"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.
