Chapter 4 Luca #2
"You said their carbonara was the best in the city. I wanted to see if you were right." I started plating the food, trying not to make this feel like the production it actually was. "Wine?"
"Please."
I poured us both glasses—a Barolo that cost more than Valentino's monthly rent, but I didn't mention that. Didn't want to emphasize the wealth gap between us any more than necessary.
We sat at the dining table with the city lights spread out below us like a carpet of stars. For the first few minutes we ate in comfortable silence. The carbonara was excellent. Valentino had been right about that.
"This is weird," he said finally.
"Weird how?"
"Normal. We're having dinner like regular people. Like this is a date instead of..." He gestured vaguely between us. "Whatever complicated thing we actually are."
"Maybe it is a date."
"Dates usually don't start with one person blackmailing the other into compliance."
The blunt truth of it stung. "No. They don't. And I can't take that back. Can't undo the way this started." I set down my fork. "But I can try to make it something different going forward."
"How?"
"By being honest. By giving you actual choices instead of manufactured ones. By letting you see the real me instead of the performance." I met his eyes. "By hoping that somewhere under all the resentment and justified anger, you might actually want this too."
Valentino took a long sip of wine. "I do want this. That's what scares me. I should hate you. Should want nothing to do with you. But instead I spent all week hoping you'd actually follow through. Hoping this wasn't just another manipulation."
"It's not."
"How do I know that?"
Fair question. One I didn't have a good answer for except: "Time. Consistency. Me proving it over and over until you believe it."
He studied me for a long moment. Then: "Tell me something you've never told anyone."
The request caught me off guard. "What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Everything. I don't care." He leaned forward. "Just give me something that's actually you. Not the persona. You."
I thought about deflecting. About giving him something safe and controlled. But that's exactly what he was asking me not to do.
"I hate the opera," I said finally.
He blinked. "What?"
"The opera. Sandro loves it. Drags us to the Met regularly. I sit through entire performances pretending to appreciate it because that's what the persona would do. But honestly? I find it boring as hell. Give me jazz or blues or even complete silence and I'm happier."
A smile tugged at Valentino's lips. "That's your big secret? You don't like opera?"
"You said anything. That's something real." I took a drink of wine. "Your turn."
"My turn?"
"Fair is fair. Tell me something real about you."
He considered it. "I wanted to be a novelist. Not a journalist. I got into journalism school because it was practical, because I could make a living at it. But what I really wanted was to write fiction. Stories. Whole worlds I could create."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I was too practical. Too scared.
Convinced myself that exposing real corruption was more important than making up stories.
" He looked down at his plate. "But sometimes I wonder if I just chickened out.
If I chose journalism because it was safer than risking everything on something I might fail at. "
"You wouldn't have failed."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. Because I've read everything you've written and you're brilliant." I reached across the table and caught his hand. "You make facts read like stories. Give them narrative weight. That's a rare skill."
He looked at our joined hands like he was trying to figure out if it was a trap. "You really mean that."
"Every word."
We finished dinner talking about other things.
Books we'd read, places we'd been, the small details that build intimacy.
Valentino told me about growing up in Queens with a single mother who worked as a nurse.
About journalism school and the professors who'd pushed him to be better.
About the first story he'd published and how it had felt like vindication.
I told him about the boxing matches. About learning to read people by watching their fights, their tells, their weaknesses. About how Sandro had taught me to channel that skill into something more subtle. How I'd built persona piece by piece until I'd almost forgotten there was anyone underneath.
The honesty felt dangerous. Every admission was ammunition he could use against me. But I gave them freely because that's what trust required.
By the time we finished eating, something had shifted between us. The tension wasn't gone—would probably never be completely gone given how we'd started. But it had changed. Transformed from antagonistic to anticipatory.
"Come here." I stood and held out my hand.
He took it without hesitation this time. Let me pull him up and lead him to the windows overlooking the city. We stood there together, his back against my chest, my arms wrapped around him. Domestic and perfect and terrifying.
"I spent the week thinking about you," I said against his ear. "Wondering if you'd come. Hoping you would."
"I almost didn't." His voice was quiet. "Canceled three times in my head."
"What changed your mind?"
"I realized I needed to know if you were telling the truth. About giving me a choice. About wanting me beyond the arrangement." He leaned back into me. "And I realized I wanted it to be true."
I turned him in my arms so we were face to face. His hazel eyes were dark in the low lighting, pupils blown wide. I could see his pulse jumping in his throat, right over one of the marks I'd left.
"It is true," I said. "All of it."
"Prove it."
The challenge hung between us. I could see the exact moment he realized what he'd said. The flash of nervousness followed by determination. He wasn't backing down.
"How would you like me to prove it?" I kept my voice low, controlled, even though my pulse was racing.
"Kiss me. Like you mean it. Like this is real and not just—"
I didn't let him finish. Just closed the distance and captured his mouth with mine.
The kiss was different from the desperate collision in my office. Slower. More intentional. I took my time learning the shape of his lips, the taste of wine on his tongue, the small sound he made when I changed the angle.
He melted into me immediately. Hands fisting in my sweater, body pressing close, kissing me back with equal intensity. No hesitation. No resistance. Just wanting.
I walked him backward until his back hit the windows. Caged him there with my body but didn't crowd. Gave him space even while I took his mouth like I owned it.
Because I did. At least in this moment.
He owned me right back.
"Luca—" His voice was breathless when I moved to his jaw, down his throat, finding the marks I'd left. "What are you doing?"
"Proving it." I bit down gently on one of the healing marks and he gasped. "Showing you this is real."
"How?"
"By letting you choose." I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "What do you want, Valentino? Tell me and I'll give it to you."
He stared at me, processing the offer. "What if I want to leave?"
"Then I'll call you a car and let you go."
"What if I want to stay?"
"Then we move to my bedroom and I show you exactly how real this is."
His breath caught. I watched him think through the implications, weigh the options, make his choice.
"I want to stay."
The words sent heat straight through me. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
"Then say it clearly. Tell me what you want."
He swallowed hard. Met my eyes. "I want you to take me to your bedroom and fuck me. Not because you're forcing me. Not because I have no choice. Because I'm choosing this."
Perfect.
I kissed him again, harder this time. Possessive. Claiming. Then pulled back and took his hand. "Come with me."
I led him through the penthouse to my bedroom. The space I'd shown him earlier but not offered. Now he was here by choice and that made everything different.
I closed the door even though we were alone. Privacy. Intimacy. Making this space sacred.
"Last chance to change your mind." I stood by the door, giving him space. "You can leave right now. No consequences."
"Stop giving me outs." He moved closer. "I'm here. I'm choosing this. Stop trying to protect me from you."
"I'm trying to protect you from my need for control."
"Then let me have some control." He reached for me, fingers catching in my sweater. "Let me choose how this goes."
The offer surprised me. The persona would have said no immediately. Would have maintained dominance, controlled every moment. But I'd promised honesty. Promised to let him in.
"Okay." I let him pull me closer. "Show me what you want."
He kissed me first. Slow and thorough like he was proving a point. His hands slipped under my sweater, skating over skin, learning the shape of me. I let him explore. Let him set the pace even though every instinct screamed to take over.
When he pulled back to tug my sweater over my head, I lifted my arms and let him. When he pushed me backward toward the bed, I went. When he climbed into my lap and kissed me again, I let him lead.
But my patience had limits.
I flipped us smoothly, pinning him beneath me on the bed. He gasped against my mouth and I swallowed the sound.
"My turn," I said.
"I thought I had control."
"You had control. Now I'm taking it back." I caught his wrists and pinned them above his head. "Unless you want me to stop?"
"Don't stop." His pupils were blown wide, chest heaving. "But Luca—"
"What?"
"Don't hold back. I don't want you gentle and careful because you're trying to prove something. I want you real."
The words hit like permission I hadn't known I needed. "Real means I'm going to be demanding. Possessive. I'm going to fuck you until you can't think straight and mark you so everyone knows you're mine."
"Good." He arched up against me. "That's what I want."