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"Thank you both," he says finally, his voice carrying false cheerfulness. "That was... illuminating. I'll announce my decision shortly."

We wait in the corridor outside the audition room, surrounded by other singers who whisper among themselves about what they witnessed.

Their conversations carry fragments of judgment and speculation, voices that confirm what everyone in the room understood—my performance was superior in every measurable way.

"She was incredible," someone whispers. "That high C in the second aria? Flawless."

"Alba struggled with the coloratura," another voice adds. "Her technique isn't ready for a role this demanding."

"Politics," a third singer mutters. "It's always about politics."

When Luca emerges to announce his decision, his face carries a dark pallor betraying his artistic integrity. He clears his throat, shuffles his papers, and delivers the words that shatter my last illusion of fairness.

"The role goes to Alba Sorrenti."

The corridor erupts in shocked murmurs. Several singers exchange glances that speak of corruption and manipulation, of decisions made in back rooms rather than audition halls. Alba's smile blazes with triumph that feels hollow given the circumstances of her victory.

"Mr. Romano." I step forward, my voice carrying barely controlled fury. "On what basis was this decision made?"

Luca's eyes dart nervously between me and some invisible observer, perhaps Rocco, perhaps one of the other watchers who monitor my every word and gesture. "Miss Sorrenti earned the role through her audition performance. The decision is final."

"Her performance was technically deficient and emotionally shallow." I keep my voice level despite the rage building in my chest. "Everyone in that room heard the difference."

"The decision is final," Luca repeats, his voice gaining strength from repetition. "Miss Sorrenti will play the lead. You'll be assigned to the secondary role of?—"

"I won't be assigned to anything." I turn away from him, from Alba's triumphant smile, from the whispers of singers who understand but cannot speak the truth of what they witnessed.

"Keep your secondary roles. Keep your corrupted theater.

Keep your artistic integrity that dissolves in the presence of thick envelopes. "

Rocco follows me from the building, his heavy footsteps matching my furious pace as I flee the scene of my professional humiliation.

The street outside the opera house bustles with Roman life—tourists taking photographs, lovers sharing gelato, children chasing pigeons while their parents watch with indulgent smiles.

Normal people living normal lives, unaware of the shadow world that operates beneath their city's beautiful surface.

Rocco makes no attempt at conversation during the drive back to the estate, perhaps understanding that my fury needs space to breathe before it explodes into something more dangerous.

The city outside blurs past but my heart is crushed.

I can't focus on what I'm seeing when what I'm feeling is so large it could suffocate me.

Emilio waits for me in his study, positioned behind his massive desk with the calculated authority of a man who has orchestrated every detail of my day. The room smells of leather and cigars, of old money and older blood, of decisions made in darkness and justified by necessity.

"You seem upset," he observes. His voice carries false concern and I'm not fooled by it.

"You manipulated the audition." I don't bother with pleasantries or pretense. "You bought Luca Romano's decision to keep me bound up here at the estate."

Emilio's smile is cold and utterly without warmth. "I have done nothing of the sort, but if it protected you from making another mistake, so be it. Your judgment has proven... unreliable."

"My judgment?" I laugh bitterly. "What kind of man watches his niece's every move and calls it love? What kind of family imprisons someone for the crime of being blackmailed?"

"The kind of family that survives," Emilio replies, rising from his chair with fluid menace. "The kind of family that understands loyalty and the consequences of betrayal."

"I never betrayed anyone." My voice rises despite my attempts to remain calm. "I was manipulated, threatened, coerced into?—"

"You were seduced." Emilio stalks around his desk, preying on me, tightening his eyes down to thin slits. "You were flattered by the attention of a dangerous man and you forgot who you are, where you come from, what you owe to the family that raised and protected you."

"Protected me?" The words explode from my throat with fury that has been building for weeks. "You've turned me into a prisoner in my own home! You've destroyed my career, isolated me from everyone I trust, and now you want to claim it's protection?"

Emilio's hand moves faster than thought, slamming into the wall beside my head with enough force to crack the plaster.

The sound echoes through the study while dust motes dance in the afternoon light streaming through heavy curtains.

His face is inches from mine, his breath hot against my skin, his eyes burning with the kind of rage that has ended lives and buried bodies.

"Next time," he threatens through bared teeth, "it won't be the wall."

The threat chokes the air between us in the sudden silence, as real and solid as the crack in the plaster beside my head.

I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body, sense the violence that coils beneath his expensive suit and cultured voice.

This is the man who raised me, who shaped my life, who claims to love me while destroying everything I value.

"Do we understand each other?" he asks, his voice soft and deadly.

I nod because refusal means death, because resistance means disappearance, because twenty-one years of survival have taught me when to bend and when to break.

But behind my compliance, behind my submission, behind my apparent acceptance of his authority, something harder and colder than his rage begins to crystallize.

Emilio steps back, smoothing his jacket casually like he's suffered a minor inconvenience. "Salvatore DeSantis is a threat to everything this family has built. Your association with him puts us all at risk. Living here will neutralize that threat while providing you with protection and legitimacy."

"Living here makes me a prisoner with a different name," I reply, surprised by the steadiness of my own voice.

"I'm not sure I asked for your opinion on this matter, Rosaria." Emilio returns to his desk, settling back into his chair as if nothing has changed. "You will learn to find happiness in your role, or you will learn to pretend convincingly enough that the difference becomes irrelevant."

I leave his study without another word, walking through corridors that echo with the sound of my isolation, past rooms filled with beauty and emptiness, toward a bedroom that serves as both sanctuary and cell.

Behind me, Rocco's footsteps provide a constant reminder that my freedom remains an illusion, that my choices exist only within boundaries established by men who claim to know what's best for me.

In my room, I stand before the barred windows and stare at gardens I cannot walk, at horizons I cannot reach, at a world that continues to turn while I remain trapped in amber, preserved and displayed but no longer truly alive.

The Costa estate has become my stage, but the only audience consists of guards and watchers, men who monitor my performance and report back to directors I never see.

Tomorrow will bring new restrictions, new reminders of my captivity, new evidence that my voice and my body and my future belong to men who trade in flesh and blood and loyalty.

But tonight, in the gathering darkness of my gilded prison, I allow myself to imagine a different ending to this story, a different song to sing, a different stage on which to perform the drama of my own choosing.

The Rose of Rome may be plucked and caged, but roses have thorns, and captivity breeds its own kind of desperate strength. The performance continues, but the final act remains unwritten, and sometimes, the most beautiful songs emerge from the deepest darkness.