The bartender's voice cuts through the chaos like a knife through flesh, sharp and desperate as furniture crashes around us and blood splatters across the floor.
"That's it! Everyone out! Take it outside or I'm calling the cops!"
But his words barely register over the sound of fists meeting flesh, over Luka's snarled curses as he tries to choke the life out of Marco Romano, over the crash of another chair being hurled against the wall. The careful civility that separates us from animals has been stripped away completely, leaving only the raw truth of what we really are.
What we are is violent. What we are is dangerous. What we are is exactly the kind of monsters our fathers raised us to be.
The crowd around us surges toward the exits, normal people fleeing from the kind of violence they've only seen in movies. They stumble over each other in their haste to escape, phones out to record what they think is just a college bar fight. They have no idea they're witnessing the beginning of a war.
I watch it all from my position against the wall, frozen not by fear but by fascination. By the way Enzo moves through the chaos like he was born for it, every punch calculated, every dodge precise. By the way my own family responds to the threat, protective instincts overriding everything else. By the way violence transforms all of us into something more honest than we've ever been.
This is who we really are when everything else is stripped away. This is what happens when want becomes more important than consequences.
Mikhail appears at my side, blood streaming from a cut above his eye where someone's ring caught him. "We need to move," he says, grabbing my arm. "Before this gets worse."
But I don't want to move. Don't want to leave. Don't want to miss a single second of watching Enzo in his element, beautiful and deadly and completely unleashed.
"Noah." Mikhail's voice is sharp now, commanding. "Move. Now."
The authority in his tone cuts through my fascination, training kicking in despite everything else. I let him guide me toward the exit, but my eyes never leave Enzo. Even as chaos swirls around us, even as his family and mine tear each other apart, his gaze finds mine across the mayhem.
He's bleeding from his split lip, hair mussed from the fight, shirt torn at the shoulder. He looks like violence incarnate. He looks like everything I've ever wanted but been too afraid to claim.
And when our eyes meet, he smiles. Not the charming smile he wears in public, but something darker. Something that promises this is far from over. Something that says he's gotten exactly what he wanted from tonight.
The cold air outside hits like a slap, sharp and clean after the stifling heat of the bar. But it doesn't cool the fire burning in my veins. Doesn't quiet the voice in my head that keeps whispering how beautiful Enzo looked covered in blood and fury.
"What the fuck was that?" Luka snarls, spitting blood onto the asphalt. His knuckles are split and swelling, but his eyes are bright with the kind of adrenaline that comes from violence. "What the hell is going on between you and that psycho?"
"Nothing," I lie, but the word tastes like ash. Because it's not nothing. It's everything. It's the thing that's been consuming me from the inside out for weeks, the want that's stronger than family loyalty or self-preservation or any of the things that used to matter.
"Bullshit." Mikhail wipes blood from his face with the back of his hand. "I've seen the way he looks at you. The way you look at him. This isn't about territory or business. This is personal."
Personal. That's one way to put it. Another way would be to say it's obsession. Madness. The kind of need that makes you willing to burn down everything you've built for five minutes alone with someone who might destroy you.
"We should go," I say instead of answering. "Before they come out."
But even as I say it, I know it's too late. The bar's front door slams open and the Morettis spill out like a plague, bloody and furious and looking for more violence. Enzo leads them, and even from twenty feet away I can see the hunger in his eyes. The satisfaction.
He wanted this confrontation. Planned it. Orchestrated it. And like an idiot, I walked right into his trap.
"Going somewhere?" His voice carries across the parking lot, smooth as silk despite the blood on his lip. "We're not finished."
"Yes, we are," Mikhail says, stepping protectively in front of me. "This ends here, Moretti."
"Does it?" Enzo's smile is all teeth. "I don't think Noah agrees with that assessment."
All eyes turn to me. My family's. His family's. The handful of bar patrons who haven't fled, phones still recording. Waiting to see what I'll say. Waiting to see which side I'll choose.
The smart thing would be to agree with Mikhail. To walk away. To let this end before it becomes something that draws our fathers' attention and destroys both our families.
But I've spent my whole life doing the smart thing. Being the perfect son. The obedient heir. The one who never caused problems or drew unwanted attention. And where has it gotten me? Twenty-one years of feeling like I'm sleepwalking through my own life.
Until him. Until Enzo Moretti looked at me like I was something worth claiming and made me remember what it felt like to be alive.
"Noah," Luka says quietly. "Don't."
But it's too late. I'm already stepping around Mikhail, already moving toward the center of the parking lot where Enzo waits like a predator who knows his prey is coming to him willingly.
"You want to finish this?" I ask, and my voice is steadier than I feel. "Then finish it."
The distance between us shrinks with each step until we're close enough to touch. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the way his pupils dilate as I approach. Close enough to smell the mint on his breath and the cologne that clings to his skin.
"There he is," he murmurs, so quietly only I can hear. "There's my boy."
The possessive words send heat racing through my veins, even as they should make me furious. Because he's right. That's exactly what I am, what I've become. His. Whether I want to admit it or not.
"You have thirty seconds," I tell him, "before my family drags me out of here. Say whatever you came to say."
His smile widens. "I don't need thirty seconds. I just needed you to come to me."
"Why?"
"Because now they know." His eyes flick to my family, to his family, to everyone watching this moment unfold. "They know you want this as much as I do. They know you're not the perfect, controlled heir they think you are."
He's right. Just by walking over here, by engaging with him instead of walking away, I've shown my hand. Revealed the crack in my armor that he's been slowly widening for weeks.
"Hate me if you want," he continues, reaching up to trace the line of my jaw with one finger. The touch burns. "Fight me. Deny it. But don't pretend this isn't happening anymore. Don't pretend you don't feel what I feel."
I should knock his hand away. Should step back. Should do something other than stand here and let him touch me in front of both our families like he has every right to do it.
But I don't. Because his finger against my skin feels like coming home. Because the want in his eyes matches the want burning in my chest. Because for the first time in my life, someone is looking at me like I'm exactly what they need instead of what they're supposed to want.
"You're insane," I whisper.
"Maybe. But so are you."
That's when the first car pulls into the parking lot.
Then another. Then another.
"Oh, fuck," Valentina breathes from somewhere behind Enzo. "They're here."
"Who's that?" Enzo asks without turning around, his voice deadly calm.
"I called for backup," she says, and for the first time tonight she sounds uncertain. Young. "Things looked intense at first, and I thought... I didn't know it would escalate like this."
But it's too late for regrets. The damage is done. What started as a simple bar fight between college students has become something bigger. Something that will echo through both our families for years to come.
The O'Reilly enforcers spread out in a loose semicircle, not quite threatening but making their presence known. At their center is a man I don't recognize - tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of bearing that screams authority. When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of command.
"Which one of you called my sister?"
Valentina steps forward, chin raised in defiance despite the tremor in her voice. "I did. I called Siobhan for help."
Siobhan. The name clicks into place - Valentina's roommate. The sweet Irish girl who always smiles when she sees me in the hallways. The one whose last name I never bothered to learn.
The one who apparently has brothers in the O'Reilly organization.
"And you are?" The man's attention fixes on Valentina with laser focus.
"Valentina Moretti."
Something flickers across his face. Recognition. Distaste. The kind of expression that says he knows exactly who the Morettis are and what they represent in the carefully balanced ecosystem of our world.
"The spoiled princess who dragged my family into your bullshit."
The words hit Valentina like a physical blow. I can see her flinch, see the way her shoulders tighten with anger and hurt. But before she can respond, before anyone can respond, Enzo explodes.
"Who the hell you talking to like that?" His voice cuts through the tension like a blade, every word sharp with protective fury. "Because I know it's not my fucking sister."
The rage in his voice is immediate and deadly. This isn't the calculated violence I've seen from him before. This is primal. Protective. The kind of fury that comes from someone threatening family.
Declan's attention shifts to Enzo, and I can see the moment he sizes up this new threat. The way his eyes narrow, calculating odds and advantages.
"Your sister," Declan says slowly, "called in professionals to handle a college bar fight. That makes her either stupid or reckless. Maybe both."
"Say that again," Enzo snarls, taking a step forward. "I fucking dare you."
"Enzo, don't," Valentina says quickly, but there's no stopping him now. I can see the violence building in his stance, the way his hands are already curling into fists.
He's going to fight Declan. Going to defend his sister's honor against a man who's bigger, fresher, and has backup. Going to get himself destroyed because he can't let an insult to Valentina stand.
And that's when I realize what's wrong. Enzo's moving wrong. Favoring his left side. Something's off about the way he's holding himself.
Declan sees it too. I can tell by the way his stance shifts, the way he positions himself to target whatever weakness he's spotted.
This isn't going to be a fight. It's going to be a slaughter.
"Back off, Moretti," Declan says, but there's no heat in it now. Just cold calculation. "You're hurt. This won't end well for you."
"Fuck you," Enzo spits, and charges.
The first hit Declan lands goes straight to Enzo's injured side. I hear the crack from twenty feet away, see the way Enzo's face goes white with pain. But he doesn't go down. Doesn't give up. Just keeps fighting even as his body betrays him.
Matteo tries to move forward, but two O'Reilly enforcers block his path. Valentina is screaming something, but her own people hold her back. Both families are locked in their own standoffs, unable to help without starting an all-out war.
Another hit to the same spot. Another crack. This time Enzo does stagger, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
"Stay down," Declan says, but Enzo's already moving again. Always moving. Always fighting. Even when he should surrender.
The third hit drops him to his knees.
That's when everything inside me shatters.
I don't think. Don't plan. Don't consider consequences or family loyalty or anything except the sight of Enzo crumpled on the asphalt, gasping for breath, while Declan stands over him like a predator over prey.
Mine.
The word explodes through my consciousness with the force of a gunshot. Mine to protect. Mine to claim. Mine to defend.
I'm moving before I realize it. Faster than thought, faster than fear, faster than the voice in my head that says this is exactly what my father always warned me about.
Declan is bigger than me, stronger, more experienced in this kind of brutal street fighting. But he's not expecting the silent Russian boy to suddenly become a force of nature. Isn't ready for years of disciplined training to transform into something primal and deadly.
Most of all, he's not prepared for the rage that's been building in me for weeks. The fury at being controlled, manipulated, told what to want and who to be. The anger that comes from watching someone hurt what belongs to me.
I feint left, then drive my shoulder into his midsection, using his forward momentum against him. Basic judo - tai otoshi - but executed with a violence that has nothing to do with sport. We go down hard, but Declan's no amateur. He rolls with the throw, comes up swinging.
His fist catches me across the jaw, stars exploding across my vision. Blood fills my mouth, but the pain only feeds the monster that's finally been unleashed.
He's bigger, stronger, but judo isn't about size. It's about leverage. About using an opponent's strength against them. About finding the perfect moment to apply devastating force.
I catch his next punch, pivot, and use o-goshi to send him flying over my hip. He hits the asphalt hard, but he's tougher than I expected. Already rolling to his feet, already coming at me again.
This isn't the clean, controlled fighting I learned in dojos. This is something darker. Something that turns years of disciplined technique into weapons designed to destroy.
Declan gets inside my guard, drives an elbow toward my ribs. I deflect with uchi-uke, counter with a knee strike that doubles him over. When he straightens up, blood streaming from his nose, there's respect in his eyes along with fury.
"You fight like your old man," he snarls.
The words hit harder than any punch. Because he's right. This isn't Noah the perfect son fighting. This is something else entirely. Something that's been buried under years of careful control and family expectations.
We circle each other, both breathing hard now. He's good - better than I expected. Strong enough to break my throws if I'm not perfect. Fast enough to counter if I hesitate.
But I'm not hesitating anymore.
I move in close, grab his lapel, hook my leg behind his ankle. Sasae-tsurikomi-ashi executed with enough force to send him crashing down. This time I follow him to the ground, driving my knee toward his solar plexus.
He catches my leg, tries to twist me off balance, but I've already shifted my weight. Transition to ne-waza groundwork, looking for the submission that will end this.
For thirty seconds we grapple on the asphalt, neither able to gain decisive advantage. Declan's street fighting experience shows - he fights dirty, goes for pressure points, tries to gouge at my eyes. But my ground game is better. More technical. More precise.
When I finally get my arm around his throat, sink in the rear naked choke, his struggles become more desperate. More violent. But technique beats strength when applied correctly.
"Yield," I whisper against his ear, tightening the hold until his vision starts to tunnel.
He doesn't yield. Keeps fighting even as consciousness starts to slip away. Just like Enzo would. Just like I would.
So I hold the choke until his body goes limp beneath mine.
When I finally release him and stand up, when the red haze clears from my vision, I realize the parking lot has gone quiet around us. The sound of fighting has died away, replaced by something that feels like held breath. Like the moment before lightning strikes.
I look up to find everyone staring at me. My family. The O'Reilly enforcers. Professional killers who've seen every kind of violence imaginable.
All of them looking at me like they're seeing me for the first time.
And maybe they are. Maybe this is the first time anyone has seen the real Noah Aslanov instead of the carefully constructed facade I've been hiding behind for twenty-one years.
"Jesus Christ," someone whispers. I think it might be Luka.
But I only have eyes for one person. Only care about the reaction of one observer.
Enzo is still on his knees ten feet away, breathing hard, blood on his face and something like awe in his eyes. When our gazes meet, his smile is sharp enough to cut diamonds.
"There he is," he says, so quietly I almost don't hear it over the ringing in my ears. "There's my monster."
The words should horrify me. Should make me ashamed of what I've become, what I've revealed. Should send me running back to the safety of family expectations and careful control.
Instead, they feel like recognition.
Because he's right. I am a monster. I've always been a monster, just like him, just like all of us who were born into this world of violence and power and carefully orchestrated brutality.
The only difference is that now I'm not pretending to be anything else.
But that doesn't mean I'm his. That doesn't mean I'm ready to surrender. That doesn't mean this game is over.
If anything, it's just getting started.
The sound of sirens in the distance cuts through the moment like a knife. Someone called the police. Someone who saw the cars arrive, the weapons appear, the kind of violence that goes beyond a simple bar fight.
"Time to go," Mikhail says, grabbing my arm. "Now."
I look back at Enzo one last time. He's trying to stand, one hand pressed to his ribs, eyes still locked on mine with an intensity that burns.
"This isn't over," he says, his voice carrying across the parking lot despite the chaos around us.
It's not a threat. It's a promise.
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because responding would be admitting something I'm not ready to admit. Would be giving him something he hasn't earned yet.
Instead, I let Mikhail guide me toward the Aslanov vehicles. But I can feel Enzo's eyes on me the entire way. Can feel the weight of what just happened settling between us like a live wire.
He saw the monster. Finally saw the thing he'd been trying to provoke. But that doesn't mean he gets to claim it. Doesn't mean I'm ready to surrender.
If anything, it just makes the game more interesting.
In the back seat of the sedan, speeding away from the scene, I close my eyes and let myself process what just happened. The way violence had felt like coming home. The way protecting him had felt more right than anything I'd ever done.
The way I'd almost lost control completely when I thought someone might take him away from me.
But almost isn't the same as completely. I'm still in control. Still fighting. Still making him work for what he wants.
Because monsters like us don't surrender easily. We make them bleed for every inch.
And Enzo Moretti is about to learn just how much he's willing to bleed for me.