Chapter 16 Matteo #2
"Probably. But I'm your insane." He grabbed my shirt. "Stop trying to push me away to protect me. I'm making this choice with full awareness of what it costs. Respect that."
We stared at each other.
"I'm scared," I admitted. "Terrified. Of losing you. Of losing decades. Of asking you to sacrifice your life waiting for me."
"I'm scared too." His voice was softer now. "I'm terrified of losing you to a verdict I can't control. But Matteo—pushing me away doesn't make this easier. It just means we both suffer alone instead of together."
He was right. I knew he was right.
But the thought of Stefan spending his twenties visiting federal prison, writing letters to an inmate, putting his life on hold for someone who might never get out—it destroyed me.
"Come here," Stefan said.
I did. Let him pull me close. Let myself break down in his arms.
"I'm so sorry," I said. "For dragging you into this. For making you watch me face life in prison. For—"
"Stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault." Stefan held me tighter. "You didn't drag me into anything. I chose this. I'm still choosing it. And if you go to prison, I'll still be choosing it every day for however long it takes."
We stood there holding each other while I tried to accept what he was offering. Decades of loyalty. Of waiting. Of sacrificing his future for the possibility of mine.
It was too much. More than I deserved. More than anyone should give.
But I was selfish enough to want it anyway.
"I love you," I whispered.
"I love you too. So stop trying to leave me before the verdict even comes in."
"Okay." I pulled back to look at him. "Okay. But Stefan—if I'm convicted, if they give me twenty years or life, I want you to promise me something."
"What?"
"Promise you'll live your actual life. Not just exist waiting for me. You'll work. You'll make friends. You'll do things that make you happy. Promise me you won't just... freeze in place waiting."
"I promise. As long as you promise you'll let me visit. You'll write back. You won't try to cut me off for my own good."
"I promise."
We sealed it with a kiss. Soft. Almost sad. Both of us trying not to think about the possibility that these could be our last weeks of physical contact before prison separated us.
The trial continued.
Week three brought more damaging testimony. More evidence. More recordings that showed exactly what we'd been doing for years.
The defense tried. Diana was brilliant—poking holes, challenging credibility, making the jury question whether the surveillance was legal. But the mountain of evidence was impossible to ignore.
During a recess in week three, Stefan and I were leaving the courthouse together. I needed air. Needed to escape the suffocating reality of that courtroom for five minutes.
We walked down the courthouse steps side by side. My hand found the small of Stefan's back automatically—protective, possessive, needing the contact.
Stefan leaned into me slightly. Not dramatically. Just a subtle shift that spoke of comfort and trust.
Camera flashes went off.
I realized too late what we'd done. Photographers. Journalists. All of them capturing this moment. This visible intimacy between a RICO defendant and the son of a rival family.
"Fuck," I said.
"Too late now." Stefan didn't pull away. "Let them take their pictures."
The next morning, the headlines wrote themselves.
"Mob Enforcer Dating Rival Boss's Son"
"Romeo and Juliet of New York Crime Families"
"Romano Heir Chooses Vitale Defendant During RICO Trial"
The coverage was sensational and intrusive. Journalists dug into Stefan's background. His education at Columbia. His family connections. The fact that he'd cut ties with the Romanos. Speculation about why Giuseppe Romano's youngest son was supporting the Vitales during their criminal trial.
Some articles questioned whether Stefan was cooperating with prosecutors. Whether he'd been turned. Whether this relationship was real or strategic.
I sat in the apartment reading everything and feeling sick.
"This is my fault," I said. "I shouldn't have touched you in public. Shouldn't have—"
"Stop." Stefan grabbed the tablet from me. "I'm not hiding. I'm done hiding who I am and who I love to make other people comfortable."
"But the media—"
"Will move on to the next story eventually.
In the meantime, at least my father knows definitively that I chose you.
That I burned those bridges publicly and permanently.
" Stefan's voice was sharp. Defiant. "If being public makes me a target, fine.
I'll deal with it. But I'm not going back in the closet just because journalists are nosy. "
"This makes you more vulnerable. Every rival family knows you matter to me now. Every enemy knows exactly where to aim."
"I was already vulnerable. The threats proved that." He sat beside me. "And honestly? I'd rather be openly yours than secretly scared. At least this way everyone knows the truth."
"The truth that you're dating a man facing life in prison?"
"The truth that I love you. That I chose you. That I'm not ashamed of that choice even when it's hard." Stefan's eyes held mine. "You taught me to stop apologizing for wanting things. For taking up space. For loving who I love. Don't ask me to unlearn that now."
I pulled him close. "I'm proud of you. Terrified for you. But proud."
"Good. Because I'm not changing my mind. We're public now. Everyone knows. And I'm fine with that."
The media attention intensified over the next few days.
Journalists followed Stefan. Camped outside Inferno. Shouted questions about his relationship with me. About whether he was cooperating with the FBI. About what his father thought of his choices.
Stefan handled it with surprising grace. Said "no comment" every time. Kept walking. Didn't engage. Eventually most of them got bored and moved on.
But the damage—or the revelation, depending on perspective—was done.
Everyone knew. Giuseppe knew. The other Romano family members knew. The rival families knew. There was no taking it back. No hiding. No pretending this was temporary or strategic or anything except what it was.
Stefan Romano had chosen Matteo DeLuca. Publicly. Permanently. During a federal RICO trial that could destroy everything.
The trial dragged on. Week after week of testimony and evidence and legal maneuvering.
The prosecution was relentless. They had witnesses who testified about extortion. About violence. About the money laundering operation. They had recordings that corroborated everything.
Diana fought hard. She got several pieces of evidence excluded on procedural grounds. She destroyed the credibility of two prosecution witnesses. She made compelling arguments about the overbroad surveillance warrants.
But the foundation of the case was solid. Too solid.
Every night I went home to Stefan. We made dinner or ordered in. Sat together on the couch. Tried to have normal conversations about anything except the trial.
But the reality was always there. Hanging over us like a guillotine.
I might be convicted. Might lose decades. Might be separated from Stefan by a verdict I couldn't control.
And Stefan sat in that courtroom every single day. Front row. Visible. Present.
When the prosecution presented particularly damaging evidence, Stefan was there.
When Diana scored a victory in cross-examination, Stefan was there.
When I looked back during difficult testimony and needed an anchor, Stefan was there.
Just being present in ways I'd never experienced before.
We developed a routine. Court during the day. Home at night. Holding each other. Trying to memorize details in case these were our last weeks of freedom together.
The way Stefan smelled like coffee and something uniquely him.
The sound of his laugh when I said something unexpectedly funny.
The feel of his hand in mine during courthouse recesses.
The way he hummed while reading, that three-note pattern that drove me crazy in the best way.
All the small details that made up a life together. That we might lose.
One night, lying in bed, Stefan said: "What happens if you're convicted?"
We'd been avoiding the direct question. Dancing around it. But Stefan's tone said he needed to face it head-on.
"Then I go to federal prison," I said. "Probably for twenty years minimum. Maybe life."
"And where do I go?"
"You stay here. At Inferno. Sandro will make sure you're protected. You keep working on the books. You—" I stopped. "You live your life, Stefan. You don't put it on hold for me."
"We already had this conversation."
"I know. But I need to hear you say it again. Need to know you understand what you're agreeing to."
Stefan turned to face me. "If you're convicted, I stay at Inferno because it's home.
I keep working because it gives me purpose.
I visit you every week because I love you.
I write every day because I need you to know you're not alone.
" His voice was firm. "And I wait. However long it takes.
Whether it's twenty years or longer. I wait. "
"That's not fair to you—"
"It's my choice. Stop trying to make it for me." He cupped my face. "You're it for me, Matteo. I told you that at the safe house. I meant it then. I mean it now. Verdict doesn't change that."
I kissed him. Tried to pour everything I couldn't say into the physical connection. All the fear and gratitude and overwhelming love and terror that I was asking too much.
"I don't deserve you," I said.
"Probably not. But you've got me anyway."
We made love that night with a desperation we'd been trying to hide. Both of us trying to memorize sensations in case they had to last for decades.
Afterward, Stefan fell asleep in my arms. I lay awake watching him breathe.
This beautiful man who'd chosen me over everything. Who sat in that courtroom every day supporting me despite knowing I might be convicted. Who'd cut ties with his entire family to be with me. Who promised to wait decades if necessary.
I didn't deserve him. But I was selfish enough to keep him anyway.
Even if keeping him meant he'd spend years visiting federal prison.
Even if it meant asking him to sacrifice his twenties and thirties waiting for someone who might never get out.
Even if it was the cruelest gift I could accept.
Because the alternative—pushing him away, losing him by choice instead of by verdict—was worse than any prison sentence.
The trial continued. Evidence mounted. The prosecution's case strengthened. Diana fought brilliantly but we were losing ground.
And through it all, Stefan sat in that front row. Present. Steady. A promise that whatever happened, I wasn't facing this alone.
It had to be enough. Even though it wasn't nearly enough.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.
Week five brought closing arguments. Both sides summarizing months of evidence and testimony.
Walsh stood before the jury and painted us as exactly what we were: criminals who'd built an empire on violence and fear.
Diana countered with reasonable doubt. With questions about evidence legitimacy. With challenges to the narrative the prosecution had constructed.
But I could see it in the jurors' faces. They believed the prosecution. The evidence was too strong. The testimony too consistent.
We were going to be convicted.
All four of us. Life sentences. Decades in federal prison.
That night, I held Stefan and tried to accept what was coming.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too." Stefan held me tighter. "Whatever happens tomorrow. Whatever the verdict is. That doesn't change."
"You promise?"
"I promise. You're not getting rid of me that easily."
I fell asleep believing him.
And preparing to lose everything except the man who refused to leave.