Chapter 21 Valentino
SIX MONTHS.
SIX months down, six to go.
Halfway to having Luca home again.
I sat at the dining table staring at the manuscript in front of me. Three hundred pages. Our entire story. From that first encounter at the coffee shop to the trial to now. Every moment documented. Every choice examined.
The Architect and The Journalist: A Love Story That Started Wrong
My editor wanted to publish it. Major publisher. National release. Book tour. The works.
But I wasn't sure. Publishing while Luca was still in prison felt like... what? Exploitation? Exposure? I didn't know.
My phone rang. The familiar evening call.
"You have a collect call from an inmate—"
"I accept."
A click. "Valentino?"
"Hey." Just hearing his voice made everything easier. "How are you?"
"I'm okay. Counting down. How are you?"
"I need to talk to you about something." I looked at the manuscript. "I finished the book. About us. About everything."
A pause. "And?"
"My editor wants to publish it. They think it'll be huge. But Luca, you're still inside. I don't want to put this out there without your permission."
"What does it say? The book."
"The truth. All of it. How we met. The coercion. The evolution. The trial. Everything." I swallowed hard. "I don't pull punches. I admit what you did. What I did. How complicated it all was."
"Then publish it."
"Just like that?"
"Valentino, it's our truth. If you think people need to hear it, then they should hear it." His voice was steady. "I trust you. Completely."
"It's going to bring media attention. People are going to have opinions—"
"Let them. We know what we are. We know what we built. Fuck everyone else's opinions."
I laughed, feeling lighter. "Okay. I'll tell my editor yes."
"Good. I want to read it when I get out."
"You'll be the first person I give a copy to."
"Five minutes remaining," the automated voice announced.
We talked quickly about other things. His routine. My work. The visit this Saturday. Never enough time.
When the call ended, I emailed my editor: Let's do it.
***
The book released two months later.
The media response was immediate and intense.
Some outlets praised it. "Russo's unflinching honesty about journalistic ethics and personal choice is remarkable." "A complex examination of power, coercion, and genuine transformation."
Others condemned it. "Romanticizing coercion and Stockholm syndrome." "Irresponsible glorification of an abusive relationship."
I did interviews. So many interviews. Morning shows. Podcasts. Print media. All of them asking variations of the same questions.
"Do you think you were coerced?"
"Initially, yes. But that changed. People can evolve. Relationships can transform."
"Aren't you just experiencing Stockholm syndrome?"
"I'm a journalist who spent months analyzing this exact question. I know myself. I know what I feel. It's love."
"Don't you think this book is irresponsible?"
"I think honesty is never irresponsible. I'm not telling people to seek out coercive relationships. I'm telling them that complicated situations can lead to genuine love. That's real. That's human."
Some interviewers were sympathetic. Others hostile. I defended our story every single time.
And through it all, Luca called every evening. Fifteen minutes of support and love and belief.
"You're doing amazing," he said one night. "I'm so proud of you."
"Some people hate it. Hate us."
"Some people will always hate us. But some people understand. That's what matters."
He was right. Because slowly, the tide started turning.
Other journalists began defending the book.
Op-eds appeared. "Russo's memoir forces us to confront uncomfortable truths about choice, agency, and moral complexity."
A prominent ethics professor wrote an entire essay about the book. "This is what honest examination looks like. Not easy answers, but real questions about human behavior."
The book climbed bestseller lists. Hit number one on the New York Times. Stayed there for weeks.
Awards started coming. A journalism award for personal narrative. Recognition from writer's organizations. Critical acclaim despite the controversy.
And the money—substantial money from sales. Money I put directly into a savings account for our future. For when Luca got home. For whatever we wanted to build together.
I visited him every Saturday, and each time I brought updates about the book's success.
"It's doing really well," I told him through the phone at our table, hands linked. "Like, really well."
"I'm not surprised. You're brilliant." He squeezed my hands. "What are you going to do with all that bestseller money?"
"Saving it. For us. For when you get home."
His eyes softened. "When I get home. Three more months."
Three more months. We were so close now.
Nine months into Luca's sentence, three months from release, everything felt different.
The book was still selling. Still generating conversation. But more than that—it had given me purpose during the separation. Something to focus on besides missing him.
I prepared the penthouse for his return. Deep cleaning. Replacing worn items. Making sure everything was perfect for when he walked back through that door.
Stefan and Matteo threw me a small dinner party—just the partners and family. Celebrating the book's success. Celebrating Luca's upcoming release.
"Three more months," Sandro said, raising his glass. "You did it. You both did it."
"We survived," I agreed. "Barely, but we survived."
"More than survived," Julian said. "You wrote a bestselling memoir. Luca behaved perfectly in prison. You maintained your relationship through a year of separation. That's not just survival—that's triumph."
"It'll be triumph when he's home," I said. "Until then, it's just... endurance."
"Three more months," Emilio said gently. "You can endure three more months."
I could. We could.
That Saturday, visiting Luca, I could see the change in him too. He looked lighter. Happier. The countdown was real now. Tangible.
"Three months," he said, holding my hands across the table. "Ninety days. Then I'm coming home to you."
"I'm counting every single one," I said. "The penthouse is ready. I'm ready. We're ready."
"What's the first thing you want to do? When I get out?"
"Hold you. Properly. For as long as I want." I smiled. "Maybe never let go."
"I'm okay with that plan." He brought my hand to his lips, kissed my knuckles. The guard didn't stop him. "I love you. So fucking much."
"I love you too. Three more months."
"Three more months," he agreed. "Then the rest of our lives."
I left that day feeling hopeful in a way I hadn't felt in months. Because this was real. This was happening.
Luca was coming home.
Soon.