"I don't care. Let me have this. Let me think about it. It's all I've got right now."
He squeezed my hands. "Three weeks. Then you can have me however you want."
"However I want," I repeated. "I'm going to hold you to that."
***
The night before release, I couldn't sleep.
David was snoring across the cell. The usual prison sounds—footsteps, distant conversations, metal doors—echoed through the darkness. My last night behind bars.
Tomorrow, I'd walk out. Valentino would be waiting. We'd go home together.
I'd survived twelve months. We'd survived twelve months. And tomorrow, we'd start rebuilding.
When morning finally came, I went through the routine one last time. Breakfast. Final processing. Signing paperwork. Collecting my belongings—wallet, keys, phone, all sealed in a bag twelve months ago.
"You're good to go, Romano," the guard said. "Try not to come back."
"Not planning on it."
I walked toward the exit. Through the final security checkpoint. Through the doors I'd walked through a year ago in handcuffs.
Out into morning sunlight and freedom.
And there, standing by his car in the parking lot, was Valentino.
He saw me and started moving. I started moving. We met in the middle and I pulled him into my arms so hard I lifted him off his feet.
"Luca." His face pressed into my neck. "God, Luca."
"I've got you." I held him tighter. "I've got you. I'm here."
We stood there for a long moment, just holding each other. No time limit. No guard watching. Just us.
When I finally pulled back to look at him, there were tears on his face.
"I can't believe you're really here," he said. "Really out."
"I'm out. I'm free. I'm yours." I kissed him—properly, deeply, the way I'd been dying to for twelve months. He kissed back just as desperately, hands fisting in my shirt.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"Take me home," I said. "Please. Take me home."
The drive back to Manhattan took three hours.
Three hours of holding Valentino's hand. Three hours of looking at him, touching him, reassuring myself he was real. Three hours of anticipation building until I felt like I might combust.
"How does it feel?" he asked. "Being out?"
"Surreal. Like I'm going to wake up back in that cell." I squeezed his hand. "How are you? Really?"
"Better now that you're here. The last year was..." He trailed off. "Hard doesn't cover it."
"I know. I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologize. We survived. That's what matters." He glanced at me. "I prepared the penthouse for you. Made sure everything was perfect."
