67. Chapter 58
Lorenzo
One year, seven months after the fire
We decide to hold the foundation’s opening gala in what was once a Diamante-owned warehouse on the waterfront.
It’s unrecognizable now: glass walls, community spaces, a mural on one side painted by some local kids.
The old operation used to extort their families through a protection racket. Now, we’re helping fund their schools.
I’ve walked the property a dozen times, or more, in the month since my release. Even after that, it still doesn’t feel real.
Agathe finds me standing near the water, where our property overlooks an old wharf. “You ready?” she asks with a smile. She looks smart in a black dress, her gray hair twisted in a chignon.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. I know she means for my speech, but a part of me wonders if I’m ready for any of this. Am I ready for the world to know the new Lorenzo Diamante?
She rubs my arm encouragingly. “You’ll do great. They’re ready for you in there.”
The large community room is full of reporters and city officials.
Pepe holds court near the bar. His new role as philanthropic boardmember looks good on him.
He hasn’t gone back to managing nightclubs, though he’s talked about maybe expanding into hotels.
Carlo, gray and steady, watches the whole event with quiet satisfaction.
He knows, and I know, that my father would be proud.
I get up to the podium before the large gathering of people.
Since leaving my old life behind, I’ve also left my old style.
Rather than wearing a crisp black tux to tonight’s opening, I’ve opted for something that feels more human—and strangely, more like me: slim dark jeans, a gray henley, and a suede sport coat.
They’re smart, casual clothes. They make me feel human, not like something trying to be more than human.
“Thank you, everyone, for being here,” I say. I don’t have a teleprompter, just a thin stack of notecards that I’ll consult if I need them. “It’s with great humility that I welcome you to the official opening of the Diamante Family Foundation. I—”
And then I see him.
I hadn’t expected him to come. The event is open to the public, so I knew that there was, objectively, a chance he would be here, but I never thought he’d show up.
In the last eighteen months, I’ve thought about him more than I’d like to admit.
Now he’s here, across the room, standing near the entrance with his coat still on. Our eyes meet, and that watchful hazel gaze of his gives nothing away. He looks older, more sure of himself.
He gives me a subtle nod.
“Excuse me,” I say into the mic. “I lost my thoughts there, for a moment.” I glance at the notecards, then slide them into my pocket.
When I speak, it’s to the entire room, but my words are meant for only one man.
“Almost two years ago, now, I decided that I had to change. That I had to become a new man. I did terrible things to you, as did my family. It no longer pains me to admit that I had become ashamed of who I was. At first, I think, I wanted to change for you. I wanted to become some version of myself that, maybe, you hoped a man like me could be.”
Off to the side of the stage, I notice Carlo and Agathe exchanging a look. These aren’t my prepared remarks.
“After a while,” I continue, “I realized that you can’t change for anyone but yourself, and you can’t change for any reason beyond the fact that it’s the right thing to do.
I needed to change. To become better. Not because I wanted to earn your favor or your forgiveness, but simply because it was right. ”
I pause, letting my words sink in. Across the room, Dash doesn’t move. Doesn’t lower his eyes from mine.
I keep speaking. My words could be construed as a speech to the whole city—at least, that’s what I hope the journalists and reporters take away from this—but the message is just for Dash.
“It’s been nineteen months, and I am a changed man.
That does not, by any means, say that I’m owed your forgiveness or that I’m owed a second chance.
” I spread an arm, humbly indicating the community center around me.
“Hopefully you can see this as just one humble example of a promise I need you to hear: that, if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life living each day to be a better man than I was the day before. ” I nod quickly. “Thank you.”
My hands are shaking as I get off the stage to raucous applause. Pepe catches my arm as soon as my shoes touch the floor. “What was that?” he hisses. “I mean, that was good. But where the hell did it come from?”
“Dash is here,” is all I manage to say.
Pepe’s eyes widen. “Oh. Damn.”
But I’m already walking away from him, my steps taking me across the room, straight to Dash.
He watches me the whole way, standing his ground, neither retreating nor advancing. He just waits for me, his hands in the pockets of his coat.
“You’re here,” I say when I reach him. I can’t think of anything else to say, and groveling isn’t appropriate in this setting.
“I saw in the news it’d be happening.” His voice is as dry as I remember, but there’s something looser about it.
He seems…more confident. More self-assured.
It makes my heart crack. “I figured I should see if it was true.” He smiles tightly.
“That whole ‘I’m going to give it all away and do something good’ vibe… I had my doubts.”
I raise my eyebrows expectantly. “And?”
He shrugs. “Eh. Jury’s still out.” Then a small, real smile undercuts his sly words. “It’s a nice building, Lorenzo. You guys did something good here.”
My nerves unclench. “Thank you,” I say, meaning it. Just hearing him say my name makes me want to touch him, to take him, but I can’t do that.
“I like that mural on the wall,” he adds.
“Some local kids painted it.”
“They did well.”
We lapse into silence after that. My instinct is to rush to fill it, and I get the sense that he wants that, too, but maybe we’ve both learned a bit about the value of silence.
Finally, I decide to speak simply from the heart. “It’s good to see you, Dash. And I’m glad you’re here. It means a lot.”
He studies me for a long moment, and I let him, standing there under the weight of his gaze. Letting him decide on his own what he thinks of me.
When he speaks, I almost think I haven’t heard him right. “Will you get dinner with me? Not tonight, obviously. You’ve clearly got some hands to shake. But, would you, soon? I think it would be good for us to talk.”
Relief split open within me. I don’t even need to consider before saying, “Yes. God, of course.”
Three days later, I meet him at a Vietnamese place in North Beach, his recommendation.
We talk for two hours, and almost none of it has anything to do with anything that happened between us almost two years ago.
He tells me about his life recently, about dinners with Nick and Tristan, and about game nights with Grandma Novak, about exploring new clubs with Kenny, and about how he’s considering getting cross-trained as a paramedic.
I tell him about my time in prison, about the books that I read, the friends (and possible enemies) that I made, about how I still couldn’t bring myself to visit my mother, and how it made me sick that someone was already making a sexed-up dramatization of my brother’s life for some streaming service.
“You know they asked if I wanted to cameo?” he says dryly as we order coffees to drink after our food. “I said no, of course.”
I grin at him. “You should’ve said yes. You’d look great on the screen.”
One year, nine months after the fire
Dinner at the Vietnamese place in North Beach wasn’t our last dinner together.
It was followed by several more, often by drinks and promises to do it again soon.
It took over a month of these dinners before we could talk about anything that had happened between us. Before I was able to finally share the sincere apology that I’d needed to for so long. Before he looked me in the eyes and told me in the softest voice that he’d forgiven me a long time ago.
We’ve been seeing each other now for two months, two months during which we haven’t so much as kissed.
I’ve wanted to—have wanted much more than that, in fact—but we’ve both restrained ourselves.
I think we both want to see if this connection between us has more to it than just the erotic because, well, because we’d never given ourselves much time to explore that beforehand.
Then, one night after we get back from the theater, and we take the elevator to my new apartment, and after I’ve offered him a drink, and have fetched a bottle of wine from the sideboard, I turn around and find him on his knees.
Instantly, I stop, and nearly drop the wine.
His eyes are downcast, his head bowed slightly, his hands folded neatly in his lap. My heart stutters, my nerves tingling warmly in anticipation and recognition.
Yes, something in me says. Yes, this is right.
“What are you doing?” I ask quietly, not walking toward him, as much as I would like to.
“Waiting for your instructions,” he says. “Sir.”
There again inside me: that immediate, unapologetic desire.
“For my instructions?”
“Yes. I want you to tell me what to do.”
Slowly and carefully, I return the bottle of wine to the sideboard.
The sight of Dash waiting, submissive and ready, for my instructions doesn’t do the same wild thing it once did to me.
No, instead it provokes a deeper, warmer urge.
The urge to—yes—use him, but also to cherish him, to reward him, to praise him and claim him and honor him.
“Then look up at me,” I murmur, my voice gentle.
Dash does, his gaze rising to mine. Those large hazel eyes are round, and not as innocent as they once were, but filled with trust. Trust that we’ve worked hard to rebuild after I broke it so badly.
This act of submission, I know, is the greatest form of forgiveness Dash can give me.
I don’t take it lightly.
“Such a good boy,” I praise him, coming closer to him and gently running my fingers through his hair. His eyes drift shut with pleasure as I scratch his scalp, massaging his head.
“I’ve tried to be patient,” he says. “So patient. It’s been so hard.”
“Then, I think it’s time you get a reward.” With that, I scoop him up in my arms, cradling him to my chest, and take him down the hall to my bedroom.
When I lay him down on my mattress, there’s no roughness to my movements. Only a certain tenderness that I forgot I was capable of.
Dash is pliant and willing beneath me. I take my time removing his clothes, leaving him naked and ready, while my clothes stay on. I worship every inch of his body, my mouth craving his taste, which I’ve never forgotten.
We kiss for a long time, aching, hungry kisses full of tongue and teeth, and then I flip him on his stomach, spreading his cheeks and spitting on his hole before feasting on it like a man deprived of food.
He squirms and moans beneath me, begging for more, and when at last I decide that he’s ready, I strip off my own clothes, fetch a bottle of lube, and ready myself to fuck him.
Nothing fancy tonight. No tools or toys or punishment, just sex.
But it’s excellent sex. I take him while he’s on his back, so that I can look into his eyes, and I demand that he keeps his eyes on me the whole time. There’s something incredibly intimate about our fucking—our lovemaking—while I plunge into him repeatedly, our gazes never wavering from each other.
He whimpers a bit at the stretch, but he doesn’t complain, my good boy doesn’t complain, and when I cum inside him, it’s like I’m sowing a seed in a garden that is finally ready to bloom again.
After he cums, I carry him to the shower, where I spend my time cleaning him, holding him, taking care of him. Then, once we’ve both dried off, I ask him, instead of telling him, “Will you stay?”
He smiles at me. “I’d like that. A lot.”
Two years after the fire
The Foundation’s second gala, a fundraiser for another community center, is a huge success. But the amount of money we raise isn’t the only reason I’m glowing with pride, with joy, throughout the night.
Dash doesn’t leave my side all night long.
I hold his hand loosely in mine, or keep my hand gently on his lower back, even as we meet donors and city officials.
He charms them with his dry wit, repeating again and again the story of how we met when he pulled me from a fire, the moment that started this all.
Really, I tell anyone who will listen, I owe all of this to him.
Near the end of the night, when Pepe manages to steal me away for a private toast, he nods back out at the event, where Dash is standing in his suit and laughing and talking with the mayor. “Your boyfriend is pretty damn good at this,” he says appraisingly.
“He’s good at everything,” I say, and Pepe rolls his eyes but raises his glass anyway.
Two years and five months after the fire
It’s an ordinary Wednesday. Dash comes home at 7:30 from a shift at Station 27, smelling of smoke as he always does, and I have breakfast on the stove and coffee ready for him.
“Good shift?” I ask, sparing a moment to lean down and give him a kiss.
“Excellent. Grandma came by and led us in bingo during our downtime. She asked where you were. Said she wanted to beat your ass.”
“In bingo, or physically?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t ask. Is that coffee for me?”
I pinch his ass playfully. “It is if you ask nicely.”
He bats his pretty eyes at me. “Can I please have some coffee, sir?”
We both laugh at that. We don’t always play the Dom/sub role anymore, but when we do, it feels right, and I pour him some coffee, thinking that this is how I’d like to start all my mornings. For the rest of my life.
The words are out of my mouth without any planning: “Dash.” I catch his wrist. “I love you.”
His eyes widen, forgetting his coffee, and leans up to kiss me. “I love you too, Lorenzo.”
I wrap him in my arms. “Thank you for a second chance.”
He nestles his head against my chest, warm and safe. “I’m as thankful for it as you are.”
Three years after the fire
“I want to take you somewhere,” I tell him one ordinary evening when the two of us are tangled together on our couch after finishing a Nora Ephron movie.
Dash looks up at me, naked in my arms. “Yeah? Where?”
“Sicily. I’ve been wanting to go back, and I don’t want to go alone.”
His face breaks into a grin. “When?”
I shrug, the movement jostling him slightly. “Whenever you want to go.”
He nuzzles closer. “Consider me packed.”