Page 1

Chapter 1

Anthony

“Icannot sing with this belt cutting off my circulation!”

Anthony was being ridiculous, but he didn’t care. He’d already talked to the general manager of the Chicago City Opera twice about the costume designer, and she’d continued to put him in clothing that made him look like a string of variably sized sausages.

Every time he looked in the mirror in his dressing room, he cringed. Yes, he was short and high-waisted, and yes, his ass was perhaps larger and juicier than the average tenor, but he knew he could look better than this.

Maestra Svoboda cut off the orchestra and rolled her eyes behind her wire-framed glasses. Anthony didn’t care. Let them all wait. If the CCO wanted a world-class performance, it needed to provide a world-class costume design. There was no way he’d be out there singing high C’s looking like a lumpy eclair.

The patrons shifted in their seats. Guilt stirred in Anthony’s chest, but he quickly shoved it away. The audience had known what they were getting into coming to an invited dress rehearsal.

Dress rehearsals were paused for technical issues all the time, and this issue was both technical and very personal. The seats were probably filled with aging opera queens, anyway. He hated to look petty in front of the public, but they’d eat the drama up.

When something wasn’t right, it wasn’t right.

“Antonio, my apologies.” The general manager of the opera was a thin little man in his sixties. Well, maybe little wasn’t fair. He was the same height as Anthony, just under five-foot-seven. But where Anthony had a solid Italian build with thick thighs, the GM was skinny, almost frail-looking.

His name was Barry, of all things, and his daily uniform matched the tenor of his name: an oversized and wrinkled button-down shirt hanging down over a pair of khakis that pooled slightly at his feet. He wore a close-mouthed smile — a thinly veiled attempt to fake compassion and understanding — but he wouldn’t be winning an Oscar anytime soon.

“It’s too late for sorry, caro,” Anthony said. “I’ve had several meetings with you about what’s-her-name—”

“—Michelle.”

“Yes, Michelle. A painfully ordinary name for a painfully ordinary woman. You and I have spoken about her multiple times, and yet here we are at final dress, and my costumes still look like they’re from a community theater production of Saving Private Ryan. I’m supposed to be a dashing prince!”

Don Ramiro, the lead tenor in Rossini’s La Cenerentola, was one of Anthony’s favorite roles. He got to be handsome, a skosh devious, occasionally mean, and he sang “Si, ritrovarla io giuro,” one of Rossini’s most impressive arias.

“Antonio, I promise we’ll take care of it, but we need to continue—”

Anthony reached down, unbuckled his belt, ripped it off, and threw it into the wings. Was he throwing a temper tantrum? Maybe, but it was justified. He was tired of his concerns being ignored, and he refused to look foolish onstage. He’d long left behind the “suck it up and take it’ portion of his career.

Besides, it’s not like making a scene would hurt his reputation. A little fiery repartee just enhanced his diva image.

Anthony locked eyes with Barry, who was slowly backing away. “Where is she now?”

“Who?”

“Michelle, the costume designer, where is she?”

“I’m right here!” The normally soft-spoken woman burst from the stage wings, her voice ringing like a trumpet playing a loud, flat note. Her long gray hair was pulled tight in a ponytail, and her beige peasant skirt flowed around her as she strode across the set.

“I have been designing productions here for twenty years, and I have never worked with such a spoiled brat!”

Normally, she exuded a sturdy, calm Midwestern charm. Anthony liked angry Michelle better. He preferred an adversary with some fight in them.

“You’d think that someone with that much experience could make a pair of pants that could fit around my ass.” Anthony smirked at her. This was going to be a blast.

She came to a stop a few feet away from him, her hands tucked into her bulky gray designer’s apron.

“Renee Fleming and Joyce DiDonato love my costumes. I shouldn’t have to worry about the opinions of a pipsqueak tenor whose sense of fashion includes crop tops and booty shorts.”

“Those are my rehearsal clothes! At least I don’t go out in public dressed like I’m planning on churning butter at the commune.” Anthony pursed his lips in excitement. It had been a while since he’d had a decent argument.

“Please, let’s calm down…” Barry was sweating. Good.

Michelle ignored the general manager. “Perhaps you don’t enjoy my designs because they make you seem like a human man, instead of the lizard person you actually are.”