Slowly, painfully, we found a routine.
I visited every Saturday. Three hours there, thirty minutes together, three hours back. Every single week. No matter what.
We talked on the phone every evening. Fifteen-minute monitored calls. Never enough time but better than nothing.
I wrote him letters. Long, rambling letters about my day, my work, my thoughts. He wrote back. His handwriting familiar and precious.
And I started documenting everything. Writing about our story. How we met. How it started. How it changed. The trial. The separation. All of it.
It was therapy. It was processing. It was hope.
Because this wasn't the end of our story. This was just a chapter. A hard one. But one we'd survive.
Together, even when apart.
CHAPTER 20: LUCA
PRISON WAS PRISON, no matter how minimum the security.
The routine was numbing. Wake at six. Breakfast at six-thirty. Work detail from seven to noon—I'd been assigned to the kitchen, which was fine. Lunch. Rec time. More work. Dinner. Lockdown at nine.
Day after day after day.
My cellmate was a guy named David, in for embezzlement. Mid-fifties, quiet, kept to himself. We coexisted peacefully, which was the best I could hope for.
The other inmates knew who I was. Word traveled fast in prison—Luca Romano, formerly of the Vitale organization. Some treated me with respect. Others saw me as a challenge. I kept my head down, avoided trouble, behaved perfectly.
Because I wanted that early release. Twelve months instead of eighteen. I needed to get home to Valentino.
Every night, lying in my bunk while David snored across the cell, I counted days. Counted down to freedom. Counted down to holding Valentino again.
The phone calls were lifelines.
Fifteen minutes each evening. Monitored, recorded, limited. But hearing his voice made everything bearable.
"How was work today?" I asked, pressing the phone to my ear like I could get closer to him through it.
"Good. We're launching a campaign for one of the real estate developments. Julian thinks it'll be huge." A pause. "But I miss you."
"I miss you too." I glanced at the guard stationed nearby, listening. "More than I can say on this line."
"I know." His voice softened. "I visited your favorite place today."
The windows at the penthouse. Our place. Where we'd stood together so many times.
"Was it—" I couldn't finish. Emotions choking me.
"It was good. Reminded me of why we're doing this. Why we're surviving this."
"Tell me more. Tell me everything." I needed to hear about the outside world. About his life. About everything beyond these walls.
He talked for the remaining minutes. About work. About dinner with Sandro and Emilio, how fast their baby was growing. About reorganizing the closet. Mundane, precious details.
"Two minutes remaining," the automated voice announced.
"Fuck," I muttered. "It's never enough time."
"I know. But I'll see you Saturday."
