"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 booksare 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.
