Page 13

ROSARIA

T he Costa estate suffocates me with its false opulence.

Every room breathes surveillance, every corridor whispers with the footsteps of men paid to watch my movements and report back to Emilio.

The marble floors that once felt familiar now echo with the sound of my imprisonment, each step a reminder that I am no longer a guest in this house but a prisoner dressed in silk and guarded by men who call themselves family.

My childhood bedroom has been transformed into a cell.

The windows that once offered views of the gardens now frame iron bars painted white to maintain the illusion of elegance.

The locks on the doors have been changed, the keys redistributed to hands that answer to my uncle rather than to me.

My personal belongings have been searched, my phone monitored, my every conversation recorded by devices hidden in the walls and furniture.

Victor finds me in the morning room, where I sit with untouched breakfast and cold coffee, staring through barred windows at gardens I can no longer walk freely.

He enters without knocking, his presence filling the space with the kind of casual menace that runs in our family blood.

My cousin has inherited Emilio's calculating eyes and cruel mouth but lacks the restraint that comes with age and experience.

"You look pale," he observes, settling into the chair across from me with the fluid grace of a predator taking position. "Prison life doesn't suit you."

"I wouldn't call this prison." I keep my voice level, refusing to give him the reaction he seeks. "More like protective custody."

Victor laughs, the sound sharp and without warmth. "Is that what you're calling it? Protective custody?" He leans forward, elbows on the table, studying my face like a scientist examining a specimen. "Because from where I sit, it looks like you've finally been brought to heel."

The words sting because they carry truth.

I am being brought to heel, trained to obedience through isolation and surveillance, taught that my previous freedom was an illusion that could be revoked at any moment.

The Rose of Rome has been plucked from her stage and transplanted into a greenhouse where every petal is monitored and controlled.

"Your loyalty has always been questionable," Victor continues, cutting into his breakfast with precise movements that mirror his surgical approach to conversation. "Father indulged your independence because it served his purposes. But now that independence has become a liability."

"My independence built the reputation that legitimizes this family." I push my untouched plate away, the sight of food nauseating me at the mere thought of it. I don't know what's wrong with me. "My voice opened doors that your guns never could."

"Your voice also led you straight into Salvatore DeSantis's bed." Victor's eyes glitter with malicious satisfaction as he watches my face for reaction. "Tell me, cousin, was it worth it? Trading your family's protection for a few nights with the enemy?"

Heat rises in my cheeks, but I force myself to remain calm.

Victor feeds on emotional reactions, grows stronger when he draws blood.

I have learned to starve him of the satisfaction he craves, to meet his cruelty with the same cold calculation that has kept me alive in this family for twenty-one years.

"I didn't trade anything," I say quietly. "I was blackmailed into compliance, then used as a bargaining chip in negotiations I had no part in planning."

"Blackmailed?" Victor's eyebrows rise in mock surprise. "Is that the story you're telling yourself? Because the surveillance footage tells a different tale entirely."

My stomach clenches with dread and humiliation.

Of course there is surveillance footage.

Of course Emilio's men documented my visits to Salvatore's estate, my compliance with his demands, my gradual surrender to something that started as coercion and became something else entirely.

The evidence of my weakness, my desire, exists in digital form, ready to be weaponized against me.

"The footage shows what it shows," I manage, hating the way my voice quavers. "It doesn't tell the whole story."

"It tells enough." Victor wipes his mouth with his napkin, the gesture somehow obscene.

"It tells the story of a woman who forgot where her loyalties should lie.

Who chose passion over family. Who betrayed everything our father built to protect her.

" I scoff at the words "our father." I want to spit at him that Emilio has never been my father, but before I can, I'm cut off.

Rocco appears in the doorway before I can respond, his bulk filling the frame. My assigned shadow, loyal to Emilio and deeply suspicious of everything I do, say, or think. He wears his distrust openly, never bothering to hide his belief that I am a traitor who deserves whatever fate awaits me.

"Time to go," he announces, his voice carrying the authority of my uncle. "Rehearsal starts in thirty minutes."

I rise from the table, grateful for the interruption despite knowing it means only a different kind of prison. The opera house may offer the illusion of freedom, but I will perform under the same surveillance, the same constraints, the same crushing weight of family expectation and control.

The drive to the Teatro dell'Opera takes place in silence.

Rocco sits beside me in the back seat while another of Emilio's men drives, all of us wrapped in the quiet tension that has become my constant companion.

Rome passes by the windows in a blur of ancient stones and modern corruption, a city that has seen empires rise and fall, that understands the price of power and the cost of survival.

The opera house welcomes me with familiar scents and sounds—rosin and wood polish, the distant sound of scales being practiced, the rustle of costumes being fitted and adjusted.

But even here, in the space that once felt like sanctuary, I sense the presence of watchers and manipulators, the invisible threads that connect my uncle's influence to every aspect of my professional life.

Alba Sorrenti glows with anticipation as she prepares for the audition.

Her confidence radiates from every gesture, every smile, every casual comment to the other singers about her expectations for the upcoming season.

She has positioned herself perfectly for this moment, armed with photographs and threats, backed by whatever promises Luca Romano has made to secure her cooperation.

"Rosaria!" She approaches me with false warmth, her smile bright enough to blind. "I wasn't sure you'd make it today. I heard you've been... indisposed."

"I'm here," I reply, beginning my warm-up exercises with deliberate precision. "Ready to sing."

Alba's smile falters slightly at my calm response.

She expected desperation, pleading, perhaps even withdrawal from the competition.

Instead, I prepare with the same methodical approach that has carried me through hundreds of performances, focusing on breath control and vocal placement with the intensity of a warrior preparing for battle.

"Of course you are." Alba recovers quickly, her voice carrying manufactured sympathy. "Though I have to say, you look tired. Stressed. Maybe you should consider taking some time off, focusing on your... personal situation."

"My personal situation is none of your concern." I continue my scales, each note precise and controlled, my voice growing stronger with every exercise. "If you want the lead role, you'll have to earn it."

The audition room fills with tension as we take our positions.

Other singers watch with predatory interest like carrion birds sensing drama and positioning themselves to benefit from whatever chaos ensues.

The accompanist settles at the piano, fingers poised over keys that will determine which voice rises and which falls.

Luca Romano enters looking haggard, his face bearing the weight of decisions made in shadowy offices and payments received in thick envelopes.

He avoids my eyes as he takes his seat, focusing instead on his notes and the pretense that what follows will be a fair competition based on merit rather than manipulation.

When my turn comes, I sing with everything I possess.

Every note carries the fury of my captivity, the pain of my betrayal, the desperate hope that my voice might still be my own even when everything else has been taken from me.

The aria flows from my throat with power and precision that silences the room, that transforms the shabby audition space into something approaching the sacred.

I sing of love and loss, of desire and destruction, of women who choose their own fates even when the world conspires against them. The music becomes a weapon and a shield, a declaration of independence that echoes off the walls and settles into the hearts of everyone present.

When the last note fades, silence stretches across the room. The other singers stare with expressions ranging from admiration to envy to frank amazement. Even Alba's confidence wavers as she realizes the magnitude of the performance she must follow.

But when Alba takes the stage, her voice carries none of the power or precision that the role demands.

Her high notes strain and crack, her phrasing lacks the emotional depth that transforms technical competence into art.

She rushes through difficult passages and overcompensates for her limitations with theatrical gestures that emphasize rather than disguise her vocal shortcomings.

The contrast between our performances is so stark that even Luca Romano cannot hide his discomfort. He shifts in his seat, makes notes with unnecessary intensity, avoids looking at either of us as we wait for his decision.