"You're not really giving him twenty-four hours, are you?" Dominic's voice cuts through the silence of the SUV before we've even cleared the estate gates. "What are you thinking, Alessandro?"
The question feels like a scalpel sliding between my ribs. Because he's right—I'm not thinking. I'm reacting, driven by the same terror that's been eating at me since the day I buried my firstborn son in a casket too small for a man who should have lived forever.
I don't look at my brother. Can't look at him right now, because he'll see too much. See the cracks in the armor I've spent five years building around the part of me that still bleeds for Marco.
"I'm thinking I'm trying to save my son's life."
"By driving him away? By giving him an impossible choice?" Dom shifts in his seat to face me fully. "You're doing the same thing our father did to you. And look how that turned out."
The comparison hits like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. Because he's right. Our father drove me away from Elena Rossi, the only woman I ever loved, forced me into a union that was all strategy and no heart. The memory of her laugh, the way she made me believe I could be more than just an heir to violence and fear—all of it sacrificed on the altar of family duty.
"That's different."
"Is it? You married Lucia because Father demanded it. You had your heirs and did your duty, and where did it get you? A loveless marriage that ended the moment you had what the family needed. A house where nobody loved anybody. Is that what you want for Enzo?"
My hands clench into fists without my permission, knuckles white against the leather seat. "At least I had heirs."
But even as I say it, the practical reality hits me. "And how exactly is Enzo supposed to give me heirs with Noah? Have you even thought about that part of this situation?"
"I'm saying there are ways around that, and you know it. Surrogates. Adoption within the extended family. Hell, artificial insemination if it comes to that. The Moretti name doesn't have to die with Enzo just because he loves a man instead of a woman."
The logic is sound, but it doesn't touch the real fear eating at my chest like acid. Dom sees it too, because his voice gets quieter, more dangerous.
"So what is it really, Alessandro? What are you planning to do when Enzo chooses Noah—because we both know he will? Are you planning to lose your son forever? Or are you planning to start a bloody war by killing the son of another powerful family?"
The question hangs in the air between us like smoke from a funeral pyre. Because that's what it comes down to, isn't it? The ultimatum I gave Enzo only has two possible outcomes, and both of them end in destruction.
"I..." My throat closes around the words, cutting off oxygen, making me gasp like a drowning man. "I don't have an answer that doesn't make me a monster."
The admission tears out of me, raw and bleeding. Because that's the truth I've been running from—I'm planning to become my father. The man who taught me that love is weakness, that caring about someone makes you vulnerable. The man who killed everything good in me because he was too afraid to let me be happy.
"Pull over," I manage through the crushing weight in my chest.
"Sir?"
"Pull over. Now."
The car slides to the shoulder of the coastal road, and I'm out the door before it's fully stopped. The ocean wind tears at my jacket, salt spray stinging my face like tears I refuse to shed. But I can barely feel it through the crushing weight of what I've just realized.
I'm going to lose my son the same way I lost Marco. The same way our father lost me.
Dom dismisses the driver and the other men with a gesture, giving us the privacy I need to fall apart completely. We stand by the car in silence for a moment, two brothers who've shared too many losses and not enough honesty.
"Talk to me," Dom says quietly. "What's really going on here?"
I close my eyes, letting the sound of the ocean wash over me. When I open them again, my brother is watching me with the patience he's shown since we were children. The only person left who remembers who I was before I became the man who buries his sons.
"Get back in the car," I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper. "I need to think."
Dom puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze, but it doesn't even come close to the pressure I feel squeezing my heart.
The drive to my hotel suite passes in silence, but my mind is screaming. Every mile brings back memories I've spent five years trying to bury, moments with Marco that I've rewritten in my head to make them hurt less.
But the truth is, they were never rewritten. The truth is exactly as brutal as I remember.
I lean back against the leather headrest and let myself fall into the abyss.
Five years ago. Manhattan. The penthouse office overlooking Central Park where Marco came to tell me about the future he'd planned.
"I'm going to marry her, Dad." His face was radiant, lit up with the kind of joy I'd forgotten was possible in our world. Isabella Calabrian had done something to my son that I didn't understand—made him believe in futures instead of just survival.
I should have seen it then. Should have recognized the transformation love had worked on my firstborn. The way his shoulders sat differently, like he'd found something worth carrying the weight for. The way he looked... settled. Complete.
"She's Antonio Calabrian's daughter. You understand what that means?"
"I understand that I love her more than I've ever loved anything in my life. And that some things matter more than business."
The certainty in his voice. The absolute conviction that love could conquer the reality of our world. It terrified me in ways that bullets and bombs never had.
"Love?" I laughed, and the sound bounced off the office walls like breaking glass. "You think this is about love? This is about you being twenty-two and thinking with your dick instead of your brain."
The way Marco's face changed—from joy to hurt to something cold and final—is burned into my memory like a brand. "Don't talk about her like that."
"I'll talk about her however I want. She's a liability, Marco. A weapon pointed at our family. A target painted on your back. And if you can't see that, then maybe you're not ready to be my heir."
What followed was the cruelest conversation of my life. Words designed to cut, to wound, to force him back in line through sheer brutality. I called him weak. Reckless. A disappointment who was throwing away everything our family had built for a girl who would get him killed.
I told him he was naive for believing in love, that caring about someone made you vulnerable, that his feelings were a luxury our family couldn't afford.
"You're not the son I raised," I said, each word designed to destroy him. "The son I raised would put family first. Would understand that sometimes you have to sacrifice what you want for what's right."
Marco stood there, twenty-two years old and more broken than I'd ever seen him, and said quietly: "What if what I want and what's right are the same thing?"
And I looked at my firstborn son, this brilliant, brave man who'd had the courage to choose love in a world that punishes it, and said: "Then you're a fool. And fools don't survive in our world."
The last thing I said to him before he stormed out was: "Don't bother coming back until you remember who you are."
Three days later, the car bomb took them both. My son and the girl he loved, dying together because I was too proud to protect what mattered to him. Marco died believing his father saw him as a failure. Died thinking that love had cost him his family.
Died before I could tell him he was the bravest man I'd ever known.
I open my eyes to find tears on my cheeks and Dom watching me with the expression he gets when he's trying to hold someone together who's falling apart.
The car pulls up to the Intercontinental, and I sit there for a moment, unable to move. Unable to face what comes next.
"You were remembering Marco," Dom says. It's not a question.
"I killed him." The words come out broken, scraped from the deepest part of my throat. "Not the bomb. Not the Calabrians. Me. I drove him away when he needed me most. I was so afraid of losing him to love that I lost him to pride instead."
"Alessandro—"
"He was better than me," I whisper, the admission tearing at my chest. "Marco was everything I should have been and wasn't brave enough to become. He was the strongest person I knew. Strong enough to choose love in a world that punishes it. Strong enough to believe that some things matter more than survival."
The weight of it crashes over me—five years of carrying the knowledge that my last words to my son were designed to hurt him. That I chose cruelty over honesty because I was too cowardly to admit I was terrified of losing him.
"And now I'm doing it again," I say, the realization hitting like a physical blow. "Enzo stood in that room today and told me that Noah makes him stronger, not weaker. That they're partners, equals, two people who chose each other with full knowledge of what that choice means. And instead of hearing him, instead of learning from the mistake that cost me everything, I gave him the same ultimatum that drove Marco away."
"It's not too late to fix this."
"Isn't it? You saw his face, Dom. The way he looked at me when I told him to choose. That was the same look Marco gave me five years ago. The look that says 'I can't believe you're asking me to destroy myself to make you feel safe.'"
Dom steps closer, his voice gentle but firm. "But Enzo isn't walking away. Not yet. He's trying to find a way to keep both—his family and the person he loves."
I think about that. About my son spending the next twenty-four hours trying to figure out how to choose love without losing family. Because he's a better man than his father ever was.
"He's always tried to please me," I say quietly, the admission scraping my throat raw. "Ever since Marco died, Enzo's done everything in his power to be the son I needed. Never complained when I pulled away, when I made our relationship about duty instead of affection. He's carried the weight of being my only remaining heir without ever asking why I couldn't love him the way I loved his brother."
"You do love him the way you loved Marco."
"I love him more. And that's the problem." The admission comes out broken, bleeding. "I loved Marco with the confidence that I had two sons. That if something happened to one, the other would carry on our name, our legacy, our family. But Enzo... Enzo is all I have left. And losing him would end me."
The truth of it sits between us like a loaded gun. Because that's what this has always been about—not protecting Enzo from the world, but protecting myself from the possibility of surviving him.
"Then don't lose him."
Dom reaches into his jacket and pulls out his phone, holding it toward me like a lifeline. "Call Sergei Aslanov. Tonight. Talk to him father to father. Find out if he's as concerned about this relationship as you are."
The suggestion terrifies me in a way that violence never has. Because talking to Sergei means admitting that I might be wrong. Means opening a door I've kept locked since the day I buried my firstborn.
My hands are shaking when I take the phone.
"Get me Sergei Aslanov's private number," I tell Dom, my voice barely steady. "I need to call him first. Tonight."
"And then?"
"If he's willing to listen, arrange a meeting. Tomorrow evening. Somewhere neutral on the island. That should give him enough time to fly here if he agrees to come."
I pause, thinking about the weight of what I'm about to attempt. "And Dom?"
"Yeah?"
"If this goes wrong, if I can't fix what I've broken with Enzo..." My voice cracks on the words. "Make sure he knows that every mistake I made came from loving him too much, not too little. Make sure he knows that losing him would destroy me faster than any bullet. That he was never the disappointment—I was."
My brother nods, scrolling through his contacts. "He knows, Alessandro. But maybe it's time you told him yourself."
Dom hands me his phone with Sergei's number already dialed. My finger hovers over the call button, hands trembling. One conversation that could save my relationship with my son or destroy it completely.
I press call.
The phone rings once. Twice. On the third ring, a familiar voice answers—controlled, cautious.
"Dominic. This is unexpected."
"It's not Dominic," I say quietly. "It's Alessandro Moretti."
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear my own heartbeat. When Sergei speaks again, his voice has shifted—harder, more guarded.
"Alessandro. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
There's no warmth in the words. No surprise. Which tells me he's been expecting this call, or at least something like it.
"I assume this is about our sons," he says finally. "Though I should mention that Noah hasn't said anything to me about... whatever this situation is. But I'm aware of what's been happening between them."
"You know about the relationship?"
"I know there's been talk. Videos circulating. Campus incidents. Hard to miss when your son's name is trending alongside another family's heir." His voice is carefully neutral. "So what is it you want to discuss, Alessandro?"
I take a breath, feeling the weight of what I'm about to do. "I'm going to do something out of character here, Sergei. I'm not a man of many words, and I'm damn sure not one to share my feelings or concerns with other families. But I need to talk to you about our sons."
There's a pause on the other end. When he speaks, his voice is more guarded. "I'm listening."
"I gave my son an ultimatum today. Twenty-four hours to choose between his family and your son."
"I see." Sergei's voice gives nothing away. "And how did that go?"
"About as well as you'd expect. He told me he'd choose Noah." I pause, the admission scraping my throat. "I'm calling because I think I made a mistake. A big one."
"What kind of mistake?"
"The kind that could cost me my son. I... I lost my older boy, Marco, five years ago. And watching Enzo now, seeing him make similar choices about love and relationships, it's bringing up fears I thought I'd buried."
There's a pause. When Sergei speaks again, his tone is more careful. "I'm sorry for your loss. I remember hearing about Marco."
"Thank you. But my point is... I reacted from that fear today. From trauma, not wisdom. And I'm starting to think that maybe I need to understand your son better before I decide he's a threat to mine."
"Noah isn't a threat to anyone, Alessandro. But he's also not going to be pushed around or controlled. If that's what you're looking for."
"That's not... that's not what I'm looking for. I'm looking for a way to protect both our sons without destroying what makes them happy."
Another silence. I can feel Sergei weighing my words, trying to determine if this is genuine or some kind of manipulation.
"What are you proposing?" he asks finally.
"A meeting. Face to face. Tomorrow evening if you can make it to the island. Somewhere neutral. Not to negotiate or threaten, but to talk. Father to father. About how we handle this without making the same mistakes our fathers made with us."
The silence stretches longer this time. I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.
"Where?" he asks finally.
"The Meridian Hotel. Presidential suite. Seven PM. Neutral ground - neither of our people control that territory."
"Agreed," Sergei says after a moment.
"Yes?"
"Come alone. This isn't about family politics or business alliances. This is about whether two fathers can find a way to let their sons be happy without getting them killed."
"I'll be there."
The line goes dead, and I hand the phone back to Dom, who's been watching this entire conversation with the expression of someone witnessing a miracle.
"Well?" he asks.
"He's coming. Tomorrow night."
"And?"
"And for the first time in five years, I think I might not lose another son to my own fear."
As Dom starts making arrangements, I lean against the window and stare out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, my son is trying to choose between his family and his heart, working through the impossible equation I've created.
But maybe—maybe it doesn't have to be an equation with only one solution. Maybe love doesn't have to be the enemy of survival if the people who matter are strong enough to protect it together.
Twenty-four hours.
I gave Enzo twenty-four hours to make a choice that should never have been his to make.
Now I have less than twenty-four hours to prove that his father is capable of growth. That love doesn't have to be a weakness if the people who matter are brave enough to defend it.
Time to find out if I'm half the man my sons believed I could be.
Time to find out if it's possible to love someone without destroying them in the name of protection.
Time to break the cycle that's poisoned three generations of Moretti men.
Time to become the father Marco needed and Enzo deserves.
One conversation at a time.