"Hello?"
"You have a collect call from an inmate at a federal correctional facility. Will you accept the charges?"
My heart jumped. "Yes. Yes, I accept."
A click. Then: "Valentino?"
"Luca." Relief flooded through me. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay. Processed in. Cell assigned. It's..." He paused. "It's prison. But I'm okay."
"I miss you already."
"I miss you too." His voice was rough. "God, I miss you so much. And it's only been six hours."
"Less than a year," I said firmly. "Eleven more months if you get early release. We can do this."
"We can do this," he agreed. "How was the drive back?"
"Long. Empty." I sat on the couch. "But I made it. I'm home now."
"Good. Are you eating?"
"Not yet. I will."
"Promise me you'll eat. Take care of yourself."
"I promise." Tears were running down my face. "When can I visit?"
"This weekend. Visiting hours are Saturdays and Sundays, ten to four. You'll need to get on the approved visitors list."
"I'll call tomorrow and get approved."
"This call is limited to fifteen minutes and is being monitored," an automated voice announced.
"Fuck," Luca muttered. "Fifteen minutes isn't enough."
"We'll make it work. We'll talk every day."
"Every day," he agreed. "I love you. So much."
"I love you too. Be safe in there."
"I will. You take care of yourself out there."
"The call will end in sixty seconds," the automated voice said.
"Valentino—"
"I know. I love you. I'll see you this weekend."
"I love you too. I'll—"
The line went dead.
I sat there holding the phone, crying, feeling like my heart had been ripped out. This was going to be our reality for the next year. Monitored phone calls. Limited visiting hours. Separation.
But we'd survive it. We had to.
