Holy fucking Christ.
I'm still on my knees in the parking lot, ribs screaming, blood trickling from my mouth, but none of that matters. Nothing matters except what I just witnessed. What Noah just became.
My monster. My beautiful, deadly, perfect monster.
I knew the moment I saw those ice-blue eyes there was something waiting for me. Something dark and hungry hiding behind all that careful control. Tonight he came out. Tonight he gave me what I want, what I crave, and God, I crave him. My Russian prince who turns violence into art, who moves like death incarnate when someone threatens what's his.
The sirens are getting closer, red and blue lights flashing in the distance like a promise of consequences we're not ready to face. Around me, all the families are moving toward their vehicles, understanding without words that this place is about to become very unfriendly to people like us.
But I can't move. Can't think. Can't process anything except the image burned into my retinas - Noah Aslanov choking Declan O'Reilly with technical precision, ice-blue eyes gone dark with something primal and possessive.
He did that for me. Because someone was hurting what belonged to him. Because seeing me vulnerable triggered something he's been hiding behind all that careful control.
The thought sends heat racing through my veins despite the pain radiating from my ribs. Despite the fact that I can barely breathe without feeling like someone's driving nails into my chest.
Worth it. Every second of agony is worth watching Noah finally become what I always knew he could be.
"Enzo." Matteo's voice cuts through my euphoria, sharp with urgency. "We need to move. Now."
He's beside me, trying to help me stand without making my injuries worse. Around us, the chaos of departure - car doors slamming, engines starting, families extracting themselves from a situation that's spiraled beyond anyone's control.
"Did you see him?" I ask, letting Matteo pull me to my feet. The movement sends fresh waves of agony through my torso, but I barely feel it. "Did you see what he did?"
"I saw him nearly kill a man with his bare hands," Matteo replies grimly. "I saw him risk everything to protect someone who should be his enemy. I saw him lose his fucking mind."
"Beautiful," I breathe.
"Jesus Christ, Enzo. You're bleeding internally and you're talking about beauty?"
But it was beautiful. The most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed. Noah Aslanov stripped of all pretense, all control, all the careful masks he wears to hide what he really is. Raw. Honest. Deadly.
Perfect.
Matteo helps me toward our car, but I keep looking back toward where Noah disappeared into one of the black sedans. Gone but not forgotten. Never forgotten. The image of him standing over Declan, breathing hard, looking like violence incarnate - that's going to live in my memory forever.
"This changes everything," I say as Matteo helps me into the passenger seat.
"It changes nothing. This was a disaster, Enzo. A complete fucking disaster that's going to bring both our fathers down on our heads."
He's wrong. This changes everything. Because now I know. Now I've seen proof of what I've suspected since the moment I first laid eyes on Noah in that basement. He's not the perfect, controlled heir everyone thinks he is. He's something else entirely.
Something that belongs to me.
The drive to the hospital should be our priority, but Matteo's phone rings before we're even out of the parking lot. He glances at the caller ID and his expression darkens.
"It's Luca," he says, answering on speaker.
"Tell me Enzo's not bleeding to death," Luca's voice comes through, sharp with concern.
"How bad is he?" Luca asks.
"Bad, Luca. Real bad. I think he has some broken ribs, maybe more. He can barely breathe. We're heading to the hospital now."
There's a pause. I can practically hear Luca processing this information, calculating the implications.
"Which hospital?" he asks.
"St. Mary's. It's closest."
"I'll meet you there. And keep your mouths shut."
"We know the drill."
"And Enzo?" Luca's voice gets harder. "You know we don't do exposure. You're fucking up, and when I get there you better have your lies together because I want fucking answers."
The line goes dead, and I lean back against the passenger seat, every breath a reminder of what Declan O'Reilly did to me. But also what Noah did for me.
"He's pissed," Matteo observes.
"Good. He should be."
Because in our world, family loyalty runs deeper than blood. And when someone hurts family, there are always consequences.
The drive to the hospital is agony. Every bump in the road sends fresh waves of pain through my torso. But even through the haze of injury, I can't stop thinking about tonight. About Noah. About the way he looked when he finally stopped pretending.
The X-rays confirm what I already knew - three broken ribs, thankfully no internal bleeding, but enough damage to keep me on pain medication and restricted activity for weeks.
I'm still in the hospital bed when the door opens and Luca walks in. My older cousin is a brick wall of a man - not just physically, but in every way that matters. At twenty-five, he's the hardest of all of us, and with good reason. None of us have seen or done the things Luca has. I don't even compare myself to him. If I'm a monster, then he's the fucking devil.
The silence stretches between us like a blade. Luca's eyes scan me from head to toe, cataloging damage, assessing weakness, calculating exactly how much trouble I've brought to our family's door. When he finally speaks, his voice could cut glass.
"How bad?" he asks Matteo, but his eyes never leave mine.
"Three broken ribs. No internal bleeding, but he'll be laid up for weeks."
Luca nods once, his gaze never leaving mine. The weight of his attention feels like being pinned by a predator. "Tell me exactly what happened."
I run through the events - the bar fight, Valentina calling for backup, Declan showing up and insulting her, me defending her honor, getting my ribs crushed. I keep my voice steady, factual, giving him nothing to work with except the surface truth.
"Wait." Luca's voice cuts through my explanation like a blade. "Back up. Why the hell did Valentina call the O'Reillys for backup? Since when do we need Irish muscle to handle our problems?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I can see Matteo shifting uncomfortably, probably wondering the same thing. Probably realizing that calling Siobhan O'Reilly wasn't random panic - it was Valentina trying to manage a situation that was already spiraling out of control.
"How the hell should we know?" Matteo says, his voice sharp with frustration. "Maybe you should ask her."
But I shake my head. "She panicked," I say carefully. "Thought we were outnumbered. Called her roommate for help."
"Her roommate." Luca's voice is flat. Disbelieving. "Valentina called her roommate to a bar fight. And this roommate just happened to have connections to professional enforcers."
Fuck. He's putting pieces together too quickly. Seeing patterns where I need him to see chaos.
"It escalated fast," I say. "By the time Declan showed up, it was already out of hand."
"And then?" His tone suggests he already knows there's more to this story. Much more.
"Then Noah Aslanov nearly choked Declan to death."
The words hang in the hospital room like smoke. I watch Luca's expression change, see the moment he realizes this wasn't random violence. This was something else entirely. Something personal.
Luca goes completely still. When he speaks again, his voice is deadly quiet. "Second question - why did a Russian heir risk everything to save an Italian's life? What aren't you telling me, Enzo?"
The question hits like a physical blow. Because Luca isn't just asking about tonight. He's asking about all of it. The weeks of circling each other, the texts I thought no one knew about, the way Noah and I have been playing a game that was always going to end in blood.
I know Luca isn't going to approve of me going after Noah. Know he's going to see it as a complication we can't afford. But not even a brick wall of a cousin can stop this train from derailing.
"It's complicated," I say finally.
"Uncomplicate it." The words are a command, not a request. "Right fucking now."
I meet his gaze, see the steel beneath the concern. Luca's not just my cousin - he's being groomed to be my consigliere when I take over. Which means he thinks like a boss already. Which means he's going to view this situation through the lens of family politics and strategic advantage.
Which means he's not going to understand why losing Noah would be worth starting a war.
"I've been trying to talk some sense into him," Matteo says suddenly, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "But you know our cousin - once his mind's set..." He trails off with a look that says he doesn't know what the fuck to do with me anymore.
Luca's attention shifts to Matteo like a predator sensing weakness. "So your bright idea was just watching him cause chaos instead of coming to me?" His voice drops to a deadly whisper. "How long has this been going on, Matteo? How long have you been watching my future boss destroy himself over some Russian prince and saying nothing?"
Matteo shifts uncomfortably. "You do know you right. Hell naw, I wasn't coming to you until it was the last resort."
"Last resort?" Luca's voice gets harder. "Look around, cousin. We're in a fucking hospital. Enzo's got three broken ribs because you thought you could handle this yourself. Because you thought you knew better than to involve family leadership." He steps closer to Matteo, and I can feel the danger radiating off him. "What part of 'we handle problems as a family' did you not understand?"
"Luca—" Matteo starts.
"No. You don't get to talk now. You had weeks to talk. Weeks to come to me before this became a family incident. Instead, you let it escalate until professional killers are involved and my cousin is bleeding in a hospital bed."
The silence that follows is deafening. I can see Matteo realizing exactly how much trouble he's in. In our world, keeping family business from leadership isn't just insubordination - it's betrayal.
"And look what that got you," Luca says flatly.
"The Russian felt guilty," I say, trying to deflect some of Luca's fury from Matteo. "Maybe thought he owed me something. We've been in the same classes, shared some academic projects. Professional courtesy."
Luca stares at me for a long moment. I can practically see him weighing my words, looking for the lie beneath the surface truth. Looking for the reason a Russian prince would risk his family's wrath to save an Italian heir he barely knows.
"So there was no fight between us and them?" Luca's voice gets harder. "So make me understand why the hell your sister felt the need to call for help, Enzo. You're lying and you fucking know it."
"Professional courtesy," he repeats slowly. "That's what you're going with?"
"That's what happened."
"Bullshit." His voice doesn't rise, doesn't change inflection. Somehow that makes it more terrifying. "I've been doing this longer than you've been breathing, cousin. I know what professional courtesy looks like. This wasn't professional courtesy."
He moves closer to the bed, and I can smell the danger radiating off him like heat. "This was personal. This was someone protecting what they consider theirs. So I'm going to ask you one more time - what the fuck is going on between you and Noah Aslanov?"
The hospital room feels smaller suddenly. Like the walls are closing in. Like there's nowhere to hide from the truth that's been eating me alive for weeks.
Luca's expression doesn't change, but something cold flickers in his eyes. "The Irish bastard put you in the hospital."
"He was bigger, fresher—"
"He put my cousin in the hospital," Luca interrupts. "That's all I need to know."
The shift in his tone tells me everything. The interrogation is over. Now comes the retaliation.
He pulls out his phone and starts making calls. Not asking permission. Not discussing options. Just handling business the way he's been trained to do.
"Marco? It's Luca. I need you to gather some information on Declan O'Reilly. Everything - where he lives, what he drives, his schedule, who he fucks, what he eats for breakfast." A pause. "Because he put Enzo in the hospital and I want to know exactly how to return the favor."
He listens for a moment, then continues. "Also, I need you to go back to that bar. Pay for all the damages. Whatever it costs. Cash. We keep this quiet - no insurance claims, no police reports, no questions. Make it worth their while to forget tonight happened."
Matteo and I exchange glances. When Luca starts gathering intelligence and covering tracks, it means someone is about to have a very bad day. Very bad days in our world tend to be permanent.
"Second call," Luca continues, dialing again. "Angelo? Time to earn your keep. I need cars and people. We're moving everyone to the estate tonight." Another pause. "Because campus just became hostile territory and I'm not leaving family exposed."
He hangs up and looks at us. When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of absolute authority. "Here's what's going to happen. Everyone moves to the estate - tonight. No exceptions. No arguments."
"Valentina's not going to like that," I say.
"Valentina doesn't get a vote. Her brother is in the hospital because some Irish piece of shit thought he could disrespect our family. She's going to the estate where she's safe while I handle this."
The way he says 'handle this' makes it clear we're past damage control. This is about sending a message. About making sure everyone understands what happens when you hurt a Moretti.
"Luca," I start.
"No." His voice cuts through any protest I might make. "You're my family. My responsibility. Someone put you in the hospital, and that requires a response. That's how this works. That's how it's always worked."
He's right, of course. In our world, letting something like this slide shows weakness. Invites more attacks. Demonstrates that we can't protect our own. But he doesn't understand what he's about to destroy.
"What about the Aslanovs?" I ask carefully.
"What about them?"
"Noah protected me. Stopped Declan from doing worse. That counts for something."
Luca considers this for a moment. I can see him weighing the political implications, the strategic value of having a Russian heir in our debt.
"Then we'll remember that when this is over," he says finally. "But right now, the priority is making sure everyone understands that touching a Moretti has consequences."
As he walks toward the door to coordinate the move and plan whatever he has in mind for Declan, I realize tonight changed more than just my relationship with Noah.
It changed everything.
Because now there are other players on the board. Now there are family obligations and honor debts and the kind of retaliation that escalates until someone ends up dead. Now this isn't just about the game Noah and I have been playing.
Now it's about survival.
My phone buzzes with a text. Unknown number, but I know exactly who it is. My heart rate spikes despite the pain medication, despite the broken ribs, despite everything.
Are you okay?
The question is simple. Three words. But coming from Noah, it feels like a confession. Like an admission of something he doesn't want to feel.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, remembering the way he looked when he was standing over Declan. The way those ice-blue eyes had gone dark with something primal and possessive. The way he'd moved like violence incarnate to protect what belonged to him.
Because that's what I am now. What I became the moment he chose to fight for me instead of walking away. His.
I type back quickly: Why? Are you worried about me?
The response takes longer this time. I can picture him staring at his phone, debating whether to answer. Whether admitting concern makes him weak. Whether taking responsibility for what happened makes this real in ways he's not ready to handle.
Finally: No.
Then why the text?
Because I want you to remember what I'm capable of. What I did for you. I gave you what you wanted tonight. Now what are you going to give me? The ball's in your court now.
This time the response is immediate: This changes nothing.
I smile despite the pain in my ribs. Because it changes everything, and he knows it. He cares enough to check on me. Cares enough to risk reaching out when he should be maintaining distance. Cares enough to take responsibility for my pain.
Cares enough to claim me.
I type: We'll see.
But there's no response. He's gone silent again, probably already regretting the moment of weakness that made him text me in the first place.
It doesn't matter. Those three words - "Are you okay?" - tell me everything I need to know.
Noah Aslanov cares about me. Enough to worry. Enough to reach out. Enough to prove that whatever he says about nothing changing, everything already has.
He fought for me. Protected me. Chose me over his family's expectations and his own careful control. That's not nothing. That's everything.
And Luca Moretti in full family protection mode is about to remind the island exactly who they're dealing with. About to show everyone what happens when you threaten something that belongs to us.
The game is changing. The stakes are rising. And Noah Aslanov is about to learn that claiming something in our world means being willing to fight for it.
Forever.