"Honesty. Communication. No more games." I set my mug down too. "And if I say no to something, you have to respect that."
"I will. I swear." He kissed my forehead. "What else?"
"I need to be able to keep doing my work. Real journalism, not just stories you hand me. I need to rebuild my integrity."
"Done. Write whatever stories you want. I won't interfere."
"Even if they're about things you'd rather keep quiet?"
He hesitated, and I saw him struggle with the answer. The zrchitect would have said yes smoothly while planning to sabotage me. But Luca—the real Luca—was actually considering it.
"Can we agree to talk about it if that happens? Not me forbidding you, but us discussing the implications together?" He met my eyes. "I'm trying to be honest. If you publish something that directly threatens the organization, that's a problem. But I won't force you to kill a story. We'll just... figure it out together."
The honesty meant more than a smooth lie would have. "Okay. We'll talk about it if it comes up."
"Thank you." He kissed me, soft and sweet. "Come on. Let me make you breakfast."
"You cook?"
"Badly. But I try." He grinned. "Or I can order from the place downstairs that makes actual edible food."
"Let's go with the edible option."
We moved to the kitchen and Luca ordered breakfast while I explored his living space more thoroughly. In the daylight, with him rumpled and relaxed, the penthouse felt less intimidating. Still expensive, still way beyond anything I'd ever have, but more like a home than a showroom.
I noticed the small signs of humanity. The books on the coffee table—including the Márquez we’d talked about. A blanket draped over the couch. Music playing softly from hidden speakers—jazz, mellow and atmospheric.
"I take it back. It's different from what I imagined. Less sterile."
"I spent the week trying to make it feel like a place you'd want to be." He pocketed his phone. "Food will be here in twenty minutes. Want to see the rest?"
He gave me a proper tour this time. Showed me his home office—neat but not obsessive, with papers scattered across the desk and coffee rings on the wood. The guest room that clearly never got used. The second bathroom with its marble and excessive luxury.
Then the balcony.
We stepped outside into crisp October air and the city spread out before us. The view was even better than from the bedroom window. I could see all the way to the river, to Brooklyn beyond, to the life I'd built there that now felt very far away.
"I come out here when I need to think," Luca said. "Or when the persona gets too heavy."
"Does that happen a lot?"
"More than I'd like to admit." He leaned against the railing beside me. "Being him is exhausting. Always performing, always calculating. Sometimes I forget where the persona ends and I begin."
"And right now?" I looked at him. "Which one are you right now?"
"Right now I'm just me. No performance. No calculation." He met my eyes. "Just a man who's terrified he's going to fuck this up."
The vulnerability in his voice made my chest tight. "I'm terrified too."
"Of me?"
"Of this. Of how much I want it even though I know I shouldn't. Of the fact that I'm standing in a criminal's penthouse having breakfast like this is normal." I looked back at the city. "I became a journalist to expose people like you. And now I'm sleeping with you."
"I'm trying to be less like 'people like me.'" He turned to face me fully. "You make me want to be better. Want to be someone who deserves this."
"You're going legitimate. The business restructuring."
"Because of you. Partly." He caught my hand. "Before you, I didn't care if we stayed in grey areas. It was just business. But now..." He paused. "Now I want to be someone you don't have to investigate. To be ashamed of being with."
