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“Please, Anthony. I know you better than that. You don’t socialize without an agenda.”

“Call me Antonio.”

Rosemary took a sip of her coffee. “I’m sorry?”

“In case anyone overhears.”

“Everyone knows that you’re from New Jersey.”

“Not the European press.”

“Good Lord.” Rosemary rolled her eyes behind her thick but fashionable glasses.

“I could have been born in Italy, rather than being third generation.” Anthony winked at her. “Just trying to stay mysterious.”

“What do you need from me, Antonio?”

Anthony steeled himself. This would test how far his newfound influence might take him. Rosemary was a shrewd negotiator.

“I hate the production.”

“Of Cosí fan tutte? Of course you do. Everyone hates it, except for the elderly subscribers who have been watching it for the last four decades.”

“I’m contracted to do it again in three years.”

Rosemary pressed her lips together. “You are.”

“I want a new production.”

Rosemary raised an eyebrow. “Or…?”

“Or I bail. I’m trying to phase out the role, anyway. Cenerentola is earlier that season. I don’t need to come back twice.”

Rosemary barked out a laugh. “Nobody comes to Cosí for the Ferrando, no matter how many times the reviewers call it an ensemble piece. The ladies are the stars.”

“Then it won’t be a big deal for me to skip it.”

A tense silence settled between them. Anthony was suddenly very aware of the man behind him with the ascot. He was clinking his spoon against a ceramic mug as he stirred what Anthony assumed was tea.

Finally, Rosemary shrugged. “Fine. It was time for a new production.”

“Excellent!”

“But.” She raised her finger imperiously. “The season after, you’ll do Don Giovanni.”

“Ugh. Don Ottavio is such a simp.”

“If you didn’t want to play lightweights, you should have been born with a heftier instrument.”

Anthony sighed dramatically, his hand going to his forehead. “My curse.” He’d gotten what he wanted. Mostly. He could afford to joke.

“I’ll have Melissa send over the—”

“Oh my god, Antonio Bianchi! I love you!” The high-pitched call echoed off the tiled ceiling of the hotel restaurant. Rosemary and Anthony both turned their heads toward the shrill voice.

A young blonde woman rushed over to their table, trailed by a bald, tattooed man in his mid-thirties. Her long hair had a crispy, over-processed quality, and she wore a deep plum lipstick. He had a goatee that made him look like a comic book villain.

“Hello.” It might be inconvenient sometimes, but Anthony didn’t really mind his more rabid fans, especially when they were younger than seventy. It was a sign his career was doing well. He plastered on a big smile.