The apartment door feels like it weighs a thousand pounds when I push it open. Like every step toward him is dragging me deeper into something I can't survive losing.
I can smell something cooking—garlic and tomatoes—and for one devastating second, it almost breaks me completely. Because this is what normal looks like. This is what we could have if the world wasn't trying to tear us apart.
The controlled calm shatters the moment Enzo appears in the kitchen doorway. Whatever fragile peace he'd found in cooking dies when he sees my face. His golden eyes go sharp, desperate, cataloging every micro-expression like he's trying to memorize me before I disappear.
"What happened?" we both ask at exactly the same time.
The simultaneous question hangs between us like a death sentence, and I see my own devastation reflected in his face. We both look like we've been through hell. We both look like we're carrying news that could destroy everything we've built.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
I just stand there staring at him—at this beautiful, dangerous man I've learned to love in a world that punishes it—and feel something crack apart inside my chest. Not break. Shatter. Like every wall I've ever built is crumbling all at once.
The silence stretches, and I can see it's destroying him. His hands are clenched into fists, muscles coiled like he's about to tear something apart. The way he's standing, the tension radiating off him—he looks like a man barely holding himself together.
But I can't speak. Can't form words around the devastation choking me.
Twenty-one years of conditioning screaming at me to shut down, to disappear into silence when the world becomes too much. But Enzo is standing there looking like he's about to combust, and I realize that my breakdown is making his worse.
"You first," I manage, my voice coming out broken. Raw. "Tell me what put that look in your eyes."
The words unlock something in him. He starts pacing immediately, all that contained violence finally finding an outlet in movement. But it's desperate now, frantic, like a caged animal that knows the cage is about to become a coffin.
"My father called me to the estate today." His voice is flat, but I can hear the rage underneath. The pain. The fucking terror. "When I got there, I could see the extra security before I even reached the gates. Black SUVs, men in expensive suits."
I sink onto the couch because my legs won't hold me anymore. Because I know what that kind of family meeting means. I know what comes after.
"What did he want?" The question comes out like a prayer. Like I'm begging him to tell me something—anything—other than what I know he's about to say.
"To give me an ultimatum." Enzo stops pacing, turns to face me, and I can see the exact moment he decides to tear his own world apart. "Twenty-four hours to choose between you and my family. Between love and loyalty."
The words hit like bullets, each one tearing through me with surgical precision.
"And what did you tell him?" My voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. Like I'm drowning in the reality of what we're facing.
"I told him I choose you." The words come out like a battle cry. Like a declaration of war against everyone who thinks they can control us. "If he thinks he can come here and take away what is mine, then he out of his damn mind, family or not."
Something breaks open in my chest. Something that's been locked away for so long I'd forgotten it existed. The part of me that dares to hope. That dares to fight.
"Noah." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer. Like a curse. Like something he's willing to bleed for, willing to die for.
I can't breathe. Can't think past the roaring in my head. But Enzo is standing there looking at me like I'm his salvation and his destruction rolled into one, and I realize I don't care about vulnerability anymore. Don't care about weapons or enemies or any of the careful calculations that have kept me safe for twenty-one years.
I care about him.
And that terrifies me more than any threat ever has.
"Now tell me about your day," he says, crossing to the couch and sinking down beside me. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Close enough that his proximity cuts through the white noise screaming in my head. "Because you walked in here looking like someone declared war on your entire existence."
"Because someone did." I run both hands through my hair, trying to organize the chaos. "Declan O'Reilly cornered me after class today."
Enzo goes completely still beside me. The stillness of a predator calculating the most efficient way to commit murder.
"What did he want?"
"To make threats about your sister. To let me know he thinks I don't belong in this world." The words taste like ash, like blood. "He made it very clear that he sees me as some outsider who walked in and claimed you without earning the right."
"What kind of threats about Valentina?"
"The kind that involve stalking her around campus and making promises about hide and seek games. About what he'd like to show her about how the world really works." The memory makes my skin crawl, makes every violent instinct I have scream for blood. "He talked about her like she's already his. Like it's just a matter of time before he gets his hands on her."
"Motherfucker." The word comes out like a prayer for violence. Like a promise of death. "I should have killed him that night at The Anchor."
"This isn't your fault."
"Isn't it?" His voice carries guilt and rage and self-hatred in equal measure. "I'm the one who started that fight. I painted a target on all of us because I can't control my fucking temper when someone insults my sister."
I turn to face him fully, seeing the self-recrimination eating him alive.
"You protected your sister. You stood up for your family. That's not something to apologize for. But I'm the one that choked him, embarrassed him in front of everyone and that's what he's holding on to."
"He's not going to stop, Enzo. This isn't about wounded pride anymore. This is about proving a point."
"What kind of point?"
"That love makes us weak. That caring about people gives our enemies weapons to use against us." The realization hits like ice water flooding my veins. "He's going after Valentina because he knows it'll destroy you. He's going after you because he knows it'll destroy me."
"Then we prove him wrong."
"How?"
"By showing him that love doesn't make us weak. It makes us willing to do things that would terrify the devil himself."
"There's more," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "After my confrontation with Declan, my father called."
Enzo's entire body goes rigid. "Your father called you?"
"Apparently, your father called him first. Told him about our relationship."
The change in Enzo is instantaneous. Devastating. He shoots off the couch like he's been electrocuted, hands clenching into fists as pure rage transforms his face into something terrifying.
"He said he gave me twenty-four hours." The words come out like broken glass. "He fucking lied. He gave me an ultimatum and then immediately went behind my back."
"Enzo—"
"Twenty-four hours!" He's pacing now like a caged animal, violence radiating off him in waves. "He looked me in the eye and said I had twenty-four hours to decide, and then he picked up the phone the second I left."
"I trusted him!" The words explode out of him, raw and broken. "I fucking trusted that he meant what he said, and he played me like some amateur."
He slams his fist into the wall, and I hear the drywall crack. Blood appears on his knuckles, but he doesn't even notice. His breathing is getting more erratic, more dangerous.
"I'm going to kill him." The words come out flat, certain. "I'm going to fucking kill him for lying to my face."
He heads toward the door, and panic floods my system.
"Enzo, stop." I jump up, grabbing his arm. "Where are you going?"
"To find him. To remind him what it feels like to lie to a Moretti. He should know, he invented it."
"You can't." I tighten my grip on his arm, feeling the violence coiled in his muscles. "You can't go after your father right now. Not like this."
"Watch me."
"No." I step in front of him, blocking his path to the door. "I won't let you destroy yourself because of me."
"This isn't about you, Noah. This is about him lying to my face."
"Enzo." My voice cuts through his rage like a blade. "Look at me, devil."
Him hearing me call him that stops him cold. His head snaps up, golden eyes wild and dangerous, but I can see him spiraling. See the way his hands are shaking with the need for violence, for pain, for something to ground him when his world is falling apart.
I know what he needs.
Without hesitation, I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around him in a crushing embrace. My arms circle his torso, and I squeeze—hard. Hard enough that I feel him gasp as the pressure hits his still-healing ribs.
"Noah—" he starts, but I squeeze harder.
"You're mine," I say against his ear, applying steady pressure to those broken ribs that haven't fully healed yet. "And I know what you need."
I feel him shudder against me, feel the way his body responds to the sharp edge of pain. It's not about hurting him—it's about giving him something real to focus on when his mind is spinning out of control.
"That's it," I murmur, maintaining the pressure. "Feel that. Focus on that instead of the rage."
His breathing starts to even out, the wild fury in his eyes dimming to something more manageable. The pain grounds him, brings him back to himself in a way that words never could.
"Better?" I ask, loosening my grip slightly but not letting go.
"Yeah," he breathes, and I can hear the wonder in his voice. "You're the only one who knows. The only one who understands what I need."
"You didn't even let me finish saying what I had to say before you tried to go on a murdering spree," I point out, and there's a hint of amusement in my voice despite everything.
"I'm sorry, my beautiful monster. What did your father say?"
I keep my arms around him, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing against my chest. "My father... didn't take it well. When he asked me if I was in love with you, I told him yes. And when he asked if you loved me, I told him yes." The words taste like ash. "For thirty seconds, he said absolutely nothing. And then he told me he was flying here tonight to discuss the situation I'd created."
"Tonight?"
"It will be fine."
Enzo studies my face for a long moment, like he's trying to read the truth behind my words. "Come on," he says finally, taking my hand. "Dinner's ready. We need to eat."
I let him lead me to the kitchen, where the lasagna sits golden and perfect on the counter. The normalcy of it—the careful layers, the melted cheese, the way he's set the table with actual plates and silverware—almost breaks me all over again.
"You made this while processing your father's ultimatum?" I ask, watching him cut clean squares and serve them onto our plates.
"I needed to keep my hands busy. Needed something that required focus." He pours wine into two glasses, his movements precise despite everything. "Cooking helps me think."
We sit across from each other at the small table, and for a few minutes, we just eat in silence. The lasagna is perfect—rich and warm and tasting like home should taste. Like safety. Like the life we could have if the world would just let us.
"This is incredible," I say, and I mean it. "When did you learn to cook like this?"
"When I was young, from my grandmother, before she died. She said a man who couldn't feed the people he loved wasn't much of a man at all." Enzo's smile is soft, distant. "She taught me that food is love made visible."
The words hit me harder than they should. Because this is love, isn't it? This careful preparation, this need to nourish and comfort even in the middle of chaos. This refusal to let the world's brutality stop him from creating something beautiful.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For this. For taking care of us when everything is falling apart."
"Always," he says simply. "No matter what happens, I'll always take care of you."
But even as we eat, even as we try to pretend this is just another evening together, the reality of what we're facing crashes over me like a tidal wave. Tomorrow, we might lose everything. Tomorrow, they might succeed in tearing us apart.
"I need you," I say, and the words come out broken. Desperate. Raw. "Right now. I need to feel you, need to know you're real, need to—"
He's on me before I can finish the sentence, mouth crashing against mine with the kind of desperation that tastes like goodbye. Like he's trying to memorize the shape of my lips, the way I gasp when his teeth scrape my bottom lip.
"Noah," he breathes against my mouth, and my name sounds like a prayer. Like a plea. "Fuck, I need you too. Need to feel you around me, need to mark every inch of your skin until there's no question who you belong to."
We stumble toward the bedroom, hands tearing at clothes, mouths never breaking contact. There's nothing gentle about this. Nothing soft or romantic. This is pure desperation, pure need, the kind of claiming that leaves bruises and bite marks and proof that we were here, that we mattered, that what we have is worth destroying everything for.
Enzo pushes me onto the bed and follows me down, his weight settling over me like salvation. Like coming home. His hands are everywhere—mapping my ribs, my hips, the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammers against his palm.
"Mine," he growls against my neck, teeth scraping over sensitive skin. "Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever they try to do to us, you're mine. Say it."
"Yours," I gasp, arching into his touch. "Always yours. And you're mine, Enzo. No matter what they threaten, no matter what ultimatums they give us."
The words seem to snap something in him. He claims my mouth again, kissing me like he's trying to crawl inside my soul. Like he's trying to merge us into one person so no one can ever separate us again.
When he pushes inside me, it's with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred things. Slow and deliberate and so fucking careful, like he's afraid I might break. But I don't want careful. Not tonight.
"More," I demand, nails digging into his shoulders. "Harder. I need to feel you for days. Need to carry the memory of this when—"
"Don't." His voice cracks. "Don't talk about after. Right now, there's just us. Just this."
So I don't talk. I let him set the pace, let him take what he needs while giving me everything I'm desperate for. Every thrust drives home the reality of what we have, what we're fighting for. Every kiss tastes like promises we might not be able to keep.
When we fall apart, it's together. Always together. Like even in this, we refuse to be separated.
Afterward, we lie tangled in the sheets, both of us marked and claimed and thoroughly destroyed. But the fear creeps back in almost immediately. The knowledge that this might be—
"It won't be the last time," Enzo says quietly, like he can read my thoughts. "Whatever they say tomorrow, whatever conditions they try to place on us, this isn't ending."
"I've never..." I start, then stop. Because how do I explain that I've never felt like this before? That everything before him was just bodies and release and forgetting?
"Never what?"
"Kissed someone like that. Like I needed it to survive." The admission scrapes my throat raw. "Before you, it was always just... physical. Quick. Anonymous. Hook up, get off, leave before it could mean anything."
Enzo's hand stills on my chest. "Same. I thought kissing was just foreplay. Something you did to get to the real thing." His voice drops to something vulnerable, broken. "I didn't know it could feel like drowning and breathing at the same time."
"I love kissing you, do you know that Noah?" His voice is soft, vulnerable in the darkness. "I never enjoyed kissing anyone before. It was always just something I did to get to the real thing. But with you I can't stop myself. I could kiss you for hours and still want more."
"And I love looking in your eyes when you're filled with so much passion and fire," I whisper back, tracing his jaw with trembling fingers. "It's like a pool of golden fire that could set my soul on fire. And it does, just like your touch does to me each time."
"You're the first person I ever let my guard down with," Enzo admits against my skin. "The first person I ever let dominate me. I was always the one doing the fucking before you."
"God, that should show you that you fucked my head up from the start," he continues, his voice rough and broken.
"Good," I whisper. "Now you know how I feel."
"Promise me," I whisper into the darkness. "Promise me that no matter what they threaten, no matter what they offer or what they take away, we fight for this. Even if it means walking away from everything else."
"I promise." His arms tighten around me like he's trying to merge us into one person. "I promise that I'll choose you over family duty, over business alliances, over everything they taught me about survival. Because you're not just what I want anymore, Noah. You're what I need to breathe."
"And I promise that I'll choose you over twenty-one years of conditioning, over my father's approval, over every instinct that tells me to stay safe and invisible." I press my face into his neck, breathing him in like he's oxygen. "Because loving you is the first brave thing I've ever done. And I'm not going back to being a coward."
"Before I let anyone take this away from me, I'll burn this fucking world down," I add, and the words come out like a vow. Like a promise written in blood.
We fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other like we're afraid the other might disappear in the night. And maybe we are afraid. Maybe tomorrow really will change everything. Maybe this really is the last time we'll have this—this perfect, desperate, consuming love that's worth destroying everything for.
But right now, in this moment, we're together. We're whole. We've shared pieces of our souls that we've never given to anyone else.
And that has to be enough.
Because tomorrow night, our fathers are going to learn that the boys they raised are gone. What's left is something that chooses love over fear and backs that choice with the willingness to destroy anyone who stands in our way.
And that's the most terrifying weapon of all.