Chapter 5 Valentino
I WOKE UP to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and for a disorienting moment couldn't remember where I was.
Not my apartment. Not my bed. The sheets were too soft, the mattress too comfortable, the room too expensive to be mine.
Then I felt the weight of an arm across my waist and remembered everything.
Luca's penthouse. His bed. The fact that I'd chosen to be here.
I stayed very still, processing. Luca was pressed against my back, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Still asleep. His arm held me close but not possessively—just... holding me. Like this was normal. Like we did this all the time.
Except we didn't. This was new. Different. Chosen.
Last night had been different from our first time.
In his office it had been desperate, angry, a collision of want and resentment.
Last night had been... intentional. Slow.
He'd let me lead before taking control back.
Had checked in, made sure I wanted it, treated me like a person instead of a possession.
It had felt real.
The thought terrified me almost as much as it thrilled me.
I shifted slightly, testing if I could move without waking him. His arm tightened automatically and he made a low sound of protest.
"Stay." His voice was rough with sleep. "It's early."
"I should probably—"
"Please." He pressed his face against the back of my neck. "Just a few more minutes."
The vulnerability in his voice made my chest tight. This wasn't the persona speaking. This was just Luca, still half-asleep and wanting me to stay.
So I did.
We lay there in comfortable silence while the city woke up outside.
I could hear traffic far below, the distant sound of sirens, the hum of Manhattan coming to life.
But up here in Luca's penthouse, it felt separate from all that.
Like we existed in a bubble where the rest of the world couldn't reach us.
Eventually Luca's breathing changed, becoming more alert. His hand moved from my waist to my hip, tracing lazy patterns on my skin.
"Good morning," he said against my shoulder.
"Morning."
"Sleep well?"
"Better than I have in weeks, actually." It was true. Despite everything, despite all the complications, I'd slept deeply. Safely. "You?"
"Best I've slept in years." He kissed the back of my neck. "Having you here helps."
I didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to process the casual intimacy of it. So I just let myself feel it—the warmth of his body against mine, the gentle touch of his hands, the quiet comfort of not being alone.
"Coffee?" he asked after a while.
"God, yes."
He laughed and extracted himself from the bed. I turned to watch him pull on pajama pants—expensive, dark grey, low on his hips. No shirt. He looked rumpled and human and nothing like the perfectly polished businessman who'd threatened me in my kitchen two months ago.
"Stay here. I'll bring it to you."
"I can get up—"
"I know you can. But I want to bring it to you." He paused at the door. "Let me take care of you. Just for this morning."
Something in my chest cracked open at that. "Okay."
He disappeared through the doorway and I lay there processing the fact that Luca Romano wanted to bring me coffee in bed. That he wanted to take care of me. That this whole situation had somehow shifted from coercion to... what? Dating? A relationship?
I sat up and looked around the bedroom properly. Last night I'd been too focused on Luca to really notice the space. Now I took in the details.
It was simpler than I'd expected. The bed was massive and expensive but the rest of the furniture was minimal. A dresser. A chair by the window. Bedside tables with simple lamps. No art on the walls except one photograph—black and white, a city street I didn't recognize.
Personal but not revealing. Like Luca himself.
I got up and grabbed my boxer briefs from the floor, pulled them on. Felt less vulnerable with at least some clothing. Then I moved to the window and looked out at Manhattan spread below us.
This was Luca's view every morning. This expanse of wealth and power and possibility. So different from my cramped Brooklyn apartment with its view of the building next door.
"You're supposed to be in bed."
I turned to find Luca in the doorway holding two mugs. He'd put on a t-shirt—still rumpled, still human, still beautiful in a way that made my chest hurt.
"Sorry. Couldn't resist the view."
"It's better from the living room. I'll show you after coffee." He crossed to me and handed me a mug. "Cream, no sugar. Right?"
"You remembered."
"I remember everything about you." He said it casually, like it wasn't a huge admission. Like he hadn't just revealed that he'd been paying that much attention.
I took a sip. Perfect. Exactly how I liked it.
We stood at the window together, drinking our coffee in comfortable silence. The intimacy of it felt surreal. A week ago I'd been terrified of him. Two months ago he'd coerced me. Now we were standing in his bedroom drinking coffee like we were... together.
"What are you thinking?" Luca asked quietly.
"That this is weird."
"Weird how?"
"Normal. We're having coffee in the morning like regular people. Like this is..." I gestured vaguely between us. "Like we're dating or something."
"Aren't we?"
The question made me pause. "Are we?"
"I'd like to be." He set his mug on the bedside table. "If you want that."
"I don't know what I want." The honesty felt vulnerable. "This is all so new. So different from how it started."
"I know." He moved closer. "And I know I don't have the right to ask for anything after how I treated you. But I'm asking anyway. Give this a real chance. Give us a chance."
"What does that mean? A real chance?"
"It means we figure this out together. We tell each other things. We communicate instead of me controlling and you resenting." He caught my free hand. "It means I stop being the architect around you and you stop looking at me like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"I'm not—"
"You are. And I don't blame you. I've given you every reason not to trust me." His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. "But I want to earn that trust. Want to prove this is real."
I studied his face, looking for signs of manipulation. But all I saw was earnestness. Vulnerability. The real person underneath the performance.
"Okay," I said finally. "We can try. But Luca—"
"What?"
"If this is real, I need to know we're actually partners. Not you controlling me with a softer approach. I need to know I have actual choice in this."
"You do. I promise you do." He pulled me closer. "What do you need from me to believe that?"
"Honesty. Communication. No more games." I set my mug down too. "And if I say no to something, you have to respect that."
"I will. I swear." He kissed my forehead. "What else?"
"I need to be able to keep doing my work. Real journalism, not just stories you hand me. I need to rebuild my integrity."
"Done. Write whatever stories you want. I won't interfere."
"Even if they're about things you'd rather keep quiet?"
He hesitated, and I saw him struggle with the answer. The zrchitect would have said yes smoothly while planning to sabotage me. But Luca—the real Luca—was actually considering it.
"Can we agree to talk about it if that happens?
Not me forbidding you, but us discussing the implications together?
" He met my eyes. "I'm trying to be honest. If you publish something that directly threatens the organization, that's a problem.
But I won't force you to kill a story. We'll just.. . figure it out together."
The honesty meant more than a smooth lie would have. "Okay. We'll talk about it if it comes up."
"Thank you." He kissed me, soft and sweet. "Come on. Let me make you breakfast."
"You cook?"
"Badly. But I try." He grinned. "Or I can order from the place downstairs that makes actual edible food."
"Let's go with the edible option."
We moved to the kitchen and Luca ordered breakfast while I explored his living space more thoroughly. In the daylight, with him rumpled and relaxed, the penthouse felt less intimidating. Still expensive, still way beyond anything I'd ever have, but more like a home than a showroom.
I noticed the small signs of humanity. The books on the coffee table—including the Márquez we’d talked about. A blanket draped over the couch. Music playing softly from hidden speakers—jazz, mellow and atmospheric.
"I take it back. It's different from what I imagined. Less sterile."
"I spent the week trying to make it feel like a place you'd want to be." He pocketed his phone. "Food will be here in twenty minutes. Want to see the rest?"
He gave me a proper tour this time. Showed me his home office—neat but not obsessive, with papers scattered across the desk and coffee rings on the wood. The guest room that clearly never got used. The second bathroom with its marble and excessive luxury.
Then the balcony.
We stepped outside into crisp October air and the city spread out before us. The view was even better than from the bedroom window. I could see all the way to the river, to Brooklyn beyond, to the life I'd built there that now felt very far away.
"I come out here when I need to think," Luca said. "Or when the persona gets too heavy."
"Does that happen a lot?"
"More than I'd like to admit." He leaned against the railing beside me. "Being him is exhausting. Always performing, always calculating. Sometimes I forget where the persona ends and I begin."
"And right now?" I looked at him. "Which one are you right now?"
"Right now I'm just me. No performance. No calculation." He met my eyes. "Just a man who's terrified he's going to fuck this up."
The vulnerability in his voice made my chest tight. "I'm terrified too."
"Of me?"