The invitation arrives in my hands like a fucking insult wrapped in expensive paper.
"What's this?" I ask Matteo, who's standing in the doorway of my room at the family estate with that carefully neutral expression that means he's about to deliver news I'm not going to like.
"Tournament invitation. Some new venue called The Forge. Russian territory." He settles into the chair across from my bed, studying my face. "It's from the Aslanov family. We can't ignore an invitation like this."
"Since when do the Russians host tournaments?" I ask, taking the invitation from his hands.
I scan the details, my chest tightening with each line. Professional setup. Multiple families participating. Elimination tournament format. And right there at the top, in elegant script that makes my teeth clench: "Hosted by Noah Aslanov."
The paper crumples slightly in my grip before I force my hands to relax. Because this is what he's been planning. This is the mysterious strategy he couldn't trust me with. While I've been healing and going crazy with inactivity, he's been orchestrating some elaborate underground tournament designed to do—what exactly?
"When did this arrive?" I ask, keeping my voice level despite the rage building in my chest.
"An hour ago. We need to leave soon if we're going." Matteo's eyes narrow. "You want to tell me why you look like you're about to murder someone?"
Because Noah fucking Aslanov has been lying to my face for a week. Because while I've been trusting him to handle the Declan situation responsibly, he's been setting up some elaborate show that puts him directly in the spotlight of every major family on the East Coast.
Because I can already see what this is really about, and it's making me want to tear something apart with my bare hands.
"I'm fine," I lie.
"Bullshit." Matteo leans forward. "What's going on with you and the Russian heir?"
The question hits exactly where it's supposed to. Because there's no hiding the fact that this invitation has affected me in ways that have nothing to do with normal family politics. The way my hands are shaking slightly. The way my jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth. The way every instinct I have is screaming that Noah is about to do something catastrophically stupid and I need to stop him.
"Nothing's going on."
"Right. That's why you look like you're about to declare war on the entire Aslanov family over a tournament invitation."
I stand up and move to the window, staring out at the estate grounds while my mind races through possibilities. What kind of game is Noah playing? What's he trying to prove with this elaborate setup? And why the fuck did he keep me in the dark about it?
Unless.
Unless this is exactly what I think it is. Noah's way of handling the Declan situation without involving me. His strategy for keeping dangerous people busy while I heal from injuries that make me useless in a real fight.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. Because if that's what this is—if Noah orchestrated an entire underground tournament as some twisted form of protection for me—then I don't know whether I want to kiss him or kill him.
"We're going," I say finally.
"Enzo—"
"We're fucking going, Matteo. I want to see what the Russians think they're building on their territory."
What I really want is to see Noah's face when he realizes I figured out his game.
The ride to The Forge passes in tense silence. Matteo's driving while I sit in the passenger seat, my ribs aching with every bump in the road and my mind churning through scenarios. Valentina's in the back, chattering about some campus drama, but I'm not listening. I'm too busy imagining what I'm going to say to Noah when I get my hands on him.
By the time we arrive at the converted warehouse, my anger has settled into something cold and focused. The kind of rage that doesn't explode—it calculates. It plans. It waits for the perfect moment to strike.
The venue is impressive, I'll give him that. Professional setup, good sight lines, the kind of organization that takes serious planning and resources. This isn't some thrown-together amateur hour. This is legitimate, substantial, designed to make a statement.
And right there in the center of it all, talking to what looks like Russian family leadership, is Noah fucking Aslanov.
He's preparing for his fight—simple athletic wear that he can strip off easily when it's time to step into the ring. His platinum hair catches the harsh arena lighting, and even from across the crowd I can see the controlled way he moves. Like he owns this space. Like he built it specifically to serve his purposes.
Which, apparently, he did.
"Impressive setup," Matteo murmurs beside me.
"It's fucking elaborate," I agree, watching Noah gesture toward different sections of the arena. "The kind of thing that takes weeks to plan properly."
Weeks. While I've been trusting him to handle things carefully, he's been orchestrating this behind my back. Creating something that puts him at the center of inter-family politics while I sit on the sidelines like some kind of invalid.
The announcer's voice booms across the arena, welcoming everyone to The Forge. Then he starts announcing the fights, and my blood goes cold.
"Tonight's opening match features our host, Noah Aslanov of the Aslanov Bratva, against Marcus Chen from the Bay Area Triad."
Host. He's not just organizing this thing. He's fighting in it.
The rage that hits me is immediate and consuming. Because this isn't just about keeping people busy or managing the Declan situation. This is Noah putting himself at risk while keeping me completely in the dark about it. This is him making unilateral decisions about acceptable danger while I'm supposed to sit here and watch like some helpless fucking spectator.
I start moving toward the platform before I've consciously decided to do it. People step out of my way—probably recognizing the expression on my face as something that promises violence if they get too close.
By the time I reach the edge of the fighting platform, Noah's already stripped off his shirt and handed it to someone who's obviously acting as his corner man. The crowd's reaction to his appearance makes something dark and possessive twist in my gut. Because they're seeing what belongs to me. They're taking in the lean muscle and technical precision and controlled confidence that I've claimed with my hands and mouth and the kind of desperate need that makes you forget about breathing.
But more than that, they can see the scars. The evidence of a childhood spent learning that silence and pain were survival tools. The proof that Noah Aslanov isn't the untouchable prince everyone thought he was.
He scans the crowd, and when his eyes find mine, something electric passes between us. Recognition. Understanding. The acknowledgment that this moment was always going to happen. That he orchestrated this entire evening specifically to force this confrontation.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, cutting through the crowd noise like a blade to the throat.
His response is simple, direct, designed to piss me off: "Fighting."
"Bullshit." I step closer to the platform's edge, close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes. Close enough to smell his cologne and remember exactly what it feels like when those hands are wrapped around my throat. "So this is what you had planned that you couldn't tell me about. You orchestrated this entire fucking evening and didn't tell me you were planning to get in the ring yourself?"
"I told you I had a plan."
"You told me you had a plan for Declan. You didn't mention your plan involved putting yourself at risk while I sit in the stands like some helpless fucking spectator." The pieces are clicking together in my mind—the elaborate setup, the timing, the way he's been deflecting my questions all week. "You knew I wouldn't agree with this."
"You would have tried to stop me."
"Damn right I would have tried to stop you. Because this is exactly the kind of reckless shit that I would do, and you fucking know that."
The admission hangs between us, loaded with everything we haven't said. Because that's exactly what this is. Noah doing something I would do in his position. Taking risks to protect what matters while keeping everyone else in the dark about the real plan.
The referee calls for fighters to their corners, cutting off whatever response Noah might have given. But the look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know. He's not sorry. He's not going to apologize for keeping me in the dark. He orchestrated this entire situation specifically to put me in this position—forced to watch while being powerless to intervene.
"I'll see you after," he says.
"You fucking better. Because we're going to finish this conversation tonight. At home. And Noah?"
"Yeah?"
"You better be there."
The promise in my voice makes something shift in his expression. Something that looks like anticipation mixed with challenge. Like he's been waiting for me to stop pretending to be civilized about this.
Like he wants to see what happens when I drop the mask completely.
I move back to rejoin Matteo and Valentina, but my eyes never leave the platform. Never leave Noah as he settles into his corner, rolling his shoulders and bouncing slightly on his toes. He's built like someone who's been training for violence his entire life—lean muscle over a frame that moves with technical precision.
The bell rings.
And I watch Noah Aslanov go to war.
The first exchange makes my chest tight with something that's pure arousal. His opponent comes at him hard and fast, landing a solid combination that draws blood immediately. Noah's head snaps back, scarlet streaming from a cut above his eye, and every protective instinct I have screams at me to intervene.
But Noah doesn't back down. Doesn't show any sign that getting hurt discourages him. If anything, he seems to feed on it. The pain making him more focused, more dangerous.
More honest about what he really is.
"Jesus," Valentina breathes beside me. "He's actually good at this."
Good doesn't begin to cover it. Noah fights like someone who understands that violence is a language, and he's fluent in ways that most people never learn. Technical. Controlled. Absolutely fucking beautiful in his brutality.
When he slips his opponent's right cross and drives a fist into the man's kidney, the sound makes something dark and hungry unfurl in my chest. Because that's precision. That's someone who knows exactly how to hurt people efficiently.
That's my beautiful, manipulative boy finally showing everyone what he's really capable of.
The fight escalates quickly from there. Both men bloodied and desperate, trading damage in ways that make the crowd roar for more. But Noah never loses that controlled edge. Never lets emotion override strategy. Even when he gets dropped by an uppercut that would have ended most fights, he gets back up with that same calculating look in his ice-blue eyes.
Like pain is just information. Like getting hurt is part of the plan.
When he finally gets his opponent on the ground and starts raining down methodical punches, I have to grip the railing to keep from doing something stupid. Because watching Noah unleash that controlled violence is the most arousing thing I've experienced in weeks.
And the most terrifying.
Because this is what he's been hiding. Not just the tournament or the strategy, but this. The cold precision with which he can destroy someone when he stops pretending to be civilized. The way he can turn pain into a weapon and use it to break people who think they're stronger than he is.
The finishing move—when he grabs his opponent's head and drives his own skull into the man's face—makes Valentina wince and look away. But I can't stop watching. Can't tear my eyes away from Noah as he stands over his unconscious opponent, blood streaming down his face, chest heaving with exertion.
Looking like violence incarnate. Looking like everything I've ever wanted and everything that could destroy me.
The next two fights pass in a blur of analysis and growing understanding. I can see Noah establishing himself as someone who matters. Someone who can create institutions and command respect through more than just family name and political maneuvering.
Someone who can reshape the world through careful manipulation and strategic violence.
"Fuck me," Matteo mutters beside me as the second fight ends with Dmitri Kozlov standing over his unconscious opponent. "This setup is serious. Look at the organization, the crowd response. This isn't some amateur hour bullshit."
"No kidding." I watch Rosa Delgado step into the ring for the third fight, moving like she owns the space. "Noah's created something that could genuinely change how families interact."
"Speaking of which," Matteo says, and there's something in his voice that makes me look at him. Something that sounds like excitement mixed with calculation. "I'm thinking about signing up for the next round."
"You're what?"
He nudges me with his elbow, grinning in that way that usually means he's about to do something that will give me gray hair. "Come on, you're not the only one who gets to have fun. This looks like the kind of competition that actually matters."
"Matteo—"
"And I'm not the only one thinking about it. Angelo's already talking about it after watching this. Luca's interested. Hell, even Domenico is making noise about proving himself." His grin gets wider. "You down, or are you going to let your little Russian boyfriend have all the glory?"
The casual way he says it—little Russian boyfriend—makes something possessive and protective flare in my chest. But there's no malice in it. Just Matteo being Matteo, calling things like he sees them.
"My ribs aren't ready for this level of competition," I admit, hating how weak it makes me sound.
"Yet." He watches Rosa land a devastating combination that drops her opponent to one knee. "But they will be. And when they are, you telling me you're not going to want in on whatever Noah's building here?"
I look back at the ring, where Rosa is systematically dismantling Kai O'Sullivan with the kind of technical precision that makes the crowd roar for more. Then I look around at the setup—the professional organization, the multi-family attendance, the way this feels like something that could become a permanent fixture in our world.
That's when I see him.
Declan fucking O'Reilly, standing with a small group of Irish family members near the back of the crowd. He's watching the fight with obvious interest, but when our eyes meet across the arena, his attention shifts entirely to me.
The bastard smiles. Actually fucking smiles, like seeing me here is exactly what he was hoping for. Like this whole elaborate setup is some kind of gift he didn't expect to receive.
My hands clench into fists before I can stop them, and I can feel Matteo tense beside me as he follows my gaze.
"Shit," Matteo mutters. "What's that piece of garbage doing here?"
But I'm not looking at Declan anymore. Because his smile has shifted, become something predatory as his gaze moves past me to where Valentina is standing with some of her friends. The look on his face when he sees her makes every protective instinct I have scream warnings.
That's when it hits me. Why Noah really created this tournament. Why he orchestrated something that would draw every major family, including the Irish. This isn't just about keeping dangerous people busy.
This is about keeping Declan exactly where Noah can see him.
"Yeah," I say finally. "I'm down."
"That's what I thought." Matteo's grin turns absolutely predatory. "Because watching you sit on the sidelines while your boy orchestrates all this? That's not the Enzo Moretti I know."
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying. When you're ready, this looks like exactly the kind of chaos you were born for."
By the time the evening winds down and families start making their exit plans, I've moved past anger into something more complex. Something that feels like admiration mixed with fury mixed with the kind of possessive need that makes you want to claim something completely.
Noah handled himself like a professional. Took damage and kept fighting. Won decisively and handled the aftermath with the same controlled precision he brought to the violence itself.
But more than that, he orchestrated something that could genuinely impact how families interact for months to come. Created a venue and format that puts Russian territory at the center of inter-family politics while giving everyone a reason to keep coming back.
All while keeping me completely in the dark about it.
As we reach the cars, I turn to Matteo. "Get Valentina back to the estate safely."
"Where are you going?" he asks, studying my face.
"Out. Just get her back safely."
I walk away before he can ask more questions, too wired to explain and too focused on what's coming next.
I call a car, pacing while I wait for it to arrive. The minutes stretch like hours, rage and something that feels dangerously close to panic building in my chest. Because watching Noah get hurt tonight was worse than any physical pain I've experienced. Worse than the ribs that are still healing. Worse than any beating I've taken in The Pit.
Watching him bleed while being powerless to stop it made something in my chest tear open. Made me understand exactly how much I need to be the one protecting him, not sitting in the fucking stands like some useless spectator while he proves points I never asked him to prove.
Every image from tonight replays in my head. The blood streaming down his face. The way he smiled after getting hit. The methodical way he destroyed his opponent once he got him on the ground. Beautiful and terrifying and everything I've ever wanted wrapped up in a package that could get himself killed just to make a fucking point.
The car arrives and I get in, my hands clenched into fists. From anger or arousal or the kind of possessive need that makes you want to chain someone to a bed just to keep them safe, I can't tell. Maybe all three.
What it did to me.
By the time I reach the apartment, I've been pacing for twenty minutes. Moving from the windows to the kitchen to the couch and back again, too restless to sit still. Too angry to think clearly. Too aroused by what I witnessed to pretend this is just about partnership and trust.
Because watching Noah fight tonight was like watching him finally admit what he really is. Not the silent golden boy image he's been hiding behind, but the cold, calculating predator who can destroy people when he stops holding back.
The predator who orchestrated an entire evening of violence just to prove a point to me.
When I hear the door code being entered, every muscle in my body goes tense. Ready for the confrontation that's been building ever since that invitation arrived in my hands. Ready to make him understand exactly what he's done and what it's going to cost him.
The door opens, and Noah steps inside looking like he's been through a war. Wrap around his sprained hand. Stitches above his eyebrow. Bruises already darkening along his ribs where his shirt rides up slightly.
Looking like someone who just proved he's exactly as dangerous as anyone who carries a family name.
"You look like shit," I say, because it's true and because starting with honesty seems important right now. "But I hope you feel worse for that bullshit move you pulled."
Noah steps fully into the apartment, and I can see him taking in my expression. The way I'm standing. The barely controlled violence radiating off me in ways that probably should concern him but don't seem to.
"What move was that?" he asks, like he doesn't know exactly what I'm talking about.
"Don't fucking play dumb with me. You know exactly what move." I step closer, close enough to see the wrap around his sprained hand, the stitches above his eyebrow. Close enough to remember how it felt watching him take that damage while I sat there like some useless fucking spectator. "Creating that entire tournament behind my back. Putting yourself in danger while keeping me completely in the dark about what you were really planning."
"I told you I had a plan for Declan."
"You told me you had a plan. You didn't tell me your plan involved orchestrating elaborate underground tournaments and getting yourself beaten bloody to prove some twisted point."
He moves further into the space, and I can see the stubborn set of his jaw. The defiance that tells me he's not sorry for what he did. Not even a little bit.
"What point was I proving, Enzo?"
"That you don't need me. That you can handle dangerous situations without my input or protection. That you're perfectly capable of managing our problems while I heal like some broken fucking invalid."
The words taste bitter. Because that's what this comes down to. Noah making decisions about what I can and can't handle based on physical limitations that make me feel weak in ways I've never experienced before.
"Now that the monster is out, you don't like the way things are, huh?" His voice carries that cold edge I've learned to recognize as dangerous. "Tell me, Enzo. You don't like the man you unleashed?"
The question cuts straight through my rage. Because he's fucking wrong. Dead wrong, and he knows it.
I love the man I unleashed. I love seeing Noah drop the silent golden boy act and become something brutal and honest. I love watching him use violence like a language he's fluent in.
I wanted to see what he was really capable of. Wanted him to stop hiding behind that silent golden boy facade and show me the predator underneath. I pushed for honesty, for him to drop the mask, for him to prove he was exactly as dangerous as I suspected.
But watching it happen—watching him get hurt while proving it—was torture in ways I never anticipated.
"I love the man I unleashed," I say, my voice rougher than I intended. "What I fucking hate is that I was not able to be apart of it."
"Did I have a choice?" He steps closer, and I can see the calculation in his ice-blue eyes. "You've been going crazy with inactivity while I've been planning. Did you want me to sit around and wait for you to be ready while threats escalated?"
"I wanted you to include me in the planning."
"So you could do what? Insist on fighting before your ribs were healed? Demand to participate in ways that would have compromised the entire strategy?" His voice gets colder. "Tell me, Enzo. If I had told you I was organizing a tournament and putting myself in the opening fight, what would you have done?"
The question stops me because we both know the answer. I would have lost my shit. Would have demanded he find a different approach. Would have tried to take his place or cancel the whole thing.
"That's what I thought." The satisfaction in his voice makes something dark twist in my chest. "You would have tried to protect me the same way I protected you. The only difference is I was smart enough to do it without asking permission."
"Protection? You call manipulating me for a week protection?"
"I call it strategy. The same kind of strategy you would have used if our positions were reversed." He moves even closer, close enough that I can smell the adrenaline still coursing through his system. "The same kind of ruthless planning that kept you safe while establishing my reputation as something more than just another heir who hides behind politics."
I want to argue with him. Want to tell him he's wrong about what I would have done. But I can't. Because he's absolutely right. I would have done exactly the same thing - kept him in the dark to protect him from his own reckless instincts.
"You manipulated me."
"I protected you. The same way you would have protected me if our positions were reversed." He steps closer, and I can see something shifting in his ice-blue eyes. Something that looks like challenge mixed with heat. "The same way you're going to admit that watching me fight tonight turned you on as much as it pissed you off."
The blunt honesty makes my blood sing. Because he's fucking right about that too. Watching Noah unleash controlled violence was the most arousing thing I've experienced in months, even as it made me want to destroy everything in reach.
"You want to know what it did to me?" My voice drops to something dangerous. "Watching you smile while bleeding? Watching you turn pain into a weapon and use it to destroy someone who thought he was stronger?"
"Tell me."
"It made me understand that you're exactly as fucked up as I am. That you get off on violence the same way I do. That underneath all that careful control, you're just as much of a monster as I've always been."
"And?"
"And it made me want to claim that monster completely. Made me want to be the only person who gets to see you like that. The only one who gets to watch you drop the mask and become something beautiful and terrifying."
I watch his pupils dilate, can see his pulse jumping in his throat. "What else?"
"It made me want to hurt you back. Not because I'm angry, but because I want to see if you take pain as beautifully when it comes from me as you did when it came from that Triad fighter."
"Enzo." His voice is breathless now, affected.
"It made me understand that ownership between us doesn't get negotiated through partnership agreements or strategic planning. It gets negotiated through honesty about what we are and what we need from each other."
"What do we need from each other?"
I step closer, close enough that there's barely any space between us. Close enough to see the way his breathing has changed, the way his body responds to my proximity despite the defiance still burning in his eyes.
"Everything. All of it. The violence and the protection and the twisted psychological warfare that makes us both feel real."
I reach out and brush my thumb across his bottom lip, feeling him go very still under my touch. But he doesn't pull away. Doesn't step back. Just watches me with those ice-blue eyes that are getting darker by the second.
"But mostly," I murmur, my voice dropping to something that's pure promise, "we need to stop pretending that either of us knows how to do this in ways that won't leave scars."
I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Can see the way his chest rises and falls with each careful breath. Can practically taste the tension building between us like electricity before a storm.
"So what now?" he asks, and there's something in his voice that tells me he already knows exactly what comes next.
My smile is absolutely predatory. "Now I show you what happens when you manipulate someone who's just as twisted as you are."
I lean closer, my lips almost brushing his ear. "Now I make sure you understand exactly who you belong to, and what it costs to keep secrets from me."
The sharp intake of breath he makes against my neck tells me everything I need to know. This conversation is over. What comes next isn't going to involve talking at all.