Page 10

ROSARIA

T he villa outside Florence emerges from the Tuscan hills as if carved from the landscape itself, stone walls weathered by centuries but standing strong against time and judgment.

I arrive in the evening, the sky painted in shades of amber and rose, and this time, I don't feel the knot of dread in my stomach.

His second invitation came three days ago—handwritten, unsigned, but unmistakably his.

The monogrammed envelope bore the golden S, and it smelled like him.

This time, I don't hesitate before accepting, mostly because if he shows up at the opera house again, I'm going to lose my mind.

Gossip hounds already can't let me take a piss during rehearsal without assuming I'm sneaking away for clandestine meetings.

Salvatore meets me at the entrance this time, dressed in a charcoal suit that seems to absorb the dying light. His eyes find mine immediately, and I see something different there—not the predatory calculation I've grown accustomed to but something deeper, more complex.

"Welcome, Rosa," he purrs softly, and I don't hate how he uses a nickname for me.

"Salvatore," I say, dipping my head in a professional, but polite, greeting.

He turns and extends his elbow to me, and I look around as if unsure what I'm supposed to do. Last time, his driver escorted me. This time, the personal touch feels almost too intimate. But I curl my hand around his bicep and allow him to escort me through the pristine, too-pretentious hallways.

The salon where I'm to perform is larger than last time, or maybe it only appears that way because the whole room is lit this time.

Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over assembled guests—men in expensive suits, women draped in silk and diamonds, all watching me with scrutinizing gazes.

I recognize some faces from newspaper society pages, others from whispered conversations in Rome's political circles.

This is power made manifest, wealth concentrated in a single room.

But tonight, I don't mind the audience. Tonight, I choose to be here.

The piano sits in the center of the room, the Steinway grand that gleams under the chandelier light.

As I approach it, my emerald dress rustles softly against my legs.

The fabric hugs my form without restraint, giving my hourglass figure a flattering cover, and I feel Salvatore's eyes drink me in with every breath I breathe.

Before I settle near the piano, Salvatore pauses and turns to me, leaning in to whisper in my ear, "They're all here simply for you, Bella , so sing your heart out.

" His scent is intoxicating, much the same way it was in my dressing room five days ago when he so rudely announced that he could "smell my arousal".

And the very same heat that warmed my core when he touched me then spools out through my limbs and loosens me as he backs away.

I nod at him, then turn to the pianist, the same familiar fellow who so elegantly accompanied me last time I sang here at Salvatore's home. He lifts an eyebrow, and I suck in a breath to prepare myself. He waits for my signal before beginning.

His fingers find the keys and the opening notes of Puccini's O Mio Babbino Caro flow from the instrument.

I begin to sing. My voice fills the salon with rich control, each phrase shaped with precision born from years of training and discipline.

But there's something else tonight—a freedom I haven't felt in years, a release that comes from choosing my stage rather than being placed upon it.

The guests listen in rapt silence, wine glasses forgotten in their hands, conversations suspended in deference to the music.

I sing for them, but my eyes keep finding Salvatore.

He stands near the far wall, arms crossed and mesmerized by every note I sing, and I can feel his attention on every note, every breath.

I move through my repertoire—Verdi, Mozart, selections from La Traviata that seem particularly appropriate, given my circumstances.

With each piece, I feel the tension in the room shift, the formal distance between performer and audience dissolving into something more intimate.

They aren't just passing time by attending the opera house, as members of high society are prone to do.

They're really listening, absorbing my music and enjoying my art.

When I finish, enthusiastic applause erupts around me.

The guests cluster closer, offering compliments in accented English and rapid Italian, their faces flushed with wine and appreciation.

A woman in Valentino couture grasps my hand and tells me she's never heard anything so beautiful.

A man with silver hair and knowing eyes mentions connections to La Scala, opportunities that could change everything.

But I barely hear them. My attention remains fixed on Salvatore, who hasn't moved from his position against the wall.

His gaze holds mine across the crowded room, and I see something there that makes my pulse quicken—not possession this time, but hunger.

Raw, unfiltered want that he doesn't bother to hide.

The evening continues around us, guests moving toward the dining room where tables have been set with gleaming silver and pristine white linens.

The conversation flows in multiple languages, punctuated by laughter and the soft clink of crystal.

I should follow them, should play the gracious performer accepting their hospitality, but I need a moment to collect myself.

I slip away from the group, following signs down a marble corridor to find the powder room.

The space is elegantly appointed, mirrors framed in gold, fixtures that speak of old money and older taste.

I stand before the mirror, studying my reflection.

My cheeks are flushed from performance and attention, my eyes bright with true happiness that comes from a place inside my soul that has never felt so welcomed.

The door opens behind me, and I don't need to turn to know who's entered. His presence fills the small space, immediately overwhelming me. I meet his eyes in the mirror, and the air between us crackles with electricity that's been building for weeks.

"You sang beautifully tonight," he says, his voice rough with restraint that I can see him fighting to maintain.

"I sang for you," I reply, the words escaping before I can stop them.

He moves closer, and I turn to face him. The powder room feels smaller with him in here, as if the walls are closing in around us. His hands find my waist, fingers pressing against the silk of my dress, and I don't pull away. I don't even want to pull away.

"Rosaria," he says in a whisper, "I told you that when you sang for me again, you would not leave until I am satisfied.

" Salvatore's eyes are inky and large, and the way his fingers wrap possessively around my hip bone frightens me, but it also sends a thrill through my body to my core, which aches and throbs.

I reach up and touch his face, feeling the slight roughness of his evening stubble against my palm.

"I know," I tell him, and every cell in my body knows how wrong this is.

Salvatore is dangerous. Maybe he's more dangerous than my own uncle who owns half of Rome, but his attention, when he turns it on me, is so fucking infectious, I can't seem to ignore it or deny how it makes me feel.

"Then you know what I'm doing in here." His hand reaches out and turns the lock on the door, barring any other unwelcome guests.

I swallow hard and try not to allow the tension in my chest to deter me. "I do," I admit, suddenly very flustered.

"Good," he murmurs, stalking forward as I take careful steps backward until my back is pressed to the tiled wall and his body pins me there. I can feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against my thigh, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan.

“Don’t think this means anything,” I warn him, but my heart is hammering so loudly in my own ears, I can barely hear myself speaking.

“Oh, it means something. You’re wet just looking at me.” Salvatore’s hands begin inching my dress up higher as his forehead presses against mine, his hot breath fanning across my face.

“You’re disgusting.” My cheeks are hot with a blush I know he can see.

“And you’re shaking. Is that fear, or are you finally admitting you want me?”

Just as his fingertips brush the outside of my thigh, I snap, “I want you dead.”

Salvatore’s hand jerks up to my face and he grips my chin hard. “You want me buried between your thighs. Say it.” His lips are so close to mine, I can almost taste them. The wine on his breath is intoxicating, and I almost give in and say it, but something tells me he likes the way I fight him.

“No.” I try to turn my head, but he won’t allow it. His grip on my chin tightens until I almost wince, and his lips brush over mine softly. It makes my heart flutter and flip, and my core feels like it’s a thousand degrees.

“Lie to me again and I’ll bend you over this sink without asking.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I blurt out, feeling so flustered. One hand is still beneath my skirt, inching ever closer to my center until the outside of his knuckles rub across my mound.

“You think I don’t know what you’ve been dreaming about since the night I dragged you from that stage?”

“You ruined my entire evening.” He scared me shitless, and now he’s got me puddling in his hands.

“And now I’m going to ruin your self-control.”

When his mouth covers mine, I can’t even try to resist. I want him—bad—and he knows it. I can feel how soaked my panties are every time he brushes his knuckles over them. “Tell me to stop, then… That you don’t want this.”

I whimper, biting my lip as he scrapes his stubble along my jawline until his breath is hot in my ear, and all I can do is grip the lapels of his suit jacket and pull him closer.