Chapter 7 Valentino
I WOKE UP to the smell of coffee and the sound of Luca humming in the kitchen.
For a moment I just lay there, processing the domesticity of it. The penthouse was filled with early morning light, soft jazz playing from hidden speakers, and the man I'd confessed to falling in love with last night was making breakfast.
My life had become completely surreal.
I pulled on boxer briefs and one of Luca's t-shirts and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
Luca stood at the stove in pajama pants and nothing else, his hair unstyled and falling across his forehead. He looked up when I entered and smiled. Just a soft, genuine smile that made my chest tight.
"Good morning," he said. "I'm making eggs. How do you want yours?"
"However you're making them is fine." I moved to the coffee maker and poured myself a cup. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about last night." He glanced at me, suddenly uncertain. "About what we said."
My stomach flipped. "Regrets?"
"God, no. The opposite." He turned back to the eggs. "I kept thinking about how I get to wake up next to you now. How you chose to stay. How you were falling for me too."
I moved to stand beside him, hip leaning against the counter. "Still falling. Present tense."
"Good." He leaned over and kissed me, soft and sweet. "Because I'm not planning to stop."
We ate breakfast at the kitchen island, legs tangled together on the bar stools, talking about the week ahead.
Luca had meetings about the property acquisitions—the legitimate business expansion was moving forward quickly.
I had work to catch up on, an independent investigation I was developing about local school board corruption.
"What's your schedule look like?" Luca asked, spearing another bite of eggs.
"Meetings with sources Tuesday and Wednesday. Writing Thursday. The usual chaos." I took a sip of coffee. "I also need to... I need to respond to Reeves. Schedule that meeting we talked about."
Luca's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "When?"
"I was thinking later this week. Thursday maybe. Give us time to prepare."
"Thursday." He set down his fork, clearly trying to maintain composure. "That's only four days away."
"I know. But waiting longer just gives him more time to build his case. Better to deal with it now." I caught his hand. "We talked about this. I need to know what he knows."
"I know we did. Doesn't mean I have to like it." He squeezed my hand. "What do you need from me?"
"Trust. Support. Maybe Emilio's number so he can brief me on what to say and what not to say."
"Done. I'll text him this morning." Luca pulled me closer. "But Valentino? If at any point this feels too dangerous, if Reeves pushes too hard, you walk out. Promise me."
"I promise. I'm not going to sacrifice myself for this." I kissed him. "But I can handle one FBI interview. I've dealt with hostile subjects before."
"Not ones trying to build a federal case against you."
Fair point. "Then we prepare. Make sure I'm ready. But Luca—we can't avoid this forever. Eventually I have to face it."
He was quiet for a moment, clearly struggling with his protective instincts. Then: "Okay. Thursday. But I'm having security follow you. Non-negotiable."
"I can live with that."
We finished breakfast and cleaned up together. The domesticity of it felt surreal—loading the dishwasher side by side, both of us moving around each other with an ease that suggested we'd been doing this for years instead of days.
"I should probably go home at some point," I said, positioning the last plate.
"You could just stay here." Luca said it casually but I heard the want underneath.
I set down the towel. "Luca, I can't just move in. We've been together for less than a week."
"I know. I'm not pushing. Just—" He turned to face me. "I like having you here. Like waking up with you. Like this." He gestured to the kitchen, to the evidence of our shared morning. "I just wanted you to know you're always welcome."
The casual offering made something warm bloom in my chest. "Thank you. For not making it weird or pressuring."
"I'm trying to do this right. Even though every instinct I have says to lock you in here and never let you leave."
"That's disturbingly possessive."
"I'm aware. I'm working on channeling it into something healthier." He pulled me into a kiss. "Like just asking you to stay instead of making you."
"Progress." I kissed him back. "But I really do need to go home today. Check my mail, water my plants, prove my apartment still exists."
"What if I come with you?"
The offer surprised me. "You want to come to my tiny Brooklyn studio?"
"I want to come to where you live. Where you go when you're not here." He brushed hair back from my forehead. "I want to know all of you. Not just the version that exists in my penthouse."
Something about that made my chest ache. The persona would never have cared about my apartment or my life outside his control. But Luca—the real Luca—wanted to know me. All of me.
"Okay," I said. "Come with me. But don't judge the size or the neighborhood or the fact that you can hear my neighbors through the walls."
"I would never judge your apartment." He paused. "I might judge your neighbors if they're too loud."
I laughed despite myself. "Deal."
My apartment looked smaller than I remembered with Luca in it.
He stood in the center of my studio, taking in the cramped space, the futon that served as both couch and bed, the makeshift desk covered in research and coffee-stained notebooks. Everything I owned fit in this one room and probably cost less than one piece of furniture in his penthouse.
"This is cozy," he said finally.
"You don't have to be polite. It's tiny."
"It's yours. That makes it important." He moved to the bookshelves I'd constructed from cinder blocks and boards. "And you have good taste in books."
He wasn't wrong about that. My limited money went to two things: food and books. The shelves were packed with everything from literary fiction to journalism textbooks to true crime.
"This is where you were the night I showed up," Luca said, looking around. "When I threatened you. This is the kitchen counter I backed you against."
The memory sat heavy between us. That night felt like a lifetime ago even though it had only been two months. I'd been terrified, furious, trapped. Now I was standing in the same apartment with the same man and feeling completely different things.
"Does it bother you?" I asked. "Being here? Where it started?"
"Yes and no. I hate what I did. How I started this. But also—" He turned to face me. "I'm grateful you gave me the chance to make it into something different."
I moved closer. "I'm still figuring out how to reconcile those two things. The beginning and now."
"Me too. But I think we're doing okay." He caught my hand. "We're here together and you chose it. That matters."
We spent the afternoon at my apartment. I caught up on mail—mostly bills and junk. Watered the plants on the fire escape. Did laundry in the building's basement machines while Luca insisted on helping even though I kept telling him he didn't need to.
"I want to," he said, feeding quarters into the ancient washing machine. "This is part of your life. I want to be part of all of it."
Around three we got hungry and ordered food from the bodega on the corner. I introduced Luca to the concept of a bodega sandwich and he looked at it with deep suspicion before taking a bite.
"Okay, this is actually good," he admitted.
"Bodega sandwiches are a New York staple. You can't live here and not appreciate them."
"I've been living here for over a decade and somehow avoided them."
"That's because you live in a Manhattan penthouse and eat at expensive restaurants. This is how normal people eat."
We sat on my futon eating sandwiches and it felt more intimate than any fancy dinner.
Luca fit into my space somehow, even though he was completely out of place.
He asked about my neighbors, about the building, about the neighborhood.
Actually cared about the details of my life beyond the parts that affected him.
Around five, I opened my laptop and drafted the email to Agent Reeves.
Agent Reeves,
I can meet with you this Thursday. Please let me know the time and location that works for your schedule. I'm happy to answer any questions you have about my professional work.
Best, Valentino Russo
I showed it to Luca before sending. "Too confrontational?"
"No. Professional. Appropriate." He read it again. "But you're really doing this. Thursday."
"Thursday." I hit send before I could second-guess myself. "And now we prepare."
Reeves responded within an hour: Thursday 2 PM, FBI New York Field Office, 26 Federal Plaza. Bring ID. This is voluntary but appreciated.
The formal language didn't hide the threat underneath. This was voluntary until it wasn't. If I didn't come willingly, he'd find ways to compel me.
I showed Luca the response and watched him process it. His jaw tightened but he didn't argue or try to talk me out of it.
"I'll text Emilio," he said. "Have him call you tomorrow. He'll prep you on what to say."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. This is my fault. If I hadn't—" He stopped. "You're in this position because of me."
"I'm in this position because I made choices. I deleted footage. I accepted your stories. I fell for you." I moved closer. "You don't get to take all the responsibility."
"I wish I could. I wish I could protect you from all of this."
"I know. But I need to do this myself. Need to prove I can handle it."
We stayed at my apartment until late evening. By the time we headed back to Manhattan, I felt more grounded. Like I'd reconnected with the version of myself that existed outside Luca's orbit. That was important. I couldn't lose myself completely in this relationship no matter how much I wanted to.
The next three days were a carefully orchestrated dance between work, preparation, and trying not to panic about Thursday.