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SALVATORE

T he Teatro dell‘Opera di Roma rises from the cobblestone darkness, its neoclassical columns carved from marble that has witnessed centuries of blood and beauty.

I step from the black Mercedes and let the door close behind me.

Bruno flanks my left shoulder, his bulk casting shadows across the theater's gilded entrance.

Tano moves to my right, his fingers tapping against the concealed Beretta beneath his jacket—a nervous habit I've never bothered to correct.

The doorman recognizes me immediately. His face drains of color, hands trembling as he fumbles with the brass handles.

No words pass between us. There are none needed when a man's reputation precedes him through Rome's underworld networks, whispered in the same breath as cautionary tales and funeral arrangements.

" Signor DeSantis." The voice belongs to a thin man in an expensive tuxedo, his bow tie slightly askew. He approaches with the careful gait of someone walking across thin ice. "Welcome to Teatro dell'Opera. I am Signor Benedetti, house manager."

I don't acknowledge him. My attention fixes on the grand staircase ahead, the red carpet worn smooth by decades of Roman elite. Tonight, that elite includes me—an unwelcome guest in territory that belongs to Emilio Costa's sphere of influence. The irony tastes metallic on my tongue.

"Your box is ready, Signore ," Benedetti continues, sweat beading at his hairline despite the October chill that clings to the theater's marble surfaces. "Private entrance, as requested. Complete discretion."

The box number means nothing to me. What matters is the vantage point—close enough to study every movement, every breath, every note that falls from Rosaria Costa's lips. The Rose of Rome. The untouchable daughter of a dead man, protected by her uncle's empire and her own pristine reputation.

Until tonight.

We ascend the carpeted stairs, passing oil paintings of long-dead composers whose names have outlived their flesh.

The corridor narrows, lined with doors marked by small brass plaques.

Private boxes for Rome's wealthiest families, their names etched in metal that will outlast their bloodlines.

The Costa name appears on three separate doors.

Territory marked and claimed, even here among the velvet and crystal.

Benedetti unlocks Box 7 with hands that shake badly enough to rattle the keys. The door swings open, revealing red velvet chairs arranged in a semicircle before the theater's main stage. The view is perfect—close enough to see the performers' faces, elevated enough to command the entire hall.

"Wine service?" Benedetti asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No."

The word cuts through the air with surgical precision. Benedetti nods rapidly, backing toward the door with the desperate eagerness of prey escaping a predator's den. The lock clicks behind him, sealing us in our elevated cage.

I settle into the center chair, the velvet soft against my shoulders.

Bruno and Tano position themselves at the box's rear corners, their presence a dark promise that radiates through the theater's ornate walls.

Below us, Rome's cultural aristocracy fill the seats—politicians, business magnates, old-money families whose fortunes were built on foundations of blood.

They chatter in hushed tones, their conversations peppered with names and scandals that would topple governments if spoken too loudly.

The lights dim with theatrical precision, casting the theater into a darkness broken only by the stage's amber glow. Silence falls over the audience, and the orchestra begins, violins weaving through the opening measures of Tosca —Puccini's masterpiece of love, betrayal, and death. How fitting.

The curtain rises on Act One, revealing a Roman church rendered in paint and plaster.

The baritone enters first, his voice filling the theater with Cavaradossi's opening aria.

Competent, but forgettable. The tenor follows, singing Angelotti's desperate pleas with adequate passion.

They are supporting players in tonight's true performance.

Then she appears.

Rosaria Costa steps onto the stage wearing a burgundy gown that catches the footlights and transforms them into liquid fire.

Her dark hair is pulled back in an elaborate chignon, revealing the elegant curve of her neck.

From this distance, I can see the precision of her makeup—dark eyes outlined in kohl, lips painted deep red against pale olive skin that glows under the stage lights.

She moves with the controlled grace of someone who has spent years learning to be watched. Every gesture is calculated, every step measured to maximize the visual impact of her presence. This is no mere performance. This is command. She owns the stage from the moment her feet touch its boards.

But when she begins to sing, calculation transforms into something far more dangerous.

Her voice rises from the orchestra pit's depths, soaring over the instrumental accompaniment with a purity that cuts through flesh and bone to reach something deeper.

The opening notes of Recondita Armonia flow from her throat with effortless power, each phrase shaped by a technique that transforms breath into magic.

I lean forward, my fingers gripping the velvet armrest until the fabric protests.

This is not the voice of a pampered Mafia princess playing at artistry.

This is genuine talent, raw and undeniable, channeled through years of disciplined training into something that transcends the criminal empire that protects her.

Dangerous.

The aria builds toward its climax, Rosaria's voice climbing impossible scales while her body remains perfectly still, all movement contained within the controlled expansion of her ribcage as she draws breath to fuel the next impossible phrase.

The theater has fallen silent except for her voice and the orchestra's accompaniment.

Even the rustling of programs has ceased.

When the final note fades into silence, the applause erupts with the force of religious fervor.

Rose petals rain from the upper balconies—a tradition reserved for the theater's most beloved performers.

Rosaria curtseys with practiced elegance, her eyes sweeping across the audience with the detached gratitude of someone who has learned to accept adoration without trusting it.

Her gaze passes over our box without stopping, but I catch the slight pause in her movement, the barely perceptible hesitation that suggests she has registered my presence. Good. Awareness is the first step toward control.

Act One continues, but my attention remains fixed on her.

Between her musical entrances, I study the way she moves through the staged blocking—never hurried, never uncertain.

She has been performing at this level for years, her confidence built on a foundation of undeniable skill rather than family connections.

This complicates things.

During the first intermission, the house lights rise and conversation resumes throughout the theater.

I remain seated, watching the audience below.

Several heads turn toward our box, curiosity and fear warring in their expressions.

Word of my presence has already begun to spread through the theater's social networks.

" Signore ." Tano's voice is barely audible over the audience's chatter. "Benedetti is approaching."

The house manager appears at our box door, his earlier nervousness replaced by something approaching panic. He knocks with the tentative rhythm of someone hoping to be ignored.

"Enter."

Benedetti slips inside, closing the door behind him with excessive care. " Signor DeSantis, I hope you are enjoying the performance."

"I am."

"Excellent, excellent." He wrings his hands, the gesture revealing sweat stains on his shirt cuffs. "Is there anything we can provide for your comfort? Perhaps refreshments, or?—"

"I want to speak with Miss Costa after the performance."

Benedetti's face cycles through several shades of pale before settling on the sickly yellow of aged parchment.

"I... that is..." He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically. " Signore , Miss Costa maintains very strict policies regarding backstage visits. No exceptions, even for our most distinguished patrons."

I turn in my chair to face him fully. The movement is minimal, but it carries enough threat to make him take an involuntary step backward.

"Are you refusing my request?"

"No! No, of course not, Signore . It's simply that... the rules..." His voice trails off as he realizes the futility of his position. Rules mean nothing when they conflict with the desires of men who write their own laws in blood and fear.

"The rules," I repeat, allowing the words to settle in the air between us. "Tell me, Benedetti, who pays your salary?"

"The theater board, Signore ."

"And who sits on the theater board?"

His shoulders sag in defeat. "Several prominent families, including the Costas."

"The Costas." I nod slowly, as if considering this information for the first time.

"Emilio Costa, specifically. A man who understands the importance of accommodation when it serves his interests.

Do you think Emilio would want his family's opera house to be remembered for its inflexibility toward visiting dignitaries? "

The threat is unspoken but unmistakable. Benedetti's loyalty to Emilio's rules crumbles under the pressure of immediate self-preservation. He has seen enough of Rome's underworld to know that refusing a DeSantis request carries consequences that extend far beyond theater politics.

"I will... make the arrangements," he whispers.

"Discretely."

"Of course, Signore . Complete discretion."

He retreats from the box with the desperate speed of a man fleeing execution. The door closes behind him, leaving us alone with the murmur of conversation from the theater below.