"It's not nothing. But I don't want to overwhelm you." I studied him over the menu. "Am I overwhelming you?"
"Yes. But not in a bad way." He focused on the menu. "Maybe in a good way. I don't know yet."
Fair enough. We were both figuring this out as we went.
The server arrived and took our drink orders. Wine for me, whiskey for Valentino—"I need something stronger than wine for this"—and left us to decide on food.
"The maître d' knew you," Valentino said. "You come here often?"
"For business dinners sometimes. Antonio's discreet. Doesn't gossip about who eats here with whom."
"That's important to you. Privacy."
"In my line of work, yes. But also—" I set down my menu. "I wanted somewhere I knew you'd be comfortable. Somewhere we wouldn't be photographed or bothered. Just us."
"Just us in a very expensive restaurant in the West Village where you're clearly a regular."
I couldn't help but smile. "You're never going to let me just do something nice without pointing out the wealth disparity, are you?"
"Probably not. It's hard to ignore when we live in completely different worlds." He leaned back in his chair. "You have a penthouse with a view of the entire city. I have a studio apartment in Brooklyn where I can hear my neighbors fighting through the walls."
"You could move in with me."
The words came out before I could stop them. Valentino's eyes went wide.
"What?"
"Sorry. That was—" I ran a hand through my hair. "Too fast. I know that's too fast. But you said yourself you can hear through the walls. My place has actual soundproofing."
"Luca." He said my name like he was trying to ground himself. "We've been in a real relationship for like three days. You can't ask me to move in."
"I know. You're right. Forget I said anything." But I didn't want to forget it. The idea of Valentino in my space permanently, of waking up with him every morning, of building something domestic and real—I wanted that. Wanted it more than I should after only three days.
The server returned with our drinks and we ordered food. Once we were alone again, Valentino took a long sip of his whiskey and studied me with those sharp hazel eyes.
"Why me?" he asked.
"What?"
"Why me specifically? You could have any number of journalists on your payroll. Could have handled the raid footage threat a dozen different ways. Why did you choose me?"
The question I'd been avoiding asking myself for months.
"Because you were brilliant," I said finally. "The Bianchi exposé proved that. You dug deeper than anyone else had. Found connections other journalists missed. You were hungry and talented and exactly the kind of threat I needed to neutralize."
"That's the practical answer. What's the real one?"
He saw through me too clearly.
"Because when I saw you in that coffee shop, I thought—this is someone who cares. Who gives a shit about getting it right. Who has principles." I took a drink of wine. "And I wanted that. Wanted to be close to someone who still believed in truth when I'd spent a decade building an empire on lies."
Valentino was quiet for a long moment. "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"Which part?"
"That you had to threaten someone into being close to you because you didn't think you deserved it any other way."
The observation hit harder than it should have. "I didn't think about deserving. I thought about control."
