It had been 'three days' since Noah had come to live with Alessio Romano.
Three days of quiet wars and unspoken thoughts.
At first, Noah was thankful to whatever god was listening. He could've ended up with some perverted old man, a brute who would chain him up in a basement, or worse. Alessio wasn't any of those. He gave him space. He didn't touch him. Didn't even come near unless necessary.
But that didn't mean their coexistence was peaceful.
Noah's mouth had a life of its own.
He complained about everything—**the marble floors were too cold, the ceilings too high, the mansion too clean, the hallways too echo-y**—and he had a *very* particular grudge against the silence. "It's like a graveyard. Why is your house so dead? You're rich. Can't you buy some noise?"
Alessio, for the most part, either ignored him completely or gave him a look that made the air drop ten degrees.
Theo and Enzo couldn't believe it.
Alessio Romano—**cold-blooded, obsessive, infamously temperamental**—was letting a little omega brat stomp around his house and scream about 'ghost floors' and oversized pants. If it were anyone else, that person would be six feet under by now—or in his torture basement.
But Alessio was calm.
Too calm.
The man didn't even raise an eyebrow when Noah called him *"you stone-faced villain"* in the hallway.
It was evening when Alessio finally emerged from his private wing, dark shirt rolled at the sleeves, tie undone lazily, and hair slightly damp as if he'd just come out of the shower.
Noah, dressed in one of Alessio's black button-up shirts—**which practically swallowed him whole**—perked up like a dog hearing its master return.
He ran toward him.
"**Finally!** You. Listen." Noah grabbed the hem of the shirt and tugged it. "These are all *huge*! Your shirts are big, your boxers are bigger, and your pants? They *don't even stay up!* I had to tie them with a shoelace today! Do you *want* me to flash someone?"
Alessio blinked slowly.
His eyes dropped to Noah's bare legs, where the long shirt barely covered his thighs.
A pause.
Then he muttered darkly, "Nobody sees you but me."
Noah blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I said, I'll get you something. Tomorrow. Tailor."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"You're just saying that, you emotionally constipated—"
Before he could finish the insult, the door flew open.
"Did someone say emotionally constipated?" Enzo strutted in, grinning. "Damn, I missed this circus."
Theo followed, arms crossed. "How is he not dead yet?"
Alessio ignored both of them and moved toward the bar. "What do you want?"
"Us?" Theo smirked. "Oh, nothing. Just came to check if the *great mafia king* needed a leash for his new kitten."
Noah gaped. "I'm not a—"
"Shut up," Alessio said casually. "Or I won't take you to the tailor."
Noah shut up.
Theo snorted. "Wow. That worked."
Enzo pointed a finger dramatically. "Wait, wait, wait—so *you* knew he was wearing your shirts?"
Alessio downed a glass of scotch. "Obviously."
"And underwear?"
Alessio raised a brow. "Yes."
"And that didn't bother you?"
"No."
Noah suddenly whispered, "...You like it."
The room fell quiet.
Alessio's eyes slid toward him, dark and unreadable.
Noah backed up slowly. "I mean—not like that. I mean, maybe you just have a thing for loose laundry. Or your laundry has a thing for me. Who knows? Weird stuff happens."
Alessio stepped closer.
Theo grabbed Enzo's arm. "He's gonna die. This is the moment."
Noah gulped.
But Alessio didn't shout. Didn't curse.
Instead, he leaned down just a little and said in a voice soft like velvet and dangerous like poison—"Keep talking, and I'll buy you *nothing* but collars."
Noah's eyes went wide.
Theo wheezed. "I take it back. *This* is the moment."
Enzo clapped. "Oh, we love a domestic mafia couple."
Alessio straightened. "We leave at ten tomorrow. Wear something."
"I literally don't *have* anything," Noah snapped.
"Then wear a curtain. I don't care."
Noah huffed. "This is abuse. I demand compensation. I'll sue you in mafia court."
Theo turned to Enzo. "There's no mafia court."
"I know."
Noah stomped his foot. "Then I want dessert."
"You didn't have dinner," Alessio said, now heading for his study.
"Because your chef is terrifying and tried to feed me squid ink pasta! I don't eat *black slime*! I'm not a demon!"
Alessio paused at the door.
"...You sure?" he muttered.
Noah threw a pillow at his back. "*Asshole!*"
Enzo and Theo were *howling*.
The last thing Noah heard before Alessio vanished into his study was his deep voice growling, "The only thing on display in this house is your damn attitude."
Noah stood there, stunned.
And then a small grin tugged at his lips.
He won.
He got clothes.
He had no idea why it made him feel oddly...victorious.
But just as he turned to leave the room, something heavy dropped in his chest.
That look in Alessio's eyes when he said no one could see him but him.
It wasn't playful. Wasn't teasing.
It was *possessive.*
Dangerously so.
And it hit Noah all over again—he was living with a mafia king. A man who bought him like a product. A man who hadn't even said why.
So why...why did his stomach flutter like that when their eyes met?
**He shook his head.**
No. He couldn't afford those thoughts.
This wasn't real. He was still a bird in a cage. No matter how beautiful the cage was, it was still a prison.
He turned to head back to his room.
And behind him, Alessio stood on the balcony of the study, watching him quietly through the glass.
There was no smile on his face.
Only a quiet storm building in his eyes.