality. The need for revenge versus the reality of his physical limitations.
"Six weeks," he admits finally.
"And it's been what? One week?"
"One week."
"Still not six."
"I don't need to be at one hundred percent to kill Declan O'Reilly."
"You need to be at one hundred percent to survive killing Declan O'Reilly. There's a difference."
Enzo stares at me for a long moment. Then he laughs, sharp and bitter. "You realize what you're doing, right? You're asking me to wait while someone threatens my sister. To sit on my hands and let her live in fear because you think I'm too weak to handle it."
"I'm asking you to be smart about it. To let me help carry the weight so you don't have to do this alone while you're still healing."
"And what makes you think I need help?"
"Because everyone needs help sometimes. Even beautiful devils who think they're invincible."
The pet name softens something in his expression, but the stubbornness remains. "I'm not going to hide behind you while she's in danger."
"I'm not asking you to hide. I'm asking you to be strategic. To use the resources available instead of charging in like some kind of berserker."
"Resources like you?"
"Resources like me. Like your family's intelligence network. Like my family's intelligence network. Like the fact that two heads are better than one when it comes to planning someone's death."
Enzo moves to the counter, bracing his hands against it. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's holding himself carefully. Proof that his ribs are still bothering him more than he wants to admit.
"You don't understand," he says quietly. "Every day I wait is another day he gets to terrorize her. Another day she has to look over her shoulder and wonder if today's the day he stops sending messages and starts taking action."
"And every day you rush in unprepared is another day closer to her losing the only person who can actually protect her."
That hits home. I can see it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his knuckles go white against the counter.
"I hate that you're right," he says finally.
"I hate that I have to be right about this."
He turns back to face me, and there's something raw in his expression. Something that looks like fear mixed with frustration. "So what? We wait until I'm fully healed? Let him keep sending those messages for another five weeks?"
"We start gathering intelligence now. We plan. We prepare. We make sure that when we do move, it's decisive and final and there's no chance for mistakes."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, Valentina stays protected. Your family keeps her safe while we get ready to end this permanently."
"She's going to hate being locked up like a prisoner."
"She's going to hate being dead more."
Enzo stares at me for a long moment. I can see him processing the logic, trying to find flaws in my reasoning. Trying to find a way to justify rushing in despite his limitations.
He won't find one. Because I'm right, and we both know it.
"Fine," he says finally. "We do it your way. But Noah?"
"Yeah?"
"The moment my ribs are healed, the moment the doctors clear me for full activity, we move. No more waiting. No more planning. We find him and we end this."
"Agreed."
"And if anything happens to her while we're waiting..."
"It won't."
"If it does," he continues, his voice dropping to something deadly, "I will tear apart everyone responsible. Including you, if you try to stop me."
The threat should concern me. Should make me reconsider getting involved in family business that could turn violent. Instead, it makes something dark and satisfied stir in my chest. Because this is what love looks like in our world. Threats and promises and the willingness to destroy everything for the people who matter.
"I wouldn't dream of stopping you," I say. "I'd help you tear them apart."
His smile is sharp enough to cut. "My beautiful boy," he murmurs. "You're learning."
The evening passes in a strange mixture of domestic normalcy and electric tension. We clean up the takeout containers together, moving around each other in the kitchen with an ease that shouldn't exist between two people who met weeks ago.
But underneath the mundane activities, there's an awareness. The way his eyes follow me when I move. The way I find excuses to brush against him when I pass. The memory of his hands on my throat and mine on his. The recognition of what we both need and what we're both capable of giving.
Later, we end up on the couch with some mindless show playing on the TV. Enzo's head is in my lap, his body stretched out along the cushions, and I find myself running my fingers through his dark hair. My other hand rests on his chest, fingers moving slowly over his still-aching ribs through his shirt. When he tilts his head to look up at me, something shifts in the air between us.
"You know what's going to happen between us," I say, not really a question.
His eyes darken slightly. "Eventually, you mean?"
"When this thing becomes physical. Really physical." I lean closer. "I can't wait to have you under me."
A slow smile spreads across his face, dangerous and promising. "And I can't wait to be inside you. So get it out of your head if you think I'm the only one getting fucked in this relationship."
The blunt honesty sends heat racing through my veins. "Good. Because I want it all."
He leans closer, close enough that I can see the satisfaction burning in his eyes. "I was hoping you'd figure that out."
"Were you?"
"Beautiful boy, did you think I was going to let you have all the fun of being in control? Or that I was going to give up the pleasure of surrendering to you?" He traces one finger along my jaw. "I want it all. From you. With you."
The admission sends heat racing through my veins. Because that's exactly what I want too. Not just the dominance or just the submission, but the flexibility to be whatever we need for each other. The understanding that power between us isn't fixed—it's fluid, negotiable, something we'll trade back and forth depending on mood and need and desire.
"Good," I say. "Because I want all of you. Every version. The one who takes control and the one who gives it up."
"And I want every version of you. The one who plans murders over dinner and the one who'll let me pin him against walls."
We sit there for a moment, letting this new understanding settle between us. It's not just about sex—though that's part of it. It's about recognizing that we're both too complex, too multifaceted, to fit into simple roles. That what we're building requires the space to be everything we are.
"Actually," I say, moving closer until we're sharing the same air again, "I have an idea. Something that might help us move this along faster than waiting six weeks."
Interest flares in his golden-hazel eyes. "What kind of idea?"
"The kind that gets results."
"Noah." His voice carries a warning. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"No."
He goes very still. "No?"
"I'm not telling you what I'm planning. Not yet."
"Like hell you're not." His hand comes up to cup my jaw, grip firm enough to make his point. "We just agreed to be partners. Partners don't keep secrets."
"Partners also don't rush into situations that could get them killed because they're too stubborn to wait for backup." I reach up and cover his hand with mine, not to remove it but to acknowledge the claim. "Trust me."
"Trust you to what? Do something stupid and reckless while I'm standing here like an invalid?"
"Trust me to handle this my way. The way that keeps you alive and gets us what we want."
Enzo's eyes narrow, and I can see the war happening behind them. Curiosity warring with control. The need to know versus the recognition that maybe—just maybe—I might actually know what I'm doing.
"I don't like not knowing," he says finally.
"I don't like watching you get yourself hurt because you're too proud to admit you're not ready for a fight."
"You're really not going to tell me."
"I'm really not going to tell you."
"That's going to piss me off."
"I'm counting on it."
His laugh is sharp and dangerous and absolutely delighted. "You manipulative bastard."
"Your manipulative bastard."
He leans closer until his forehead almost touches mine. "But Noah? Whatever you're planning, don't you dare get yourself hurt. Because if something happens to you while you're trying to protect me..."
"What?"
"I'll burn this whole fucking island down because of it."
The threat should terrify me. Instead, it sends heat racing through my veins. Because that's what love looks like between monsters. The promise that he'd burn down everything we know rather than lose me.
"Deal," I say.
"Deal."
But neither of us moves. We just stay like this, Enzo's head still in my lap, both of us understanding that everything just changed again. That I'm about to disappear into whatever plan I'm hatching, and he's going to have to trust me to come back whole.
Trust. In our world, that's more intimate than any physical contact. More dangerous than any confession of feeling. More binding than any promise.
And we're both choosing to give it to each other.
Despite everything that could go wrong.
Despite knowing exactly how much damage we could do to each other.
Despite the certainty that this is either the beginning of something beautiful or the start of our mutual destruction.
Maybe both.
Probably both.
But definitely worth finding out.