What the fuck am I doing here?
The first punch doesn't land on my face. It lands in my chest. In that hollow place my father carved out with his fists and his disappointment. And when it connects, I breathe. Finally. The silence breaks.
I stagger back. Spit copper. Grin like the maniac everyone thinks I am. My opponent's fists are clumsy. All wild swings. No aim. He's fighting to win. I'm fighting to bleed. Two very different things.
Noise. The crowd chanting. Screaming. Stomping on concrete. The thud of flesh on flesh. The grunt in my ears when I drive my knee into his ribs. The way his breath wheezes out like a dying accordion. Noise. It fills me. Drowns the silence. Smothers the shadows my father stitched into my bones with his belt and his fists. That bastard taught me young that pain had a language. And I learned to speak it better than Italian. Better than English. Better than anything.
I hook my fist into his jaw and the crunch is beautiful. A spark of red sprays from his mouth, glittering in the shitty light. Beautiful. I don't care that my knuckles split open. I don't care that tomorrow I'll barely be able to move my fingers. Right now? Right now it's church.
And then I see him.
Not in the ring. Not bleeding. Not screaming for me like the rest of the crowd. No. He's standing near the back. Arms crossed. Frown carved deep into his too-pretty face. Platinum-blond hair, ice-blue eyes, jaw tight. Like he'd rather be anywhere but here. And for one fucked-up second, the world goes quiet.
My opponent slams a fist into my ribs. I don't block it. The pain registers too slow, like I'm underwater. All I can see is him. Who the fuck brought him here? He doesn't belong. He doesn't look hungry for blood like the others. Doesn't look impressed. Doesn't even look scared. He looks annoyed. And that scowl? That scowl is louder than the crowd. Louder than my father's voice in my head. Louder than every crack of bone in this basement.
My pulse spikes. But it's not from the fight anymore. It's from him.
The bell clangs and I don't hear it. My fists move out of habit. Every strike mechanical. Every dodge sloppy. My head isn't here anymore. It's locked on that stranger with ice-blue eyes and the look of a boy who should've been anywhere but here. Golden boy. That's what he looks like. A saint in a pit of sinners. His shoulders are too clean. Too straight. Too perfect for this filth. He doesn't belong. But fuck if that doesn't make me want to drag him straight into the dirt with me.
My opponent stumbles. Spits blood. Tries to come back swinging. I crush him with one hit. Then another. Then another. The crowd roars, rabid for violence, and I give it to them. But none of it touches me the way his frown does. When the referee yells it's over, I'm still hitting. Still hearing my father's voice. Still drowning in silence that only breaks when I spill someone else's blood. My fists don't stop until hands are on me—Matteo's, my cousin's—dragging me off before I kill the bastard.
"Enough, Enzo!" Matteo snarls in my ear.
I jerk free. Chest heaving. Body shaking. But my eyes—my eyes are already searching the crowd. He's still there. Still watching. But instead of disgust or fear, there's something else flickering across his face. Something sharp. Something like recognition. My lip curls. He knows. He fucking knows. And I don't even know his name.
The locker room stinks of sweat and iron. My hands sting as Matteo tapes my split knuckles. "You're losing it," he mutters. "You've got to keep control, Enzo. You can't just—"
"Who was he?" I cut in.
Matteo frowns. His eyes narrow. The look a mix of a brother's concern and a rival's suspicion. "Who?"
"The kid. Back row. Ice-blue eyes. Russian."
"You noticed someone in the middle of that?" His tone is half shock, half disgust. He tugs the tape too tight and I don't even flinch. "He's an Aslanov. Noah Aslanov. Son of Sergei."
The name is a curse. A threat. The rest of the night is a haze of booze and adrenaline. I go back to my dorm but the quiet is back. Heavier than ever before. It's the kind of silence that makes you hear the voices in your head. My father's voice, cold and dismissive, telling me I'm not ruthless enough. Telling me I'm a disgrace to the Moretti name. He wants a monster and I give him a monster. But when I looked at that boy, I felt a flicker of something else. Something dangerous. Something that felt like ruin.
I rip the tape off my knuckles. The pain is a sharp, welcome burn. I pace the room, the scent of old wood and my own blood filling my nostrils. My mind keeps replaying the sight of him in that crowd. The way his shoulders were too straight. The way he didn't flinch. He's a puzzle I need to solve. A target I need to claim. I grab a pack of gum from the drawer. Chew it until my jaw aches. The sweet, bitter taste a poor substitute for the copper on my tongue and the ache in my chest. Nothing works. Nothing can drown out the memory.
Every time I tried to be the son my father wanted, I fell short. Every time I tried to be the Moretti heir, he found a reason to tear me down. He wants me to crave power. To crave blood. But now, all I can think about is a boy with ice-blue eyes and a scowl that could shatter the noise in my world.
The sun rises on St. Dismas City but it doesn't touch the shadows I'm still living in. My knuckles are a raw, throbbing mess, but the pain is a dull roar compared to the ache in my chest. All I can think about is his face. The annoyance. The recognition. The ice-blue eyes. I keep replaying the moment the world fell into his silence. Because I am used to noise. It's always so fucking loud.
I don't do on time. Never have. Never will. My father calls it a character flaw. Says I have no respect for authority. The old man doesn't get it. I don't need to respect authority. I am authority. My name, Moretti, is the only respect I'll ever need. My sister, Valentina, is already waiting for me outside our dorm. She's a supernova of wild red hair and fierce defiance. A walking, breathing contradiction. She grins when she sees me. Her eyes scan my face for new bruises. She finds the one on my jaw and her smirk widens.
"Sleep well, brother dearest?" she asks.
I shrug. "The silence was too loud. Had to break something."
She links her arm through mine, her smile still in place. "Well, you missed a golden opportunity this morning. The new kid is in there." She winks. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Quiet one. Cute."
My blood runs cold. The new kid.
"What's his name?" The words are a command. A demand. Rough and low in my throat.
Valentina raises a mischievous eyebrow. Her voice full of teasing. "I don't know. I just saw him on the roster. Russian. Looks like he's got a stick up his ass, but in a pretty way."
I don't respond. I already know. I can feel him. I can feel the tension in the air. The way the world seems to tilt on its axis. He's not just in the room. He's a gravitational pull.
I walk in fifteen minutes late. Half-empty coffee cup in my hand. Valentina laughs beside me. "Way to make a statement, big brother."
"It's not a statement, Val. It's a fact."
My gaze sweeps over the lecture hall. Filled with the usual crop of future bankers, lawyers, and family heirs. Same faces. Same empty ambition. I was already bored before I sat down. Then I saw him. He was sitting in the third row. Rigid and still. A statue of a man carved from ice. Platinum-blond hair so light it almost looked silver. He was lean, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. A coil of tightly wound wire just waiting to snap.
He wasn't looking at me. He wasn't looking at the professor. He was just there. A self-contained universe of silence in a room full of noise. He was a puzzle I needed to solve. A target I needed to claim. My fingers ached. I wanted to touch him. See if he was as cold as he looked. I wanted to hear him breathe. See if he could be undone.
He shifted, as if he knew I was there. He still didn't turn around. He held his gaze forward. A wall of silence. But I'm a breaker of walls. A conqueror of silence. I moved to an empty seat just behind him. Close enough to smell the faint, clean scent of him. Close enough to feel the cold radiating off him like a force field. Close enough that the hair on my arms stood on end.
The professor was talking about criminal psychology. A lecture I would've tuned out a minute ago. But every word now felt like a secret I was learning about him. The psychology of a man who makes himself small to become a ghost. A man who hides behind a mask of nothing. And I decided then and there. I'll break him. Silence or not. I will ruin him. And he will thank me for it.
The professor drones on about behavioral patterns in criminals. Something about nature versus nurture. Environmental factors. Childhood trauma. I zone out. My focus entirely on the back of Noah's neck. The way his platinum hair curls slightly at the nape. The rigid line of his shoulders. He hasn't moved once since I sat down. Not a twitch. Not a shift. Like he's made of marble. Or ice. I lean forward. Just enough that my breath would touch his skin if he turned around. He doesn't. But his shoulders tense. Almost imperceptibly. So he knows I'm here.
"Mr. Moretti."
I jerk back. The professor is staring at me with disapproval etched into every line of her face. Professor Crane. Sharp as a blade and twice as cutting.
"Perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts on the correlation between childhood abuse and violent tendencies in adulthood?"
The lecture hall goes quiet. Everyone turns to look at me. Including him. Finally. Noah Aslanov turns in his seat. Those ice-blue eyes lock onto mine and the world tilts. Up close, he's even more devastating. Sharp cheekbones. Pale skin that looks like it's never seen sunlight. And those eyes... fuck, those eyes are like looking into a frozen lake. Beautiful and dangerous and deep enough to drown in.
He's studying me. Like I'm a specimen under a microscope. Like he's trying to figure out what makes me tick. Good luck with that, pretty boy.
"Childhood abuse," I say, never breaking eye contact with Noah, "creates monsters."
Professor Crane raises an eyebrow. "Care to elaborate?"
I lean back in my chair. Casual. Like I'm not having a staring contest with the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. "Pain teaches lessons," I continue. "If you're taught that violence is love, that's what you become. Violent. If you're taught that you're worthless, you either believe it or you prove them wrong by becoming something they can't ignore."
"And which are you, Mr. Moretti?"
The question hangs in the air. Noah's eyes haven't moved from mine. There's something there now. Something that wasn't there before. Curiosity? Recognition? Understanding?
"Both," I answer honestly. "I'm the monster they created and the king they'll never be able to control."
A few students shift uncomfortably. Valentina snorts with laughter from somewhere behind me. But Noah... Noah's lips curve. Just slightly. So subtle I almost miss it. Almost. It's not a smile. It's something else. Something darker. Something that makes my pulse spike.
"Interesting perspective," Professor Crane says dryly. "Perhaps next time you could pay attention from the beginning of the lecture instead of staring at your classmates."
Heat creeps up my neck. I've been caught. But I don't care. Noah turns back around, dismissing me like I'm nothing. Like I haven't just laid my soul bare in front of fifty people. Like he doesn't care. But his shoulders are still tense. And when he reaches for his pen, his hand trembles. Just once. Just enough.
Class ends and Noah is the first one out the door. He moves like smoke. There one second, gone the next. I'm about to follow when Valentina appears at my side.
"Well, that was subtle," she says, grinning. "Want to fuck him any harder in public?"
"Shut up, Val."
"Oh, come on. Everyone could see you eye-fucking the poor boy. He looked like he was about to combust."
Did he? I replay the moment in my head. The way he turned around. The way his eyes met mine. The almost-smile. The trembling hand.
"What do you know about him?" I ask.
Valentina shrugs. "Not much. He transferred here mid-semester. Keeps to himself. Brilliant, according to the professors. And gorgeous, according to literally everyone with eyes."
"Family?"
"Aslanov. Russian mafia royalty. His father controls half the arms trade on the East Coast." She pauses. "Why? Planning to start a war over a pretty boy?"
Maybe.
"Just curious."
"Right." She doesn't believe me. Smart girl. "Well, be careful, Enzo. The Russian families don't play nice with Italians. And something tells me Noah Aslanov isn't the type to be conquered easily."
She's wrong. Everyone can be conquered. Everyone has a breaking point. I just need to find his.
I spend the rest of the day hunting for information. Noah Aslanov, twenty-one, criminology major with a focus on behavioral psychology. Top of his class at his previous university before transferring to St. Dismas. His cousin Luka is here too, another Aslanov. Sister Aria in the freshman class. The family has roots here, but Noah keeps to himself. No social media presence. No parties. Stays close to family but doesn't let anyone else in. A ghost with bodyguards. But ghosts leave traces. And I'm very good at following traces.
I find him in the library that evening. Tucked away in a corner, surrounded by towers of books. He's reading something about trauma responses in abuse victims. How fitting. I don't approach immediately. Instead, I watch. Study his habits. The way he takes notes with precise, careful handwriting. The way he occasionally pauses to stare at nothing, like he's seeing something the rest of us can't. The way he's completely, utterly alone.
When he finally gets up to leave, I follow. Not stalking. Just observing. He walks with purpose. Head down, shoulders hunched, like he's trying to make himself invisible. It's working for everyone else. But not for me. I see him. All of him. The careful control. The rigid posture. The way he checks over his shoulder every few steps, like he's expecting someone to follow. Smart boy.
He leads me across campus to the newer dormitories. The expensive ones where the international students live. Where the families with real money send their children. He disappears into a building, and I memorize the number. Tomorrow, I'll figure out which room is his. Tonight, I have other plans.
The Pit is busier than usual. Word must have gotten out about my fight last night. About how I nearly killed someone with my bare hands. Good. Let them come. Let them watch. Let them see what happens when someone tries to take what's mine. I'm in the middle of wrapping my hands when Matteo appears.
"Two fights in two days?" he asks. "That's excessive, even for you."
"I need the noise."
"What you need is therapy."
I laugh. Dark and bitter. "Therapy won't fix what's broken in me, cousin."
"Maybe not. But it might help you figure out why you're so obsessed with a boy you've known for exactly twelve hours."
I freeze. "How do you—"
"Valentina has a big mouth. And the entire criminology class saw you undressing him with your eyes." Matteo sits down beside me. "What's the plan here, Enzo? Seduce him? Corrupt him? Break him?"
"All of the above."
"And if he breaks you instead?"
The question hits harder than I expect. I think about those ice-blue eyes. The almost-smile. The trembling hand.
"He won't."
"You sound pretty confident for someone you haven't even met yet."
I am confident. I have to be. Because the alternative—that Noah Aslanov could destroy me without even trying—is not something I'm willing to consider.
"I know what I want, Matteo. And I always get what I want."
"Even if it starts a war?"
"Especially then."
He shakes his head. "You're playing with fire, cousin."
I stand up. Crack my knuckles. Feel the familiar ache of bones that have been broken too many times to count.
"Fire is all I know how to play with."
My opponent tonight is bigger than yesterday's. Meaner. He's got scars crisscrossing his knuckles and a look in his eyes that says he's here to do damage. Perfect. The crowd roars as we circle each other. I scan the faces, looking for platinum-blond hair and ice-blue eyes. Nothing. He's not here. Disappointment cuts through me like a blade. I wanted him to watch. Wanted him to see what I'm capable of. Wanted to watch his face as I painted the ring with someone else's blood. But he's not here. So I'll have to settle for imagining his reaction.
My opponent throws the first punch. I let it connect. Feel the explosion of pain across my jaw. Taste copper and rage and something that might be desperation. I hit back harder. Again. And again. Until he's on the ground and I'm standing over him, breathing hard, knuckles split and bleeding. The crowd is screaming. Cheering. Calling my name like I'm some kind of god. But all I can think about is a boy who wasn't here to see it. A boy with ice-blue eyes and secrets written in the lines of his shoulders. A boy I'm going to ruin. Starting tomorrow.