Chapter 20 Luca
PRISON WAS PRISON, no matter how minimum the security.
The routine was numbing. Wake at six. Breakfast at six-thirty. Work detail from seven to noon—I'd been assigned to the kitchen, which was fine. Lunch. Rec time. More work. Dinner. Lockdown at nine.
Day after day after day.
My cellmate was a guy named David, in for embezzlement. Mid-fifties, quiet, kept to himself. We coexisted peacefully, which was the best I could hope for.
The other inmates knew who I was. Word traveled fast in prison—Luca Romano, formerly of the Vitale organization. Some treated me with respect. Others saw me as a challenge. I kept my head down, avoided trouble, behaved perfectly.
Because I wanted that early release. Twelve months instead of eighteen. I needed to get home to Valentino.
Every night, lying in my bunk while David snored across the cell, I counted days. Counted down to freedom. Counted down to holding Valentino again.
The phone calls were lifelines.
Fifteen minutes each evening. Monitored, recorded, limited. But hearing his voice made everything bearable.
"How was work today?" I asked, pressing the phone to my ear like I could get closer to him through it.
"Good. We're launching a campaign for one of the real estate developments. Julian thinks it'll be huge." A pause. "But I miss you."
"I miss you too." I glanced at the guard stationed nearby, listening. "More than I can say on this line."
"I know." His voice softened. "I visited your favorite place today."
The windows at the penthouse. Our place. Where we'd stood together so many times.
"Was it—" I couldn't finish. Emotions choking me.
"It was good. Reminded me of why we're doing this. Why we're surviving this."
"Tell me more. Tell me everything." I needed to hear about the outside world. About his life. About everything beyond these walls.
He talked for the remaining minutes. About work. About dinner with Sandro and Emilio, how fast their baby was growing. About reorganizing the closet. Mundane, precious details.
"Two minutes remaining," the automated voice announced.
"Fuck," I muttered. "It's never enough time."
"I know. But I'll see you Saturday."
"Saturday. I'll be counting the hours."
"Me too. I love—" He caught himself. We tried not to say it on monitored calls. Tried to keep something private. "I'll see you soon."
"Soon," I agreed. "Take care of yourself."
"You too. Stay safe."
The call ended. I hung up the phone and walked back to my cell, already counting down to tomorrow's call.
***
Saturdays were everything.
I lived for visiting days. Counted down the hours until Valentino would walk through that door.
The visiting room wasn't what people saw in movies—no glass partitions, no phones, no barriers. Just an open room with small tables and chairs. Vending machines. Guards stationed around the perimeter.
When Valentino walked in, I stood. He crossed to me and we were allowed to hug—briefly, five seconds max, the guard watching. But those five seconds were everything. The feel of him in my arms. The smell of his shampoo. Real. Solid. Mine.
Then we sat at one of the tables. I reached across and took his hands. The guards didn't stop us from holding hands. Small mercy.
"You look tired," I said, studying his face. He had shadows under his eyes. "Are you sleeping?"
"Not great. But I'm managing." He squeezed my hands. "You look better than last week. Less pale."
"They make us go outside for rec time. I'm getting sun whether I want it or not." I rubbed my thumb over his knuckles. "How's work?"
"Busy. Stefan has me running three campaigns simultaneously. It's exhausting but good. Keeps my mind occupied."
"Good. That's good." I hated that he looked so tired. Hated that I couldn't hold him properly. Couldn't take him home and put him to bed and make sure he actually slept.
"Are you taking care of yourself?" he asked. "Eating enough?"
"Kitchen detail means I eat pretty well. Better than most inmates." I tried to smile. "I'm behaving perfectly. Model prisoner. Trying to make sure I get that early release."
"I know you are. And you will." His eyes were fierce. "You're coming home to me."
"I'm coming home to you," I agreed. "Six more months and I'm eligible. Six more months."
We talked for the full thirty minutes. Never enough. When the guard announced visiting hours were ending, I wanted to rage. Wanted to refuse. Wanted to hold onto Valentino and never let go.
Instead, I stood. He stood. We hugged one more time.
"I love you," he whispered against my shoulder.
"I love you too. Drive safe."
Then I had to watch him walk away. Had to go back to my cell while he drove home to freedom. The unfairness never got easier.
But only six more months. We could survive six more months.
***
Six months into my sentence, I was called to the warden's office.
My stomach dropped. Being called to the warden meant trouble. Or news. Neither was usually good in prison.
I walked in to find my case manager there as well. They gestured for me to sit.
"Romano," the warden said. "We've been reviewing your file."
Here it comes. Whatever bad news they had.
"Your behavior has been exemplary. No infractions. No complaints. Cooperative with staff. Positive contributions to your work detail."
I waited, not sure where this was going.
"Your attorney filed for early release review. Given your record here, we're approving it. You'll be released at twelve months instead of the full eighteen. Pending continued good behavior."
Relief flooded through me so intensely I felt dizzy. "Six months?"
"Six months. Don't fuck it up." The warden's voice was blunt. "One infraction and this gets revoked. Understand?"
"Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you."
"Dismissed."
I walked back to my cell in a daze. Six months. Not twelve. Six more months until Valentino.
That Saturday, when he walked into the visiting room, I stood and pulled him into a hug that lasted longer than allowed. The guard had to tell us twice to separate.
"What's going on?" Valentino asked as we sat. "You look—different."
"I got approved. Early release in six months. Not twelve—six. They moved up my eligibility."
His eyes filled with tears. "Six months? For certain?"
"Six months. I'll be home by summer." I grabbed his hands. "Six more months and I'm coming home to you."
"Six months," he repeated, voice breaking. "We can do six months."
"We can do anything," I said. "Together."
"Together," he agreed.
For the first time since incarceration, I felt hope. Real hope. Not just survival, but actual light at the end.
Six more months. Then freedom. Then Valentino. Then the rest of our lives.
We could survive six more months.