Chapter 4 Luca
I'D BEEN STANDING in the foyer for ten minutes waiting for the elevator to arrive.
Pathetic. That's what this was. Luca Romano, the architect of the Vitale empire, reduced to pacing in front of an elevator like a nervous teenager waiting for his prom date.
The "if" was the part that had been eating at me all week.
I'd given him a choice. Real freedom to walk away. And for seven days I'd lived with the very real possibility that he'd choose to never see me again.
Seven days of not calling him. Not texting except for that one message about dinner preferences—casual, giving him space, proving I meant what I'd said about not controlling him anymore.
Seven days of questioning every decision I'd made in that office after I'd fucked him against the wall.
What if offering him freedom had been the wrong move? What if I should have kept the control, maintained the arrangement, not shown that much of my hand?
Except I couldn't. Not anymore. Something had shifted in me when I'd watched him come undone beneath my hands. When I'd heard my name fall from his lips like a prayer and a curse. When I'd realized I didn't just want to possess him—I wanted him to choose me.
The elevator dinged.
My heart rate spiked in a way that was completely inappropriate for someone who prided himself on control.
The doors slid open and there he was.
Valentino stepped into my foyer and for a moment we just looked at each other.
He wore dark jeans and a button-down shirt in deep blue that made his hazel eyes look almost green.
His curly hair was slightly disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it nervously.
He looked beautiful and uncertain and real.
Not the defiant journalist who'd glared at me over coffee three months ago. Not the resentful captive who'd submitted because he had no choice. Just Valentino, standing in my home because he'd decided to be here.
"Valentino." I kept my voice warm, genuine. "Come in."
He stepped fully off the elevator and the doors closed behind him with a quiet whoosh. Trapped. Except this time it was his choice to be trapped here with me.
"Hi." His voice was quieter than usual. Nervous energy radiated off him.
"I'm glad you came." I moved closer but kept space between us. Not crowding. Not using my physical presence to intimidate or seduce. Just... existing in the same space. "Can I take your jacket?"
He shrugged out of the light jacket and handed it to me. I hung it in the foyer closet, hyperaware of how domestic the gesture was. How normal. Like this was an actual date and not... whatever complicated thing we were doing.
"Your place is..." He looked around the foyer, taking in the modern art on the walls, the marble floors, the floor-to-ceiling windows visible through the archway leading to the main living space. "Exactly what I expected, actually."
"Should I be offended by that?"
"Depends. Do you want me to lie and say it's surprising?"
A smile tugged at my lips. There was the defiance I'd been waiting for. "I've had enough lying between us. I'd prefer honesty."
"Okay. Honest?" He met my eyes. "It's intimidating as hell. This place probably costs more than I'll make in my entire lifetime. The art on your walls is worth more than my apartment. I feel completely out of place."
The admission hit harder than it should have. I'd spent the week trying to make the penthouse more welcoming, but I'd forgotten that welcoming to someone like me wasn't the same as welcoming to someone like Valentino.
"You're not out of place." I stepped closer. "You're exactly where you should be."
"Luca—"
"Come on. Let me show you around."
I led him through the archway into the main living area.
The penthouse was open concept—living room flowing into dining area flowing into kitchen, all of it wrapped in windows overlooking Manhattan.
The furniture was modern and expensive because that's what my persona had. But this week I'd made changes.
Books on the coffee table instead of pristine empty surfaces. A throw blanket over the back of the couch where I'd actually used it. Music playing softly from the sound system—jazz, atmospheric, nothing aggressive. Evidence that someone actually lived here instead of just existing in a showroom.
Valentino noticed immediately. He moved to the coffee table and picked up one of the books. "You're reading Márquez?"
"I started it this week. You mentioned One Hundred Years of Solitude in one of your articles. Made me curious."
He set the book down carefully, like it might break. "You read my articles."
"Every one. Multiple times usually."
"Even the ones you didn't give me the information for?"
"Especially those." I moved to stand beside him. "The piece you published on the school board corruption was excellent. All your own work. No help from me."
His head snapped toward me. "You saw that?"
"I have Google alerts for your name." The admission should have embarrassed me but I was done hiding this. "I've had them since the day you published the Bianchi story. I read everything you write."
"That's—" He stopped. Regrouped. "Why?"
"Because you're brilliant. Because watching you work is fascinating. Because—" I caught myself before saying too much too soon. "Come on. I'll show you the rest."
I gave him the tour. Showed him the office where I worked when I wasn't at Inferno. The guest room that no one had ever used. The bathroom with its marble and glass and excessive luxury.
And then my bedroom.
I paused in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. Showing him this space felt more intimate than anything we'd done in my office. This was where I slept. Where I was vulnerable. Where performance dropped completely because there was no one to perform for.
"You don't have to show me if—" Valentino started.
"I want to." I stepped inside and he followed.
The room was simpler than the rest of the penthouse. King bed with dark sheets, minimal furniture, windows along one wall showing the city lights. Personal in ways the other spaces weren't.
Valentino moved to the window and looked out at Manhattan spread below us. "This view must cost a fortune."
"The view is why I bought the place." I came to stand beside him. "Sometimes I stand here at night and remember where I came from. Makes sure I don't forget."
"Where did you come from?"
The question I'd been dreading and wanting in equal measure.
"Queens. Astoria specifically. Shitty apartment with my mother who worked three jobs to keep us fed." The words came easier than I'd expected. "She died when I was seventeen. Left me with nothing but debt and a determination to never be that poor again."
"I'm sorry." Valentino's voice was soft. "About your mother."
"It was a long time ago." But it still hurt.
Always would. "I did what I had to do to survive.
Fought in illegal boxing matches for money.
Did jobs for people who didn't ask questions about my age or my ethics.
Sandro found me beating the shit out of someone who'd tried to rob me and saw something useful. "
"Useful." He repeated the word like it tasted bitter.
"I was nineteen, angry, and desperate. He offered me a place in his organization if I could prove myself.
So I did." I met his eyes. "I became his architect because that's what you have to do to survive in this world.
You create a persona. You charm people. You make them trust you while you're maneuvering them exactly where you need them to be. "
"Is that what you're doing with me?" His voice was careful. "Maneuvering me?"
"I was. At first." Honesty. He'd asked for honesty. "But not anymore. I can't perform around you, Valentino. You see through it too clearly."
He turned to face me fully. "Who are you without persona?"
The question I'd been asking myself all week.
"I don't know. That's the truth. I've been performing for so long I'm not sure where the persona ends and the real me begins." I touched his face, gentle, giving him the chance to pull away. "But I want to find out. And I think I can only do that with you."
"Why me?"
"Because you're the only person who makes me want to stop pretending."
The truth hung between us, raw and vulnerable. Valentino's breath caught and I saw something shift in his eyes. Recognition maybe. Or hope.
"I'm scared," he admitted quietly. "Of this. Of you. Of what it means that I'm here."
"I'm scared too." The words felt foreign but right. "I've never wanted someone like this. Never let anyone close enough to actually see me. It's terrifying."
"Then why are we doing this?"
"Because some things are worth being scared for."
He leaned into my touch, just slightly. Permission. "I researched you this week."
"I know. I got an alert that someone was digging through old property records." I smiled slightly. "Found the boxing photo, didn't you?"
"How did you—"
"I know you, Valentino. You're thorough. Of course you'd research." I brushed my thumb over his cheekbone. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"I found pieces. Enough to know that being the architect is armor. Protection. A way to survive in a world that would destroy you if you showed weakness." His eyes searched mine. "But I want to know the person underneath."
"Then stay. Get to know him. Let me prove this is real."
For a long moment he didn't respond. Then: "Okay."
One word. But it felt like a victory.
Dinner was waiting in the kitchen when we made our way back to the main living area. I'd ordered from Valentino's favorite restaurant—an Italian place in Brooklyn that he'd mentioned in passing during one of our meetings. The kind of detail my persona would have noted and used strategically.
But tonight I'd ordered it because I wanted him to feel comfortable. Wanted this to feel less like a performance and more like... what? A date? A beginning?
Whatever it was, I wanted it to be real.
"You ordered from Giovanni's." Valentino looked at the containers spread across the kitchen counter.