"Depends. Do you want me to lie and say it's surprising?"
A smile tugged at my lips. There was the defiance I'd been waiting for. "I've had enough lying between us. I'd prefer honesty."
"Okay. Honest?" He met my eyes. "It's intimidating as hell. This place probably costs more than I'll make in my entire lifetime. The art on your walls is worth more than my apartment. I feel completely out of place."
The admission hit harder than it should have. I'd spent the week trying to make the penthouse more welcoming, but I'd forgotten that welcoming to someone like me wasn't the same as welcoming to someone like Valentino.
"You're not out of place." I stepped closer. "You're exactly where you should be."
"Luca—"
"Come on. Let me show you around."
I led him through the archway into the main living area. The penthouse was open concept—living room flowing into dining area flowing into kitchen, all of it wrapped in windows overlooking Manhattan. The furniture was modern and expensive because that's what my persona had. But this week I'd made changes.
Books on the coffee table instead of pristine empty surfaces. A throw blanket over the back of the couch where I'd actually used it. Music playing softly from the sound system—jazz, atmospheric, nothing aggressive. Evidence that someone actually lived here instead of just existing in a showroom.
Valentino noticed immediately. He moved to the coffee table and picked up one of the books. "You're reading Márquez?"
"I started it this week. You mentioned One Hundred Years of Solitude in one of your articles. Made me curious."
He set the book down carefully, like it might break. "You read my articles."
"Every one. Multiple times usually."
"Even the ones you didn't give me the information for?"
"Especially those." I moved to stand beside him. "The piece you published on the school board corruption was excellent. All your own work. No help from me."
His head snapped toward me. "You saw that?"
"I have Google alerts for your name." The admission should have embarrassed me but I was done hiding this. "I've had them since the day you published the Bianchi story. I read everything you write."
"That's—" He stopped. Regrouped. "Why?"
"Because you're brilliant. Because watching you work is fascinating. Because—" I caught myself before saying too much too soon. "Come on. I'll show you the rest."
I gave him the tour. Showed him the office where I worked when I wasn't at Inferno. The guest room that no one had ever used. The bathroom with its marble and glass and excessive luxury.
And then my bedroom.
I paused in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. Showing him this space felt more intimate than anything we'd done in my office. This was where I slept. Where I was vulnerable. Where performance dropped completely because there was no one to perform for.
"You don't have to show me if—" Valentino started.
"I want to." I stepped inside and he followed.
The room was simpler than the rest of the penthouse. King bed with dark sheets, minimal furniture, windows along one wall showing the city lights. Personal in ways the other spaces weren't.
Valentino moved to the window and looked out at Manhattan spread below us. "This view must cost a fortune."
"The view is why I bought the place." I came to stand beside him. "Sometimes I stand here at night and remember where I came from. Makes sure I don't forget."
"Where did you come from?"
The question I'd been dreading and wanting in equal measure.
"Queens. Astoria specifically. Shitty apartment with my mother who worked three jobs to keep us fed." The words came easier than I'd expected. "She died when I was seventeen. Left me with nothing but debt and a determination to never be that poor again."
