I wake to empty sheets still warm where Noah should be, and panic slams into me before rational thought catches up.
My hand shoots across the bed, fingers searching for proof he didn't disappear in the night. That last night wasn't some fucked up dream where he broke apart in my arms and I didn't lose everything that matters.
The pillow beside me carries the scent of him—expensive soap and something darker, something that's purely Noah. I bury my face in it for a moment, breathing him in, trying to ground myself against the weight of what's coming.
Twenty-four hours, my father said yesterday.
The deadline is coming. Soon. And when it does, he's going to learn that loving Noah doesn't make me weak—it makes me willing to burn down anyone who tries to take him from me.
The apartment is too quiet. Too still. The kind of silence that makes you notice your own heartbeat, your own breathing, the way time moves differently when you're counting down to something that could destroy everything.
Then I hear it—the soft clink of ceramic against granite. Water running. The coffee maker starting its familiar rhythm.
I slide out of bed and move through the apartment like I'm navigating a minefield, every step bringing me closer to the kitchen where Noah is trying to hold himself together by performing small, controlled tasks.
He's standing at the counter in nothing but boxer briefs and one of my shirts—the black Henley he stole and claimed as his own. It hangs loose on his smaller frame, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and something about seeing him in my clothes makes my chest tight with possession.
Mine. He's mine. And no ultimatum from my father is going to change that.
The morning light catches the platinum of his hair, turning it almost silver, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. The way his hands move with careful precision through the ritual of making coffee—measuring grounds, checking water temperature, arranging mugs with the kind of focus that tells me his mind is anywhere but here.
He's processing. Planning. Preparing for war.
I watch him from the doorway, memorizing this—the domesticity of it, the casual intimacy of watching him move through our space like he belongs here. Because he does belong here. This apartment, this life, this future we're building together.
My father thinks he can take this away from me.
He's about to learn exactly how wrong he is.
Noah doesn't turn around when I approach, but I can see the way his spine straightens slightly. The subtle shift in his posture that tells me he knows I'm there, that he's tracking my movement through the room even with his back to me.
Always aware. Always calculating. Always ready.
It's one of the things that makes me want him so fucking much—the way his mind never stops working, never stops analyzing threats and planning responses. The way he's been conditioned to survive in a world that would destroy softer men.
But right now, I need him to stop surviving and just... be.
When I reach him, I don't hesitate. I wrap my arms around his waist from behind and pull him back against my chest, burying my face in the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. The contact grounds me immediately—the solid weight of him, the warmth of his skin through cotton, the way his breathing changes when I touch him.
"Couldn't sleep?" I murmur against his skin, letting my hands spread across his chest through the fabric of my shirt.
He melts back against me with a soft sound that's part relief, part exhaustion. "Woke up at four. I just couldn't shut my brain off."
"So you made coffee."
"So I made coffee." His hands come up to cover mine where they rest against his chest, fingers threading through mine. "Figured if I was going to spiral, I might as well be caffeinated while doing it."
The attempt at humor doesn't quite land. I can hear the strain underneath it, the weight he's carrying that he's trying to make lighter with words.
I turn him in my arms, and the movement is deliberate. His arms come up around my neck automatically, but before he can say anything, before either of us can start overthinking this, I take his mouth in a rough kiss.
Not gentle. Not soft. Not the careful intimacy from last night.
This is pure claiming. Pure possession. The kind of kiss that leaves bruises and steals breath and proves exactly who he belongs to.
When I finally let him go, we're both breathing hard, and his ice-blue eyes are dark with want.
"I love seeing you covered in my marks," I say, my voice coming out rougher than intended. My fingers trace the path of bruises along his throat, the bite mark on his shoulder that's visible above the collar of my shirt. "Everyone knows you're taken now. Even your fucking father."
His laugh is breathless, almost broken. "Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."
"Damn right you're not." I pull him closer, letting him feel exactly what the sight of him in my clothes does to me. "You're mine, Noah. And I don't share."
"Never asked you to." His hands fist in my hair, pulling me down for another kiss that's just as claiming, just as desperate. "You're mine too. Don't forget that."
"How could I? You've marked every inch of me."
"Not every inch," he says against my mouth. "But I'm working on it."
We stand there for a moment, wrapped around each other, both of us trying to memorize this before the world demands we face it.
"I need to go see my family," I say finally, though every instinct I have screams at me to stay here, to barricade us in this apartment and never let the outside world touch us again. "Make sure they're ready for whatever's coming."
Noah nods slowly, understanding flickering in his expression. "And I need to talk to Luka. Aria. They need to know this might get ugly."
"We're really doing this." He reaches out and takes my hand, threading our fingers together. "Whatever they throw at us, we're telling them this isn't negotiable. That they can support us or get out of our way, but they're not separating us."
The certainty in his voice makes something warm and fierce expand in my chest. Because this is why I fell for him—not just the beauty or the intelligence or the way he fights, but the absolute conviction he brings to the things that matter.
"I need you," I say, and the words come out broken. Desperate. Raw. "Right now. I need to feel you, need to know you're real, need to—"
He's on me before I can finish the sentence, mouth crashing against mine with the kind of desperation that tastes like goodbye. Like he's trying to memorize the shape of my lips, the way I gasp when his teeth scrape my bottom lip.
"Enzo," he breathes against my mouth, and my name sounds like a prayer. Like a plea. "Fuck, I need you too. Need to feel you around me, need to mark every inch of your skin until there's no question who you belong to."
We stumble toward the bedroom, hands tearing at clothes, mouths never breaking contact. There's nothing gentle about this. Nothing soft or romantic. This is pure desperation, pure need, the kind of claiming that leaves bruises and bite marks and proof that we were here, that we mattered, that what we have is worth destroying everything for.
When we finally break apart, both of us marked and claimed and thoroughly destroyed, the morning light has shifted. We lie there in the aftermath, holding each other like we're afraid the other might disappear if we let go.
"Go," Noah says finally, his voice rough. "Go be with your family. Gather your strength. And I'll do the same."
I nod, already heading for the shower. But Noah catches my wrist, pulling me back for one more kiss.
"We've got this," he says against my lips. "Whatever they throw at us, we've got this."
"Damn right we do."
Twenty minutes later, I'm pulling up to the family estate where most of my cousins are staying. The sight of Matteo's Audi and Valentina's motorcycle in the driveway tells me exactly who's home, and I can already hear voices coming from inside. Loud, animated voices that suggest someone's telling a very entertaining story.
I use my key to let myself in, following the sound of laughter toward the main living area. What I find is exactly what I expected—my cousins and sister sprawled across various pieces of furniture, laptops open, phones out, looking like they're conducting some kind of intelligence operation.
"Finally!" Valentina calls out when she sees me. "We've been waiting for you to show up."
"Had things to work through," I say, settling into an empty chair.
Matteo leans forward, his expression serious. "So what happened? Did you tell Noah?"
"Yeah. I told him."
"And?" Valentina presses. "How did he handle it?"
"Better than I did." I lean back, the memory still raw. "I was home, trying to keep my hands busy cooking. Then Noah walked in and I could see it on his face immediately—something else had happened."
"What do you mean something else?" Angelo asks.
"His father called him. After my father called Sergei." I let that sink in. "We both stood there and asked each other 'what happened' at the same time because we'd both had our worlds blown apart that day."
"Fuck," Matteo breathes. "So Noah's father is involved now too?"
"His father told him he was flying in. That they needed to 'discuss the situation' Noah had created." I pause. "And here's the thing—my father called Sergei Aslanov right after giving me the ultimatum. They coordinated. Both fathers are here on the island now."
"Jesus Christ," Bianca says. "They're already working together?"
"Looks like it. Noah got hit from both sides that day—Declan cornering him after class, then his father calling."
"Wait, Declan?" Valentina sits up straighter, and I catch something in her expression. "What did he do?"
"Cornered Noah. Made threats." My hands clench into fists. "Specifically mentioned you, Val. Said things about hide and seek games. About showing you how the world really works."
The room goes dead silent.
Valentina's face goes carefully blank, but I catch it—that flicker before she locks it down.
"Val." My voice drops. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing," she says too quickly. "I can handle Declan. I'll fix this."
"No the fuck you won't." My voice comes out deadly calm. "You stay the hell away from him. Do you hear me? I swear if I find out you've been anywhere near him, it's not only him that would have to deal with me but your ass too. You hear me, princess?"
Valentina's eyes flash with anger and relief in equal measure. "Enzo—"
"I said do you hear me?"
"Yes," she says finally, and I can see her relax slightly knowing she's not alone in this.
"Good. Now tell me what he did."
"It's nothing I can't—"
"Valentina."
She looks away, jaw clenched. "He's been texting. Showing up places. It's just intimidation tactics. I can deal with it."
"The fuck you will," I say, and my voice comes out flat. Cold. "I'm going to finish this with Declan. And that's the last thing I'm doing before I deal with anything else."
"Enzo—"
"No." I stand up. "He threatened Noah. He's stalking my sister. This ends."
"We're with you," Angelo says immediately.
"You'll get your chance at The Forge," Matteo adds. "Your ribs should be healed in a few weeks. Then you can join the rest of the fighters working their way up the brackets."
I nod. Waiting a few more weeks won't matter. Declan will still be there, and when my ribs are healed, I'll make sure he regrets every word he said about Noah and Valentina.
"But what about Noah?" Bianca asks, pulling the conversation back. "What's going to happen now with both fathers here?"
"I don't know," I admit. "But I told Noah there was no choice to make. That I'd already chosen him."
"And he said?"
"That he wasn't going anywhere. That whatever comes next, we face it together."
"Damn," Angelo says quietly.
"I knew what your father said must have fucked up your head," Matteo says, and there's concern in his voice. "I mean, I've never seen Uncle so pissed at you before. Yeah, you've done shit in the past but this... this was different."
"Because this time I'm not apologizing," I say. "This time I'm not backing down or trying to fix it or make myself smaller to keep the peace. I found something worth fighting for, and I'm done letting fear control my choices."
"Good," Valentina says fiercely. "Because that's the brother I want to see. Not the one performing for Dad's approval."
"We don't give a fuck who you fuck," Matteo adds bluntly. "You're happy with Noah. That's what matters."
"Speaking of which," Bianca says, "the video that broke the fucking internet? Over two million views. You and Noah are literally trending. #MafiaHeirs is still going strong."
"That's not good."
"Are you kidding?" Valentina laughs. "Half the comments are people thirsting over you two."
"Plus Noah is hot as fuck," Bianca adds matter-of-factly. "I mean, seriously. Those ice-blue eyes? He could destroy me and I'd thank him."
"Back off," I say automatically, and the possessive edge in my voice makes everyone laugh.
"See? This is what I'm talking about," Valentina says. "You're actually showing emotions now instead of being Mr. Robot all the time."
"But seriously," Matteo says, "you look happy in that video. Like, genuinely happy. When's the last time any of us saw you look like that?"
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard.
"Speaking of videos and viral fame," Angelo says, "is it true that Noah choked out Declan O'Reilly? Because that's what everyone's saying."
"It's true."
"Fuck yes," Valentina grins. "I knew I liked him."
"Well, Declan's not taking it well," Angelo continues. "Word is he signed up for The Forge. He'll be one of the fighters working through the brackets. Been running his mouth about showing everyone what happens when pretty boys try to play in the real world."
"Pretty boys?" I feel that familiar rage start to build. "He called Noah a pretty boy?"
"Among other things," Valentina says darkly. "Most of which I'm not repeating because you'll go find him right now and ruin the surprise."
"What surprise?"
"The surprise of watching you destroy him in front of half the student body," Matteo says with a grin.
"Good," I say, and something cold settles in my chest. "When my ribs heal and I can fight, he'll regret every fucking word."
"You really think the entire campus is going to show up to watch that?" Bianca asks.
"They showed up for the video," Matteo points out. "Two million views and counting. People are obsessed."
"It's like the entire university has turned into some kind of reality show," Valentina says. "Everyone's waiting for the next episode."
"It's not a show. This is my damn life we're talking about here. And all it's doing is making things more complicated."
"Everything's complicated when families are involved," Matteo says.
"Plus," Bianca adds, "I've been researching the Aslanov family operations. They're actually pretty impressive."
"You've been researching them?"
"Of course. Someone needs to understand what we're getting into." She pulls up a file. "Noah's family is based out of New York like us, but they control most of the eastern trade routes, have connections throughout Europe and Asia. They're strategic."
"And they were never rivals," I remind her. "Neutral. We had no issues with them before this."
"Exactly," Bianca nods. "Which actually makes this easier in some ways. No bad blood to overcome, just politics to navigate."
"Which explains a lot about Noah's approach to everything," Matteo adds.
"Speaking of Noah's approach," Valentina says with a wicked grin, "are you going to tell us what he's actually like? Because the mysterious Russian prince thing is very sexy, but we want details."
"I'm not giving you details."
"Come on," Bianca whines. "Just the basics. Is he as intense in private as he looks in public?"
"More."
"More how?"
"More everything. More intense, more intelligent, more dangerous, more..." I trail off.
"More what?" Valentina presses.
"More mine than I thought it was possible for another person to be."
The teasing atmosphere shifts into something more serious.
"Shit," Matteo says quietly. "You're really in it with him."
"Yeah. I really am."
"And he feels the same way?"
"Yeah. He does."
"Then fuck everyone else," Valentina says fiercely. "Whatever happens, whatever they throw at you—fuck all of it. You fight for what makes you happy."
"Even if it means going against Dad?"
"Especially then," Angelo says. "Family should want you happy, not miserable."
"Besides," Bianca adds with a grin, "from what we can tell, the people who matter are already on your side. By people, I mean us—since you can be a little slow sometimes."
"Plus," Valentina adds, "anyone who has a problem with you being happy can answer to us. And we're a lot more creative with revenge than most people expect."
The fierce protectiveness in her voice makes something warm uncurl in my chest. Because this is what family should be—not control or judgment or demands for conformity, but support and love and the willingness to fight beside you when the world turns hostile.
My phone buzzes against my thigh, and I pull it out expecting another text from Noah.
Instead, it's my father.
Tomorrow. Meridian Hotel, private dining room. 1 PM. You and Noah Aslanov. Be there.
The words sit on my screen like a death sentence, and everyone in the room goes quiet when they see my expression.
"What is it?" Matteo asks.
I show him the phone, watching his face shift from curiosity to grim understanding.
"Tomorrow," he says quietly. "Fuck."
"Meridian Hotel," Valentina reads over his shoulder. "Private dining room. And he's specifying Noah needs to be there too."
"That's not good," Bianca says, her analyst brain already working. "If he wanted to just discipline you, he'd call you alone. Bringing Noah means this is bigger."
My stomach drops because she's right. This isn't just about me anymore—they're dragging Noah into whatever punishment my father has planned.
I text back: I'll be there.
Then I send a message to Noah: Got a message from my father. Tomorrow 1 PM, Meridian Hotel. He wants both of us there. Did you hear from yours?
The response comes quickly: Just got the same message. Same time, same place. They're coordinating.
This is bad.
This was always going to be bad. Come home. We need to talk.
I look around the room at my family—the people who've chosen to stand with me through this chaos.
"Tomorrow, Noah and I walk into whatever ambush our fathers have planned," I say, and my voice sounds harder than intended. "I don't know what they want, but I know I'm not giving him up."
"Then don't," Valentina says fiercely. "Whatever they threaten, whatever they demand—you fight for what you want."
"We've got your back," Matteo adds. "You're not going into this alone, even if we can't be in that room with you."
Angelo steps forward. "You want us to do reconnaissance on the hotel? Figure out exits, security, backup plans?"
"This is my father you're talking about," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I feel that grip on my heart tighten. Because part of me wants to say yes. Part of me wants every possible escape route mapped out in case this goes sideways.
The offer makes something warm and fierce expand in my chest anyway. Because this is family—not the blood that demands obedience, but the chosen ones who offer to help you plan an escape route even when you're walking into a meeting with your own father.
"Not yet," I say. "Let me talk to Noah first, figure out what we're walking into. Then we'll plan."
I stand, pocketing my phone. "I need to go. Noah's waiting and we need to prepare for tomorrow."
"Go," Bianca says. "And Enzo? Whatever happens in that meeting, remember you don't owe them your happiness. You don't owe them Noah."
The words hit harder than they should, making my chest tight.
"I know," I say quietly. "That's why I'm not backing down."
As I head for the door, Valentina calls out: "Enzo?"
I turn back.
"Whatever they say tomorrow—you're still my brother. And I'm still in your corner."
"I know," I manage. "All of you."
Then I'm out the door, heading back to Noah and whatever preparation we can manage before walking into that hotel tomorrow.
Tomorrow, they're going to try to tear us apart.
Tomorrow, we're going to show them what happens when they threaten what's ours.