"Yes, I do. Because I've read everything you've written and you're brilliant." I reached across the table and caught his hand. "You make facts read like stories. Give them narrative weight. That's a rare skill."
He looked at our joined hands like he was trying to figure out if it was a trap. "You really mean that."
"Every word."
We finished dinner talking about other things. Books we'd read, places we'd been, the small details that build intimacy. Valentino told me about growing up in Queens with a single mother who worked as a nurse. About journalism school and the professors who'd pushed him to be better. About the first story he'd published and how it had felt like vindication.
I told him about the boxing matches. About learning to read people by watching their fights, their tells, their weaknesses. About how Sandro had taught me to channel that skill into something more subtle. How I'd built persona piece by piece until I'd almost forgotten there was anyone underneath.
The honesty felt dangerous. Every admission was ammunition he could use against me. But I gave them freely because that's what trust required.
By the time we finished eating, something had shifted between us. The tension wasn't gone—would probably never be completely gone given how we'd started. But it had changed. Transformed from antagonistic to anticipatory.
"Come here." I stood and held out my hand.
He took it without hesitation this time. Let me pull him up and lead him to the windows overlooking the city. We stood there together, his back against my chest, my arms wrapped around him. Domestic and perfect and terrifying.
"I spent the week thinking about you," I said against his ear. "Wondering if you'd come. Hoping you would."
"I almost didn't." His voice was quiet. "Canceled three times in my head."
"What changed your mind?"
"I realized I needed to know if you were telling the truth. About giving me a choice. About wanting me beyond the arrangement." He leaned back into me. "And I realized I wanted it to be true."
I turned him in my arms so we were face to face. His hazel eyes were dark in the low lighting, pupils blown wide. I could see his pulse jumping in his throat, right over one of the marks I'd left.
"It is true," I said. "All of it."
"Prove it."
The challenge hung between us. I could see the exact moment he realized what he'd said. The flash of nervousness followed by determination. He wasn't backing down.
"How would you like me to prove it?" I kept my voice low, controlled, even though my pulse was racing.
"Kiss me. Like you mean it. Like this is real and not just—"
I didn't let him finish. Just closed the distance and captured his mouth with mine.
The kiss was different from the desperate collision in my office. Slower. More intentional. I took my time learning the shape of his lips, the taste of wine on his tongue, the small sound he made when I changed the angle.
He melted into me immediately. Hands fisting in my sweater, body pressing close, kissing me back with equal intensity. No hesitation. No resistance. Just wanting.
I walked him backward until his back hit the windows. Caged him there with my body but didn't crowd. Gave him space even while I took his mouth like I owned it.
Because I did. At least in this moment.
He owned me right back.
"Luca—" His voice was breathless when I moved to his jaw, down his throat, finding the marks I'd left. "What are you doing?"
"Proving it." I bit down gently on one of the healing marks and he gasped. "Showing you this is real."
"How?"
"By letting you choose." I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "What do you want, Valentino? Tell me and I'll give it to you."
He stared at me, processing the offer. "What if I want to leave?"
