Chapter 8 Luca #2
"Then you fight harder." Matteo stood. "Luca, you spent years being this version of yourself.
Being perfect and controlled and untouchable.
But that's not sustainable. Not when you actually care about someone.
So you let yourself be human. You let yourself be scared.
And then you do whatever it takes to protect what you love. "
The words hit harder than they should have. I'd been so focused on maintaining control, on managing the threat, that I'd forgotten the most important thing: Valentino was mine. And I didn't give up what was mine.
"You're right." I grabbed my jacket. "I need to go."
"Where?" Elio asked.
"To tell Valentino to move in properly. To stop letting him deflect and make it official." I headed for the door. "If we're doing this—if we're building a life together—it needs to be real. All of it."
"Good," Sandro called after me.
I made it to Valentino's Brooklyn apartment in twenty minutes, breaking several traffic laws in the process.
The building was exactly as I remembered—old, slightly run-down, character that came from age rather than design. I climbed the stairs to his fourth-floor walkup and knocked.
Valentino opened the door in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, laptop in hand, looking surprised. "Luca? What are you doing here?"
"Can I come in?"
"Of course." He stepped aside. "Is everything okay? Did something happen with the FBI?"
"No. Nothing like that." I moved into the small studio, looking around at the space that was so completely Valentino. "I wanted to talk."
"About this morning. About me moving in." He set down his laptop. "Luca, I didn't mean to deflect—"
"I know what I want." I turned to face him. "I want you in my home. Not just staying there. Living there. With me. Officially."
"We've been dating for two weeks."
"I don't care. I know what I want and I want you." I moved closer. "I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want our routines to be permanent, not temporary. I want your books on my shelves and your coffee mug next to mine and your mess all over my organized life."
"You hate mess."
"I love your mess. I love you." I caught his hands. "Move in with me. Properly. Bring your stuff. Make my place ours."
"That's a big step."
"I know. And if you're not ready, I'll wait. I'll give you time. But I wanted you to know—I'm ready. I want this. Want you. Want us to build something permanent."
Valentino stared at me, processing. "You're serious."
"Completely serious."
"Your penthouse is too nice for me."
"It's just a place. It means nothing without you in it."
"I'll make it messy."
"Good. It needs to be lived in instead of looking like a showroom."
"I'm still going to keep this apartment. At least for a while. Just in case."
The words stung but I understood. "Okay. That's fair. Keep your safety net."
"Not a safety net. A backup plan. In case—" He stopped. "In case the FBI thing goes badly. In case I need somewhere that's not connected to you."
The practicality of it hurt but I couldn't argue with the logic. "Okay. Keep the apartment. But still move in. Make my place your primary home."
"Our place," he corrected. "If I'm moving in, it's ours."
Hope bloomed in my chest. "Does that mean yes?"
"It means yes." He pulled me into a kiss. "I'll move in. Properly. Make it official."
Relief flooded through me so intensely I almost couldn't breathe. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. This is probably the worst decision I've ever made." But he was smiling. "Moving in with my mob boss boyfriend while under FBI investigation. What could go wrong?"
"Everything. Absolutely everything." I kissed him again. "But we'll deal with it together."
"Together," he agreed.
We spent the afternoon going through his apartment, figuring out what to bring immediately and what could wait. His clothes, his books, his research materials. The essentials that would make the penthouse feel like his space too.
"What about furniture?" I asked, looking at the futon that served as both couch and bed.
"The futon stays. Your place has actual furniture." He was packing books into boxes. "Besides, this way I have somewhere to sleep if I need to stay here sometimes."
"You can stay here whenever you want. As long as you come home after."
"Home." He tested the word. "Your penthouse is home now."
"Our penthouse," I corrected. "And yes. It's home."
By evening we had three boxes packed and ready to transport. I called a car while Valentino did one final sweep of the apartment.
"I feel like I'm abandoning it," he said, looking around the small studio.
"You're not abandoning it. You're moving forward." I took one of the boxes. "Come on. Let's go home."
***
Three days later, Valentino's extended school board exposé was published.
I read it the second it went live, sitting in my office at Inferno while Valentino was at a source meeting.
The article was exceptional—thoroughly researched, well-written, hitting exactly the right notes of outrage and objectivity.
It exposed misuse of funds, inappropriate contracts, a pattern of corruption that had been going on for years.
And it was all his work. No help from me. No information I'd provided. Just Valentino doing what he did best—finding truth and exposing it.
I sent him a text: Just read the article. It's excellent. I'm so proud of you.
His response came a few minutes later: Thank you. That means a lot.
Two days after that, he won an award.
The New York Press Club gave him their award for investigative reporting in the local news category. It was small compared to the big national awards, but it was legitimate recognition. Proof that his work stood on its own merit.
I found out when he called me from the ceremony, voice tight with emotion.
"I won," he said. "Luca, I actually won."
"Of course you did. The article was brilliant." I closed my laptop, giving him my full attention. "How does it feel?"
"Like I'm a real journalist again. Like I didn't completely compromise myself." He paused. "I wish you were here."
"I wish I was too. But this is your moment. Your win. You did this."
"I know. But I want to celebrate with you."
"Then come home. We'll celebrate properly."
An hour later Valentino burst through the penthouse door, award plaque in hand, grinning like he'd won the lottery.
"Look at it." He held up the plaque. "Actual recognition for actual journalism."
I pulled him into a kiss. "I'm so proud of you."
"I did this. On my own. Without your help." The wonder in his voice was clear. "I can still do real work."
"You never stopped doing real work. But I understand why this matters." I took the plaque to examine it. "New York Press Club. Investigative Reporting. Valentino Russo. This is going on display."
"It's just a local award—"
"It's proof that you're excellent at what you do. That you have integrity. That you didn't compromise yourself despite what happened between us." I set it on the bookshelf with care. "This is important."
He looked at me with something soft in his eyes. "Thank you. For understanding why I needed this."
"Always." I caught his hand. "Now, I believe I promised you a proper celebration. Get dressed. We're going out."
"Out where?"
"Somewhere nice. Somewhere that serves champagne and expensive food." I pulled him toward the bedroom. "I'm taking my award-winning journalist boyfriend out to celebrate."
I took him to Per Se—pretentious, expensive, and exactly the kind of place that felt appropriate for celebrating his achievement. We were seated at a table with a view of Central Park, the Columbus Circle lights twinkling below us.
"This is too much," Valentino said, looking at the menu with wide eyes.
"Nothing is too much. You won an award. You proved yourself. This is a celebration." I ordered champagne before he could protest. "Tonight we're celebrating you. Your work. Your integrity. Everything you've accomplished."
"I feel like I'm in over my head."
"You're exactly where you should be." The champagne arrived and I poured us both glasses. "To Valentino Russo. Investigative journalist. Award winner. The man who never compromised his principles even when I tried to make him."
He clinked his glass against mine. "That's one way to put it."
"It's the truth."
We ordered food—tasting menu, wine pairings, the full experience. Valentino looked overwhelmed by each course but gradually relaxed into it. By the time dessert arrived, he was laughing and telling stories about source interviews and the crazy process of tracking down school board records.
"The secretary tried to tell me the files didn't exist," he said, gesturing with his dessert fork. "But I knew they had to. So I filed a FOIL request and she suddenly 'found' them."
"Persistence pays off."
"In journalism? Always." He took a bite of dessert. "This is really good."
"Everything here is really good. That's why it costs a fortune."
"I still can't believe you're spending this much on dinner."
"I'd spend ten times this to see you this happy." I reached across the table for his hand. "You needed this win. Needed to prove to yourself that you're still a good journalist. That you didn't lose yourself in our complicated beginning."
"I did need it. But Luca—" He squeezed my hand. "I also needed you to be proud of me. To see that I can do legitimate work."
"I've always been proud of you. Even when I was trying to control you, I was impressed by your skill. Your dedication. Your refusal to compromise." I smiled. "You made me want to be better. Made me want to deserve you."
"You do deserve me."
"I'm trying to." I lifted his hand to kiss it. "But I know I started this all wrong. Know I hurt you and coerced you and did things I can't take back. This—you winning this award, proving your integrity is intact—it matters. For both of us."
"The beginning doesn't define us," he said quietly. "We get to choose what we become."
"And what are we becoming?"