I make it through three classes before I see him.
Declan O'Reilly, leaning against the brick wall outside the criminology building like he belongs there. Like he's been waiting specifically for me. Which, knowing what I know about the kind of predator he is, he probably has been.
He looks exactly the same as he did weeks ago at The Anchor—massive shoulders, thick arms, the kind of build that comes from years of professional violence. Completely healed now, no trace of the damage I did when I put him to sleep in that parking lot. But there's something different in his eyes. A calculation that wasn't there before.
He's studying me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve.
I could take the long way around the building. Avoid whatever game he's here to play. But I've never been good at running from problems, and Declan O'Reilly is definitely a problem that needs addressing.
I walk straight toward him, my footsteps echoing off the concrete. The few students lingering in the area seem to sense the shift in atmospheric pressure and drift away, smart enough to recognize when they're about to witness something they don't want to be involved in.
"Noah fucking Aslanov," Declan says when I'm close enough to hear him without raising his voice. "Just the man I wanted to see."
"Declan." I stop just outside his reach, far enough to react if he tries something, close enough to see every micro-expression that crosses his face. "You're looking well for someone who woke up on concrete."
He grins, and there's genuine amusement in it. Not embarrassment or anger at being reminded of his defeat. Pure entertainment.
"That was educational. Really opened my eyes about what you're capable of."
"Glad I could help with your education."
"Oh, you did more than that. See, that little demonstration taught me something important about you, Noah. Something I should have recognized from the beginning."
He pushes off from the wall, not advancing but not retreating either. Just repositioning like a fighter finding his optimal stance for what's coming.
"You know what I've been thinking about since that night?" His voice is conversational, almost friendly. The tone you'd use to discuss the weather, not the prelude to psychological warfare. "How long you think you can keep standing between me and what I want."
"And what is it you want, exactly?"
"Recognition. Respect. My rightful place in the food chain that doesn't involve getting shown up by some pretty boy who thinks he can walk into our world and take whatever catches his fancy."
The words carry weight, but no anger. This isn't about wounded pride anymore. This is business. Cold, calculated business.
"This is about Enzo."
"This is about you thinking you can claim the crown prince of the Italian family without anyone questioning whether you've earned the right." His smile turns sharper, more predatory. "Yeah, you caught me off guard once. Exploited the element of surprise. But now I know what you bring to a fight. Now I know you're not just some soft college boy playing dress-up in daddy's world."
"Good. Then you know to be careful."
"Careful?" He laughs, and it's genuine amusement that makes my skin crawl. "Noah, careful is the last thing I'm planning to be. See, you gave me a gift that night. You showed me exactly what kind of threat you really are."
Something cold settles in my stomach because I can hear where this is heading, and I don't like the destination.
"And the thing about threats," Declan continues, his voice dropping to something more intimate, more dangerous, "is that they need to be neutralized before they become problems."
"You're talking about starting something you can't finish."
"Am I? Because from where I'm standing, you're the one who's going to have trouble finishing things." He takes a step closer, completely relaxed, completely confident. Like he's holding all the cards in a game I didn't even know we were playing. "You think you can protect everyone you care about? You can't be everywhere at once, Noah."
The casual tone makes the words more menacing than if he'd shouted them. There's something terrifying about threats delivered like observations about the weather.
"You seem awfully confident for someone who's already lost one fight."
"Lost?" His grin widens. "Noah, that wasn't losing. That was reconnaissance. I learned more about you in those thirty seconds than I would have in months of observation. Your reflexes, your training, your willingness to go for the kill shot when pressed."
He's right, and we both know it. I showed him too much that night. Revealed capabilities I should have kept hidden.
"But the most interesting thing wasn't what you did," he continues. "It was why you did it. The way you reacted when you saw your boyfriend getting hurt, losing ground. The protective instincts that made you jump into a fight that wasn't yours."
Ice floods my veins. Because if he's been analyzing that fight, if he's figured out my triggers, then this conversation is about more than just establishing dominance.
"Speaking of sweet little Valentina," Declan says, and the way he says her name makes every violent instinct I have scream for blood. "She's been so polite every time I see her around campus. Always says hello, always smiles. Such a well-brought-up girl."
"Stay away from her."
"Why would I do that? She's delightful company. Very trusting. Very... innocent." He draws the word out like he's savoring it. "Makes a man wonder what it would be like to corrupt something so pure."
My hands clench into fists without my permission. "Be very careful what you say next."
"Or what? You'll put me in another chokehold?" He chuckles, completely unintimidated. "Here's the thing, Noah. That little princess called the O'Reillys for help that night. Called us because she trusted us to protect her family. And now look where we are."
The reminder hits like a physical blow. Because he's right—Valentina reached out to the O'Reillys for help, and now that same family is using her trust against her.
"All she did was ask for help, Declan. The person she trusted to protect her is now the one trying to terrorize her. Tell me, is that what you call honorable behavior? Or do you actually want Valentina for yourself?"
His smile turns predatory. "Maybe I do. She's got that innocence thing going for her. That wide-eyed trust that makes you want to show her exactly what the world is really like."
"You're walking a dangerous line."
"Am I? Because it seems to me like you're the one walking dangerous lines. Making enemies you can't afford, disrupting alliances that have kept this island stable, putting people you care about in harm's way." He leans against the wall, completely at ease. "Tell me, Noah—have you thought about what happens to pretty little Valentina if something unfortunate were to happen to you?"
The question hangs in the air like poison gas, and I have to work to keep my breathing steady.
"Nothing's going to happen to me."
"Isn't it? Because accidents happen all the time in our world. People get careless. Make mistakes. Trust the wrong people." His eyes never leave mine. "And when they do, the people they care about tend to pay the price."
"If you're threatening her—"
"I'm not threatening anyone. I'm just making observations. About how vulnerable certain people become when their protectors aren't around." He pushes off from the wall, taking a step closer. "Maybe me and her can play hide and seek sometime. What do you think, Noah? You think I could find her when I really put my mind to it?"
The casual way he delivers the threat makes it infinitely more terrifying. Like he's discussing weekend plans instead of stalking a nineteen-year-old girl.
"You really want to go down that road?" My voice comes out quieter than intended, but there's something in it that makes Declan's eyes sharpen with interest. "Because if you do, her brother would end you for even looking at her wrong. And me? I'd be there to watch it happen."
"There it is." His expression is pure satisfaction, like I just confirmed something he'd been wondering about. "There's the real Noah Aslanov. Not the quiet criminology student. Not the pretty boy who stumbled into a relationship with Italian royalty. The killer who'd watch a man die for touching something that belongs to him."
He's not intimidated. Not afraid. He's collecting data, filing away my reactions for future use.
"You think you're so fucking smart," I say.
"Smart enough to know that you just showed me exactly how to get under your skin. Smart enough to know that threatening the people you care about is the fastest way to make you lose control." His smile widens. "And smart enough to know that a man who loses control makes mistakes."
"You're playing a game you don't understand with people you can't handle."
"I understand perfectly. This is about power and position and proving who belongs at the top of the food chain." He takes another step closer, and I can smell the confidence radiating off him like cologne. "You think claiming Enzo Moretti makes you untouchable? You think having a Russian last name gives you some kind of immunity?"
"I think you're about to find out what happens when you threaten the wrong people."
"Threaten? Noah, I haven't threatened anyone. I've just been making conversation about mutual acquaintances." His voice drips false innocence. "But since you brought up threats, let me ask you something. How well do you really know Enzo's schedule? His routines? The places he goes when you're not with him?"
My blood runs cold because I can hear the implications underneath the casual questions.
"Because I've been watching. Learning. Cataloging all the little details that make someone... predictable." Declan's smile turns razor-sharp. "Amazing how much you can learn about someone when you really pay attention."
"If you touch him—"
"Touch him? Why would I need to touch him when there are so many other ways to make a point?" He chuckles. "You know what I think would be really educational? Seeing how the great Enzo Moretti reacts when someone he cares about disappears for a few hours. Or days. Or however long it takes to teach certain lessons about knowing your place."
The casual way he discusses kidnapping makes my vision blur with rage.
"You're talking about starting a war."
"Am I? Or am I talking about settling a score with someone who thinks he can humiliate me without consequences?" Declan shrugs, completely relaxed. "See, the beautiful thing about Valentina is that she's so trusting. So willing to help when someone claims they need assistance. So easy to separate from her friends and security."
"You sick fuck—"
"Language, Noah. We're just having a conversation between gentlemen." His grin is pure malice. "Though I have to admit, I'm curious about something. Do you think she'd fight? When she realizes what's happening? Or would she be too shocked to resist?"
Something snaps inside me. Not the explosive rage I felt earlier, but something colder. More dangerous. The part of me that knows exactly how to make people disappear without leaving traces.
"You want to know what I think, Declan?" My voice comes out deadly quiet, and something in it makes his expression shift slightly. "I think you're making a very fundamental mistake."
"Which is?"
"You're assuming that I play by the same rules you do. That I have the same limitations, the same hesitations about crossing certain lines." I take a step closer, close enough to see my reflection in his eyes. "But see, here's what you don't understand about me. I'm not just some college boy who got lucky with a chokehold. I'm the son of a man who's built an empire on the bodies of people who made assumptions like yours."
For the first time since this conversation started, I see something flicker in Declan's expression. Not fear—he's too professional for that—but reassessment.
"And right now, you're talking about playing games with people I love. Which means you're not just threatening them. You're threatening me. My happiness. My future. Everything I've decided is worth fighting for."
I lean in closer, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
"So let me explain something to you, since you seem to need things spelled out. Valentina Moretti is under my protection. Which means that if you so much as look at her wrong, if you even think about her in ways that would make her uncomfortable, I'm going to introduce you to the difference between the kind of violence you're used to and the kind that solves problems permanently."
"Are you threatening me, Noah?"
"I'm explaining reality to you. There's a difference." I smile, and it's the kind of expression that makes smart people reconsider their life choices. "You want to know what I'm capable of? You want to see what happens when someone threatens people I care about?"
I reach out and put my hand on his shoulder, fingers finding the exact pressure points that could drop him where he stands. He doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. Just stands there with that calculating expression, like he's memorizing every detail.
"That night at The Anchor, when I put you to sleep? That was me being gentle. That was me showing restraint because we were in public, with witnesses, with cameras." My fingers tighten slightly, just enough to make my point. "But if you come after Valentina, if you even make her feel unsafe, there won't be any witnesses. There won't be any cameras. There will just be you and me and a very permanent solution to the problem you've decided to become."
"And Enzo?"
"What about him?"
"You think he'd be okay with his boyfriend becoming a killer for his sister?"
The question hits like a physical blow because it touches on something I've been trying not to think about. The difference between the violence Enzo knows I'm capable of and the violence I'm actually willing to commit.
"Enzo knows what I am," I say finally. "He knew it before he chose me. And he knows that some things are worth any price."
"Even your soul?"
"I lost that a long time ago. The question is whether you're ready to lose yours."
Declan studies my face for a long moment, and I can practically see him running calculations in his head. Weighing risks and benefits, costs and potential gains.
"This has been very enlightening," he says finally, stepping back but not retreating. "I think I understand the situation much better now."
"Good. Then we understand each other."
"Oh, we do. Completely." His smile returns, but it's different now. More professional. More dangerous. "You've made your position very clear, Noah. And I've made mine."
He turns to walk away, and I call after him.
"One more thing, Declan." He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. "The Forge fights are continuing. I hope you're planning to participate. If you make it through the brackets, maybe you'll get another chance to test what you think you learned about me."
His smile turns predatory. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Noah. Should be very educational for both of us."
Then he's walking away, and I realize I've just made this situation infinitely more complicated. Because Declan didn't come here to intimidate me or settle old scores. He came to gather intelligence about my weaknesses, my triggers, my breaking points.
And I gave him exactly what he was looking for.
I stand there for several minutes after he disappears, processing what just happened. Not just the conversation itself, but the implications of everything he said. The casual way he discussed surveillance and kidnapping. The detailed knowledge of Valentina's routines. The complete lack of fear when I threatened him.
This isn't some hothead looking for revenge. This is a professional enforcer who's decided I'm a problem that needs solving, and he's already started planning how to do it.
My phone starts ringing before I even reach the parking garage. The number that appears on the screen makes my stomach drop straight through the floor.
Sergei Aslanov. My father.
"Hello?" I answer, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears.
"Why is Alessandro Moretti calling me about a relationship you're in with his son?"
The words hit like ice water, stealing the breath from my lungs. My father's voice carries that particular tone of controlled fury that I learned to fear as a child. The kind that comes right before the world ends.
"I..." My throat closes around the words, cutting off oxygen. Because I knew this moment would come. Knew I'd have to explain why I kept this from him. But I thought I'd have more time. Thought I could control how and when this conversation happened.
"You what, Noah? You forgot to mention that you're publicly involved with the heir to the Moretti family? You forgot to tell me that my son is trending on social media with hashtags about mafia heirs kissing on college campuses?"
Each word is delivered with surgical precision, designed to cut. And they work. Because he's right—I did forget. Or rather, I chose to forget. Chose to pretend that I could keep this separate from family business indefinitely.
"How long?" His voice drops to something quieter, more dangerous. "How long has this been going on without my knowledge?"
"Since..." I start, then stop. Because the truth is complicated, and there's no version of it that doesn't make me look like I deliberately deceived him. "Three weeks. Maybe a little more."
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear my own heartbeat. When he speaks again, his voice is deadly quiet.
"Weeks. You've been involved with Alessandro Moretti's son for weeks, and it never occurred to you to mention it to me. Never occurred to you that your father might need to know that his heir was making choices that could affect family business."
"It wasn't about business—"
"Everything is about business, Noah. Every choice you make, every relationship you form, every public appearance you have reflects on this family. And you're telling me you didn't think a relationship with Italian royalty was worth discussing?"
The accusation hangs between us like smoke. Because he's right. I knew what this meant. Knew what it could mean for our family, for our alliances, for everything we've built. And I chose to ignore it because I was too fucking selfish to care about anything but what I wanted.
"Are you in love with him?"
The question catches me off guard. Not because it's unexpected, but because it's delivered without any of the anger that's been coloring his voice. Like he's asking about the weather.
"Yes."
"And does he love you?"
"Yes."
"Then explain to me how you thought this was something you could handle without involving your family."
I close my eyes, leaning against my car in the parking garage. Because the truth is that I didn't think at all. I just... wanted. And for the first time in my life, I chose wanting over strategy.
"I wanted to keep it separate," I say finally. "Wanted to see if it could be something real before it became about politics and alliances and family expectations."
"And now?"
"Now it's real. Real enough that I'd rather deal with the complications than give it up."
Another silence. Longer this time. When he speaks again, there's something different in his voice. Not softer, exactly, but more... thoughtful.
"I'm flying there tonight. We need to talk face to face about this situation you've created."
My blood turns to ice. "You're coming here?"
"I'm already packed. My flight leaves in two hours. We're meeting tomorrow - I'll call you with the time and place once I'm settled."
The casual way he delivers that last word makes my vision blur. Because when my father talks about eliminating threats, people disappear.
"You can't—"
"I can't what? I can't protect my family from the chaos you've created? I can't try to salvage relationships you've potentially destroyed without consulting me?"
"This isn't chaos. This is just... complicated."
"Complicated." He repeats the word like it tastes bitter. "Noah, I've had three business partners call me today asking what your relationship with the Morettis means for their deals with us. I've had enemies wondering if this represents a shift in our alliances. I've had to pretend I know what's going on in my own son's life while scrambling to understand the implications."
Each word hits like a physical blow. Because I can hear what he's not saying—that I've embarrassed him. Made him look weak. Put him in an impossible position where he has to make decisions about things he should have known about weeks ago.
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't fix this. Sorry doesn't undo weeks of keeping me in the dark about something that could change the entire balance of power on this island."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to think about what you've done. What you've risked. And what it's going to cost if this situation can't be resolved." His voice grows quieter, more dangerous. "Your choices have consequences, Noah. For you, for this family, for everyone connected to us."
"And then what?"
"Then we'll see what can be salvaged from the mess you've created."
The line goes dead, leaving me standing in the parking garage with the echo of his threat ringing in my ears.
I slide down the side of my car until I'm sitting on the concrete, processing what just happened. Not just the conversation itself, but the magnitude of what I've done. What I've risked. What I might lose.
The weight of it crashes over me—Declan's threats, my father's fury, the impossible position I've put everyone in by choosing love over strategy.
My hands are shaking when I pull out my phone, fingers barely steady enough to type.
I'm done here. On my way home now. See you soon.
The drive to our apartment feels like driving toward my own execution. Every mile brings me closer to having to tell Enzo that our love just declared war on everyone who matters. That choosing each other might have just signed both our death warrants.
The apartment door feels heavier than usual when I push it open. Like it's weighted with the knowledge of everything that's about to change. I can smell something cooking—garlic and tomatoes, the kind of domestic comfort that feels surreal against the chaos churning in my head.
Enzo appears in the kitchen doorway, and whatever greeting he was planning dies on his lips when he sees my face. His golden eyes go sharp, cataloging every detail of my expression with the precision of someone who's learned to read danger in micro-expressions.
"What happened?" we both ask at exactly the same time.
The simultaneous question hangs in the air between us, and I see my own dread reflected in his face. Because we both look like we've been through hell. We both look like we're carrying news that could destroy everything we've built.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. I just stand there staring at him, at this man I've learned to love in a world that punishes it, knowing that whatever comes next is going to test every promise we've made.
"Who's first—you or me?" I ask quietly, and my voice sounds like I've been through hell. Which I have. I can see the same exhaustion reflected in his golden eyes, the same strain that's probably written all over my face.