I wake up to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the sound of Enzo moving around in the kitchen. Saturday morning. No classes. No obligations except the ones we choose for ourselves.
My body feels like I've been hit by a truck and then dragged behind it for miles. The bruises from my fight at The Forge three nights ago have settled into a deep ache that radiates through my ribs with every breath, and the fresh soreness from our weekend together layers on top of it like a second skin. Tournament damage mixed with the kind of ache that comes from being claimed and claiming in return. Every muscle tells the story of violence and surrender in equal measure.
The marks are worse. Dark fingerprints around my wrists where he held me down. Bite marks scattered across my throat and shoulders like a constellation of ownership. Scratches down my back that sting when the sheet shifts against them. Evidence that might as well be a neon sign announcing what we are to each other.
What we've become.
I can hear him in the kitchen—the quiet clink of expensive plates, the soft hiss of something cooking on the gas range. Domestic sounds that shouldn't feel right coming from Enzo Moretti, but somehow do. Like everything about him, it's a contradiction that makes perfect sense once you understand the man behind the monster.
I pull on boxers and one of his t-shirts—soft cotton that smells like him and violence and expensive cologne—and pad barefoot across the polished hardwood to the kitchen. He's standing at the stove wearing only sleep pants, dark hair mussed from sleep and sex and my fingers. When he sees me, he smiles. Not the sharp, predatory expression I'm used to. Something softer. Something that makes my chest tight with feelings I'm still learning to name.
"Morning, beautiful."
The endearment should sound wrong coming from him. Should clash with everything I know about Enzo Moretti and his relationship with violence. Instead, it settles into my bones like it belongs there.
"What are you making?" I ask, moving to stand behind him.
"Eggs. Toast. Coffee that doesn't taste like campus dining hall garbage." He leans back against me, and I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin cotton of his pants. "Nothing fancy. But I figured we should eat something before we attempt to face the world."
We work in comfortable silence, me handling the ridiculous Italian coffee machine while Enzo finishes breakfast. The domesticity feels inevitable. Like everything has been leading to this moment—two monsters learning to be human together.
We spend Saturday learning each other's rhythms outside of violence and sex. Cooking together, talking about everything and nothing, mapping territories that have nothing to do with family politics or underground tournaments. Sunday is more of the same—proving that Friday night wasn't a fluke, building something real in our sanctuary while the rest of St. Dismas exists in a separate reality.
By Sunday night, we're both marked beyond concealment, both addicted to the way the other responds to touch and voice and the promise of violence held in check. But Monday morning comes anyway.
I wake up to my phone buzzing against the nightstand. Mikhail.
Family breakfast. Estate. One hour. Don't be late.
"Fuck," I mutter, checking the time. 8:17 AM.
Enzo stirs beside me, golden eyes immediately alert. Even half-asleep, he's cataloging threats and calculating responses. It's one of the things I love about him—the way his mind works like mine, always three steps ahead of danger.
"What is it?"
"Family command performance. I have to go back to the estate."
He sits up, studying the evidence of our weekend written across my skin in purple and red. "It's not like they don't know anything about us—it's been a known fact since the video. This isn't going to be a casual breakfast."
He's right. After the viral video of us kissing on campus, after my public claiming of him at The Forge—my family knows exactly what this is about. The only question is whether they plan to support me or try to tear us apart.
"How long do you think we have before someone notices the marks?" he asks.
I look down at myself, taking inventory. The bite marks on my throat are dark purple against my pale skin. The fingerprint bruises around my wrists are impossible to miss. There's a particularly vicious hickey just above my collar that looks like modern art painted in shades of possession.
"About thirty seconds after I walk in the door."
"And then?"
"Then they try to make me choose. Again." I turn to face him fully. "But they're going to be disappointed. I already chose."
The Aslanov estate dining room feels more like an interrogation chamber than a family breakfast. Mikhail, Luka, Viktor, and Aria are already seated when I arrive, and there's definitely an agenda here. The kind that involves coordinated questioning and predetermined outcomes.
"Well, well," Aria says, not even waiting for me to sit down. "Look what the cat dragged in."
I slide into my usual seat and reach for the coffee pot with hands that are perfectly steady. "Good morning to you too, sister."
"Good morning?" Luka's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "It's past eight-thirty, and you look like you got mauled by a very enthusiastic predator."
"A very Italian predator," Aria adds with a grin that's equal parts delight and concern.
Heat crawls up my neck, but I keep my expression neutral. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, we're playing dumb?" Aria claps her hands together. "This is even better than I hoped. Noah, honey, you have a hickey the size of Manhattan on your throat."
Fuck. I touch my collar automatically, but it's too late.
"Holy shit," Luka breathes, leaning forward. "You actually did it. You actually spent the weekend getting thoroughly claimed by Enzo Moretti."
"Luka!" Aria smacks his arm, but she's laughing. "Be nice. This is a big moment for my emotionally constipated brother."
"I wasn't emotionally constipated," I mutter.
"You absolutely were," she shoots back. "And look at you now! Covered in bite marks and walking like you spent three days discovering what surrender actually feels like."
Viktor clears his throat, trying to restore some semblance of authority to the conversation. "While we're all... pleased... that Noah finally figured out how to let someone past his walls, we need to discuss the implications here."
"Implications?" I ask.
"All the other families on the island have questions, and so do we," Mikhail says grimly. "I bet you haven't even told your father about this so-called relationship between you and the Italian."
"What kind of questions?"
"The kind where people want to know what this means for business relationships," Viktor says grimly. "We're allies with families that aren't with the Italians. People are watching, trying to see what the next move would be. Noah, you spent an entire weekend unreachable with Enzo. You're covered in marks that announce to anyone with eyes exactly what you've been doing. And you think nobody's going to notice?"
"Let them notice."
"Let them—" Viktor stops, studying my face with the intensity of a man who's spent years reading people for a living. "So I guess you're going all in."
"I said let them notice. I'm not hiding this."
Aria whoops. "I knew it! I fucking knew you were gone for him. Look at that face—he's completely lost."
"I'm not lost."
"You're so far gone you might as well be in another dimension," Luka says, shaking his head in amazement. "Jesus, Noah. A few weeks ago you were pretending you barely knew his name."
"That was a few weeks ago."
"And now?"
I think about the weekend. About cooking breakfast together, about the way Enzo looks at me like I'm something worth fighting for, about how everything makes sense when we're together. About the way he says my name like a prayer and a threat all at once.
"Now I'm done pretending."
The table goes quiet. Not the angry, tense quiet from before our first family meeting about this. Something else. Like they're processing a fundamental shift in the family dynamic.
"Okay," Viktor says slowly. "So you're not hiding it. You're not ashamed of it. You're ready to deal with the political ramifications of publicly claiming an Italian heir."
"I'm ready to deal with whatever comes."
"Even telling your father?" Mikhail asks quietly.
That stops me cold. Because Mikhail's right—I haven't told my father. Haven't figured out how to explain to Sergei Aslanov that his heir is in love with the son of a family we've had complicated business relationships with for decades.
"I..." I start, then stop. Because I don't have an answer for that yet.
"You haven't told him," Aria observes. "Have you even thought about how to tell him?"
"I've been a little busy."
"Busy getting your back scratched up by Italian fingernails," Luka says with a grin. "But seriously, Noah, you're going to have to tell him eventually. Especially if you keep showing up to family events looking like you've been through a very enthusiastic blender."
"The longer you wait, the worse it's going to be," Viktor adds. "Your father's going to hear about this from someone. Better it comes from you."
They're right. All of them. I can't keep this from my father indefinitely. And the thought of that conversation makes something cold settle in my stomach.
"What do you think he'll say?" I ask quietly.
"Honestly?" Mikhail leans back in his chair. "He'll probably be more concerned about the business implications than the personal ones. The Morettis aren't enemies, but they're not exactly allies either."
"Plus there's the whole thing where their families have been doing that weird competitive dance for years," Aria adds. "You know, where they pretend to respect each other while trying to outmaneuver each other in business deals."
"That's not war," Luka points out. "That's just Tuesday in our world."
"Exactly. Which means this isn't insurmountable," Viktor says. "Complicated, yes. Impossible, no."
"So what do I do?"
"You call your father," Mikhail says. "Today. Before someone else tells him."
"And you figure out what you want this to be," Aria adds. "Because if this is just a fling, fine. But if this is serious—if you're looking at Enzo Moretti like he's your future—then you need to be prepared for that conversation."
"It's serious," I say without hesitation.
"How serious?" Viktor asks.
I think about the weekend. About the way it felt like coming home. About the way Enzo looks at me like I'm exactly what he's been searching for. About the way we fit together in violence and tenderness both.
"Serious enough that I'd rather deal with family politics than give him up."
Aria grins. "There's our answer. Noah's in love."
"I didn't say I was in love."
"You didn't have to," Luka says. "It's written all over your face. Plus, you know, the hickeys kind of give it away."
"Fine. Yes. I'm in love with him."
The admission hangs in the air. Not heavy or threatening. Just honest.
"Well," Viktor says finally, "at least you're not being wishy-washy about it."
"Have you ever known Noah to be wishy-washy about anything?" Aria asks. "When he decides he wants something, he goes all in. Remember when he decided he wanted to learn combat? Six months later he was throwing grown men across mats."
"This is slightly different from martial arts," Mikhail points out.
"Is it? Both involve grappling with dangerous opponents," Luka says with a straight face.
Aria snorts with laughter. "Oh my god, Luka."
"I'm just saying, if anyone can handle an unhinged Italian, it's Noah."
"He's not unhinged," I say, but I'm smiling despite myself.
"Babe," Aria reaches over to pat my hand, "he started a bar room brawl that ended with multiple families involved and police sirens. That's at least moderately unhinged."
"That was..." I pause, because she's right. "Okay, that was unhinged."
"That was completely insane," she corrects. "And you jumped in to defend him anyway. Which is perfect for you, honestly."
"Why is it perfect for me?"
"Because you need someone who can match your energy," Viktor says. "Someone who understands what our world is like. Someone who's not going to be intimidated by the family or the business or any of it."
"Someone who can handle you when you get that calculating look," Luka adds.
"I don't get a calculating look."
"You absolutely get a calculating look," Mikhail confirms. "It's the same look your father gets right before someone disappears permanently."
"But Enzo gets that same look," Aria points out. "Which means you two can be terrifying together instead of terrifying each other."
"Is that supposed to be romantic?"
"In our world? Absolutely."
My phone buzzes. Enzo.
How's it going?
I type back quickly: Better than expected. They're not trying to lock me in a tower.
Yet.
How are your ribs? You were moving carefully this morning.
Worth every ache. Your back looks like modern art.
Heat races through me at the reminder of how thoroughly we marked each other.
"He's texting you, isn't he?" Aria asks, noting my expression.
"Maybe."
"You're smiling like an idiot."
"I'm not smiling like anything."
"You absolutely are," Luka confirms. "It's disgusting. I love it."
Viktor's phone buzzes. He checks it and his expression gets more serious. "Speaking of family business—Noah, there's something you should know."
"What?"
"Declan's been asking around about you. And about Enzo. Apparently he's not happy about what happened at The Forge."
The mention of Declan makes something cold settle in my stomach. Because Viktor's right—what I did to Declan that night, the way I humiliated him in front of everyone, that's not something someone like him just forgets.
"What kind of asking around?"
"The kind where he's trying to figure out if there's an angle he can use. If there's a way to cause problems between your families."
"Let him try," I say.
"Noah—"
"No, seriously. Let him try. If Declan O'Reilly thinks he can use my relationship with Enzo against me, he's welcome to make the attempt."
"And if he escalates things?"
"Then I'll handle it. The same way I handled it at The Forge."
Viktor studies my face. "You're not the same person who walked into that tournament."
"No, I'm not."
"Good. Because the person you were before wouldn't have been able to handle what's coming."
"What's coming?"
"Questions. From other families, from business partners, from people who want to know what the Aslanov heir publicly claiming a Moretti means for their own interests."
"And what does it mean?"
"That depends on what you and Enzo decide it means."
I think about that for a moment. About the implications, the politics, the way our personal relationship could affect business dealings I don't even fully understand yet. It surprises me, the way Viktor talks like I might not be able to handle this. Like the fact that I kept myself closed off for so long, never showing the real me, made them think I was weak. All this time, I thought I was being strategic, controlled. But maybe my family saw me as fragile instead. Someone who needed to be protected from the harder realities of what we are.
"It means," I say finally, "that anyone who has a problem with it can take it up with me directly."
"There's the calculating look," Luka says cheerfully. "I missed it."
"I'm serious. This isn't about family politics or business relationships. This is about what I want. And what I want is him."
"Even if it complicates things?"
"Especially if it complicates things. Because anything worth having is worth fighting for."
Aria claps her hands. "I'm so proud of you right now. You sound like an actual human being with feelings instead of a robot programmed for strategic thinking."
"I was never a robot."
"You absolutely were. But apparently Italian boys are your kryptonite."
"One specific Italian boy."
"Right. Enzo 'I'll-start-a-bar-fight-over-you' Moretti."
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a picture. Enzo in our kitchen, coffee cup in hand, looking rumpled and satisfied and absolutely perfect.
Missing you already.
I stare at the photo longer than I probably should. He looks like home. Like everything I didn't know I was looking for.
"Jesus, Noah," Mikhail says, seeing my expression. "You've got it bad."
"Yeah," I agree. "I really do."
"So what's the plan?" Viktor asks. "Besides calling your father and having that conversation."
"The plan is to see where this goes. To figure out how to make it work despite the complications. To prove that sometimes the best things are worth a little chaos."
"A little chaos?" Luka laughs. "Noah, you just publicly claimed an Italian heir after spending three days learning what it means to belong to someone. That's not a little chaos. That's a full-scale relationship revolution."
"Then I guess I'm starting a revolution."
"About time," Aria says. "You were getting boring with all that careful control."
"I wasn't boring."
"You were absolutely boring. But this? This is interesting. This is you actually living instead of just existing."
She's right. For the first time in years, I feel like I'm actually living instead of just going through the motions. Like I'm choosing what I want instead of just accepting what I'm supposed to want.
"So," Viktor says, "are you going to tell your father today?"
The question hangs in the air. Because that's the real test, isn't it? Whether I'm brave enough to defend this choice to the one person whose opinion actually matters in the end.
"Yes," I say. "Today. Before someone else tells him."
"Good. And Noah?"
"Yeah?"
"For what it's worth, I think you made the right choice. Enzo Moretti might be complicated and dangerous and completely wrong for you on paper. But I've never seen you look the way you look when you talk about him."
"How do I look?"
"Alive. You look alive. And that's worth more than all the political convenience in the world."
I look around the table at these people who've shaped my entire life. Who've supported me and challenged me and loved me even when I was too locked down to love myself properly.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"For what?" Aria asks.
"For not trying to talk me out of it. For understanding that this matters to me."
"Of course it matters," Mikhail says. "You matter. Your happiness matters. And if Enzo Moretti makes you happy, then we'll figure out how to make it work."
"Even if your father doesn't approve?" Viktor asks.
"Especially if your father doesn't approve," Luka says. "You're not a child anymore, Noah. You get to choose your own life. Even if that life includes unhinged Italians who fight people in underground tournaments."
"He's not that unhinged."
"Right. He just starts bar fights over family dinners. Much more civilized."
I'm still laughing when I leave the estate an hour later. The conversation with my father is still ahead of me, along with all the complicated politics that come with publicly claiming someone across family lines.
But for the first time in years, I'm not worried about the complications. Because I've got something worth fighting for. Someone worth fighting for.
And as I drive toward campus—toward classes, toward the routine of pretending to be a normal student—I realize that I've never been more sure of anything in my life.
This is what I want. This is who I want.
Everything else is just details.