Chapter 19 Valentino
THE DRIVE TO the federal correctional facility in Pennsylvania took three hours.
Three hours of holding Luca's hand. Three hours of trying not to cry. Three hours of pretending we were okay when we both knew we weren't.
"You don't have to come inside," Luca said as we pulled into the parking lot. "You can drop me off."
"I'm coming inside." My voice was firm. "I'm staying with you until the last possible moment."
He nodded, throat working. "Okay."
We sat in the car for a few minutes, neither of us ready to move. This was it. The moment we'd been dreading for thirty days. The moment of separation.
"Twelve months," I said. "If you get early release, twelve months. We can survive twelve months."
"We can." He turned to face me. "Valentino, I need you to hear this. I need you to take care of yourself while I'm gone. Don't put your life on hold. Work. See friends. Live."
"I'll visit every week."
"I know. And I'll live for those visits. But in between—promise me you'll actually live. Not just wait."
"I promise." I kissed him, desperate and emotional. "I love you."
"I love you too. So fucking much."
We got out of the car. Walked to the entrance together. Inside, there was a check-in desk. Security. Procedures.
"This is as far as you can go," a guard said to me.
My heart was hammering. "Can I—can I say goodbye?"
"You have two minutes."
Luca pulled me aside, out of the direct flow of traffic. His hands cupped my face.
"I'll be okay in there," he said. "I've done time before. I know how to handle myself. Don't worry about me."
"I'll worry anyway."
"I know." He kissed my forehead. "Write to me. Tell me everything. What you're working on, what you're eating, what you're thinking. I want to know all of it."
"I will. And you write back."
"Every day." He held me close. "I love you. Wait for me."
"I'll be here when you get out. I promise."
"Time's up," the guard called.
Luca kissed me one last time. Hard. Desperate. Then he let go and walked toward the processing area. He looked back once, gave me a small smile, and disappeared through the door.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the door he'd gone through. Then I walked back to the car and drove home alone.
The three-hour drive was the longest of my life.
***
The penthouse felt wrong without him.
Too big. Too empty. Too quiet.
I walked through the rooms, seeing him everywhere. The kitchen where we'd made breakfast together. The couch where we'd watched movies. The bed where we'd held each other through everything.
Now just me. Alone. For twelve months.
I tried to work. Opened my laptop. Stared at the screen. Couldn't focus.
Finally, my phone rang. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"You have a collect call from an inmate at a federal correctional facility. Will you accept the charges?"
My heart jumped. "Yes. Yes, I accept."
A click. Then: "Valentino?"
"Luca." Relief flooded through me. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay. Processed in. Cell assigned. It's..." He paused. "It's prison. But I'm okay."
"I miss you already."
"I miss you too." His voice was rough. "God, I miss you so much. And it's only been six hours."
"Less than a year," I said firmly. "Eleven more months if you get early release. We can do this."
"We can do this," he agreed. "How was the drive back?"
"Long. Empty." I sat on the couch. "But I made it. I'm home now."
"Good. Are you eating?"
"Not yet. I will."
"Promise me you'll eat. Take care of yourself."
"I promise." Tears were running down my face. "When can I visit?"
"This weekend. Visiting hours are Saturdays and Sundays, ten to four. You'll need to get on the approved visitors list."
"I'll call tomorrow and get approved."
"This call is limited to fifteen minutes and is being monitored," an automated voice announced.
"Fuck," Luca muttered. "Fifteen minutes isn't enough."
"We'll make it work. We'll talk every day."
"Every day," he agreed. "I love you. So much."
"I love you too. Be safe in there."
"I will. You take care of yourself out there."
"The call will end in sixty seconds," the automated voice said.
"Valentino—"
"I know. I love you. I'll see you this weekend."
"I love you too. I'll—"
The line went dead.
I sat there holding the phone, crying, feeling like my heart had been ripped out. This was going to be our reality for the next year. Monitored phone calls. Limited visiting hours. Separation.
But we'd survive it. We had to.
***
Saturday couldn't come fast enough.
I drove the three hours back to Pennsylvania. Went through security—metal detectors, searches, signing in. Finally, they led me to the visiting room.
It wasn't what I expected. Not private booths with glass partitions like in movies. Instead, it was an open room with small tables and chairs. Vending machines along one wall. Guards stationed at intervals.
And then Luca walked in.
He was wearing prison khakis. His hair was shorter than I remembered. But it was him. Alive. Real. Right there.
"Valentino." He crossed to me and we were allowed to hug—briefly, the guard watching—before sitting at one of the tables.
"You look okay," I said, taking in every detail. "Tired but okay."
"I'm managing. You look exhausted."
"I haven't been sleeping well. The bed's too big without you."
His jaw tightened. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you're going through this."
"Don't apologize. We're going through this together. Just... separately." I reached across the table and took his hands. The guard didn't stop us. "Tell me about it. What's it like in there?"
"It's minimum security, so it's not as bad as it could be. I have a cellmate—older guy, white-collar crime, keeps to himself. There's a routine. Meals, work detail, rec time. I'm in the kitchen detail, which is fine. Keeps me busy."
"Are you safe?"
"I'm safe. Some people know who I am. Most leave me alone. I'm keeping my head down, behaving perfectly." He squeezed my hands. "I want that early release. I want to come home to you."
"Eleven more months. We can do this."
"We can." He studied my face. "Are you working?"
"Yes. Stefan and Julian have me busy with PR campaigns. It helps. Keeps my mind occupied."
"Good. That's good." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "We have twenty-five minutes left."
Twenty-five minutes. Not nearly enough.
We talked about everything and nothing. His routine in prison. My work. The partners checking in on me. His plans to read through the prison library. My plans to finally organize the penthouse properly.
Normal things. Mundane things. Things that made this bearable.
When the guard announced visiting hours were over, I wanted to scream. Wanted to refuse to leave. Wanted to grab Luca and run.
Instead, I stood. He stood. We hugged one more time—longer than we should have, until the guard cleared his throat.
"I love you," I said against his shoulder. "I'll be back next weekend."
"I love you too. Drive safe."
Then I had to let go and walk away. Had to leave him there in prison while I drove back to freedom. The unfairness of it burned.
But this was temporary. Twelve months. We could survive twelve months.
We had to.
***
Slowly, painfully, we found a routine.
I visited every Saturday. Three hours there, thirty minutes together, three hours back. Every single week. No matter what.
We talked on the phone every evening. Fifteen-minute monitored calls. Never enough time but better than nothing.
I wrote him letters. Long, rambling letters about my day, my work, my thoughts. He wrote back. His handwriting familiar and precious.
And I started documenting everything. Writing about our story. How we met. How it started. How it changed. The trial. The separation. All of it.
It was therapy. It was processing. It was hope.
Because this wasn't the end of our story. This was just a chapter. A hard one. But one we'd survive.
Together, even when apart.