Chapter 13 Stefan #2
"I'm sure." I kissed him. "I'm all in, Matteo. On your side. Against my father. Helping the Vitales however I can. This is my choice. My decision. And I'm making it with full awareness of what it means."
Something fierce and possessive flared in his eyes. "I love you."
"I love you too. Even though loving you means burning every bridge I had left."
"Those bridges were already on fire. You're just watching them collapse."
He was right. But the guilt still sat heavy in my chest.
***
Two weeks later, Emilio found me in my office.
I'd seen Sandro's partner around the club but we'd never really talked. He was usually with Sandro or working on trial preparation or handling his own cases. But today he appeared in my doorway holding two cups of coffee.
"Mind if I come in?" he asked.
"Of course not."
He handed me one of the coffees and sat across from my desk. For a moment, we just looked at each other.
"Sandro says you're doing good work," Emilio said finally. "Finding deductions. Improving efficiency. Making the legitimate businesses actually profitable instead of just money-laundering fronts."
"I'm trying to be useful."
"You are useful. That's not why I'm here." He took a sip of coffee. "I wanted to see how you're doing. Really doing. Not the performance for Sandro or Matteo."
"Why do you care?"
"Because I've been where you are." His voice was gentle.
"Falling for someone I was supposed to be against. Choosing them over my principles.
Watching myself become complicit in things I never thought I'd accept.
" He met my eyes. "It's isolating. Confusing.
Hard to know if you're making the right choice or just rationalizing your way into something unhealthy. "
The understanding in his voice made my chest tight.
"How did you know?" I asked. "That choosing Sandro was right instead of just... convenient or trauma or whatever?"
"I didn't. Not for a long time." Emilio smiled slightly.
"I second-guessed myself constantly. Wondered if I was being manipulated.
If I was throwing away my integrity for good sex and the illusion of being valued.
" He paused. "But eventually I realized that the choice itself mattered more than the reasoning.
I was choosing Sandro. Every day. Despite the complications and the moral compromises and the fact that it probably made me a terrible person by conventional standards. "
"Do you regret it?"
"No. Not even for a second." He leaned forward.
"But Stefan—I want you to know that having doubts doesn't mean you're making the wrong choice.
It means you're being honest about how complicated this is.
Don't let anyone—including yourself—tell you this should be simple or that you should feel certain all the time. "
"Matteo needs me to be certain."
"Matteo needs you to be honest." Emilio's voice was firm. "If you're scared or guilty or confused, tell him. He can handle your uncertainty better than he can handle you pretending to be fine when you're not."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Always." He stood. "And Stefan? If you ever need to talk to someone who understands what it's like to choose a Vitale over everything else, I'm around. You're not alone in this."
He left before I could respond.
But the conversation stayed with me for days. The knowledge that someone else had walked this path. Had wrestled with the same doubts and guilt and confusion. Had come out the other side still choosing their Vitale.
It made the cage feel slightly less suffocating.
***
That night, I asked Matteo what would happen when the RICO trial was over.
We were in his apartment—our apartment, I'd started thinking of it. Lying in bed after dinner. The guards were outside the door. The restrictions were still in place. But inside this room, I could almost pretend I was free.
"What do you mean?" Matteo asked, his hand tracing patterns on my back.
"After the trial. After the FBI threat passes. Will I still be welcome here?" I tried to keep my voice casual. "Or is this just temporary? Until you don't need me anymore?"
His hand stilled. "Stefan—"
"I know I'm useful now. Helping with the books. Making the businesses profitable. But what happens when that's done? When I'm not useful anymore? Do I get sent away? Locked back in a different cage? What?"
Matteo shifted to face me. His expression was serious. Almost hurt.
"You think I want you here because you're useful?"
"I don't know what to think." The admission came out small. "I know you love me. But love and want are different from need. And I need to know—when I stop being useful, when the books are organized and the trial's over and the FBI's gone—will you still want me here?"
"Stefan." He cupped my face with both hands.
"You could never work another day in your life.
Could never touch our books. Could sit in this apartment doing absolutely nothing.
And I'd still want you here." His voice was fierce.
"I don't love you because you're useful.
I love you because you're you. Because you play chess and speak four languages and make me feel like I'm more than just violence.
Because you chose me when you had every reason to run. "
"You're sure?"
"I'm certain." He kissed me softly. "You're welcome here as long as you want to stay. And if you want to stay forever, I'll spend forever making sure you never regret choosing me."
"That might be a long time."
"Good." His smile was soft. Genuine. "I'm hoping for a long time."
Relief flooded through me so intensely it made me dizzy.
I kissed him. Poured everything I couldn't articulate into the connection. All the fear and doubt and desperate hope that this was real. That I'd found something worth keeping.
Matteo kissed back with equal intensity. Then pulled away just enough to look at me.
"Let me show you," he said. "Let me prove you're more than useful. More than convenient. More than anything except essential."
We made love slowly that night.
Matteo took his time. Stripped away my clothes piece by piece like he was unwrapping something precious. Kissed every inch of skin he exposed. Touched me like he was trying to memorize every detail.
"You're beautiful," he murmured against my collarbone. "So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes."
"Matteo—"
"Let me worship you." His mouth moved lower. "Let me show you what you mean to me."
He used his hands and mouth with devastating precision. Learning—relearning—what made me gasp. What made me arch. What made me beg.
He spent long minutes just kissing me. Deep, thorough kisses that made my head spin. His hands roamed my body like he was discovering me for the first time. Every touch reverent. Every caress deliberate.
When he finally prepared me, he did it slowly. Carefully. Three fingers stretching me while he kissed my neck and murmured praise against my skin.
"So perfect," he said. "So responsive. So mine."
"Yours," I agreed breathlessly. "Always yours."
He pushed inside with aching slowness. Let me feel every inch. Seated himself fully and stayed still, just breathing against my neck.
"I love you," he said. "More than I thought I was capable of loving anyone."
"I love you too."
We moved together slowly. Finding a rhythm that felt less like sex and more like conversation. A physical dialogue of need and want and choice.
Matteo's hands were everywhere. Touching. Claiming. Memorizing. His mouth followed, leaving marks I'd see tomorrow and feel satisfied by.
"Look at me," he said softly. "Let me see you."
I opened my eyes. Met his dark gaze. Let him see everything—the pleasure, the emotion, the bone-deep certainty that this was right even when nothing else made sense.
"There you are," he murmured. "There's my Stefan. So beautiful when you let me see you."
His hand wrapped around me. Stroked in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation built slowly, pleasure layering on pleasure until I couldn't tell where one sensation ended and another began.
"I want you to remember this," Matteo said, his voice rough with emotion. "Remember how this feels. How we feel together. So the next time you doubt whether you're wanted, you can remember that I worship you like this."
"Matteo—I'm close—"
"I know. Let go. I've got you."
I shattered. Came apart in his arms with his name on my lips. Felt him follow moments later, driving deep and holding there.
Afterward, we lay tangled together. Both breathing hard. Both overwhelmed.
"I meant what I said," Matteo murmured against my hair. "You're welcome here as long as you want to stay."
"What if I want to stay forever?"
"Then I'll spend forever making sure you never regret it."
I pressed my face against his chest and let myself feel it. The safety. The belonging. The knowledge that I'd found something real in the most unlikely place.
This might be what home felt like.
Not the mansion I grew up in. Not the family I was born to. Not the life I was supposed to want.
This. Matteo's arms. The work that gave me purpose. The people who valued me for my mind. The choice to stay even when leaving was an option.
Home was choosing to be somewhere instead of being trapped there.
And I was choosing this.
The guards outside the door. The restrictions on my movement. The cage that came with FBI surveillance. The moral compromises of helping my family's enemies.
I was choosing all of it.
Because inside this cage was the first real freedom I'd ever known.