I poured us both glasses—a Barolo that cost more than Valentino's monthly rent, but I didn't mention that. Didn't want to emphasize the wealth gap between us any more than necessary.
We sat at the dining table with the city lights spread out below us like a carpet of stars. For the first few minutes we ate in comfortable silence. The carbonara was excellent. Valentino had been right about that.
"This is weird," he said finally.
"Weird how?"
"Normal. We're having dinner like regular people. Like this is a date instead of..." He gestured vaguely between us. "Whatever complicated thing we actually are."
"Maybe it is a date."
"Dates usually don't start with one person blackmailing the other into compliance."
The blunt truth of it stung. "No. They don't. And I can't take that back. Can't undo the way this started." I set down my fork. "But I can try to make it something different going forward."
"How?"
"By being honest. By giving you actual choices instead of manufactured ones. By letting you see the real me instead of the performance." I met his eyes. "By hoping that somewhere under all the resentment and justified anger, you might actually want this too."
Valentino took a long sip of wine. "I do want this. That's what scares me. I should hate you. Should want nothing to do with you. But instead I spent all week hoping you'd actually follow through. Hoping this wasn't just another manipulation."
"It's not."
"How do I know that?"
Fair question. One I didn't have a good answer for except: "Time. Consistency. Me proving it over and over until you believe it."
He studied me for a long moment. Then: "Tell me something you've never told anyone."
The request caught me off guard. "What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Everything. I don't care." He leaned forward. "Just give me something that's actually you. Not the persona. You."
I thought about deflecting. About giving him something safe and controlled. But that's exactly what he was asking me not to do.
"I hate the opera," I said finally.
He blinked. "What?"
"The opera. Sandro loves it. Drags us to the Met regularly. I sit through entire performances pretending to appreciate it because that's what the persona would do. But honestly? I findit boring as hell. Give me jazz or blues or even complete silence and I'm happier."
A smile tugged at Valentino's lips. "That's your big secret? You don't like opera?"
"You said anything. That's something real." I took a drink of wine. "Your turn."
"My turn?"
"Fair is fair. Tell me something real about you."
He considered it. "I wanted to be a novelist. Not a journalist. I got into journalism school because it was practical, because I could make a living at it. But what I really wanted was to write fiction. Stories. Whole worlds I could create."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I was too practical. Too scared. Convinced myself that exposing real corruption was more important than making up stories." He looked down at his plate. "But sometimes I wonder if I just chickened out. If I chose journalism because it was safer than risking everything on something I might fail at."
"You wouldn't have failed."
"You don't know that."
