Page 15

SALVATORE

T he bass thrums through the floor of Oro Nero, vibrating up through the leather soles of my shoes and into my bones.

I lean back in the VIP booth, watching Rome's elite pretend they own this city while I hold half their debts in my back pocket.

The club pulses with dark energy—red lighting cuts through smoke and shadows, casting everything in shades of blood and sin.

Crystal decanters line the table in front of me, filled with whiskey that tickles my senses.

I lift the glass to my lips, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat.

Three days since our last conversation, since I told Rosaria I'd be watching.

Emilio thinks walls and guards can keep her from me.

The old fool still believes in traditional methods of control, which is why he's caged her in his estate under lock and key, attempting to keep her from me.

The music pounds around me, but all I can hear is the steady rhythm of my own pulse.

Costa thinks he can cage a bird of prey and expect it to sing sweetly.

He doesn't understand what he's dealing with.

Rosaria isn't some delicate flower to be pressed between pages—she's fire contained in porcelain, and fire always finds a way to burn.

I drain the rest of my whiskey and catch Bruno's eye across the club. He's positioned near the bar, alert despite the chaos around him. The scar above his left eyebrow—courtesy of a knife fight in Palermo—catches the red light as he moves through the crowd toward me.

"Problem, Boss?" Bruno asks as he slides into the booth across from me.

"Emilio's playing games." I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. "He thinks keeping her locked away will make me lose interest."

Bruno's mouth curves into what might charitably be called a smile. "And will it?"

"No," I say. "It won't."

I signal to one of the servers—a blonde with sharp cheekbones who's been eyeing our booth all night—and she approaches with smooth grace. Her dress is the kind of black that absorbs light, and her smile is professionally warm.

"Another round?" she asks, her voice barely audible over the music.

"Clear the table," I tell her instead. "And make sure we're not disturbed."

She nods, gathering the empty glasses with efficient movements before disappearing back into the crowd. The booth feels larger now, more intimate. The shadows seem to press closer, creating a pocket of privacy in the middle of chaos.

"Boss." Tano's voice comes through the earpiece again. "You want me to keep watching?"

I touch the comm device at my ear. "Always. But I need you to do one more thing."

"Name it."

"Go to the estate. When you see her, put her in the car and bring her to me."

Bruno raises an eyebrow. "You think they'll actually let her come?"

"I think if Emilio hears of it, he will refuse, but I think Rosaria will come anyway." I stand, straightening my jacket. The tailored fabric settles perfectly across my shoulders. "She's not the type to stay caged indefinitely."

The club swirls around us as I make my way to the upper level.

Private rooms line the second floor, each one designed for the kind of conversations that require absolute discretion.

I choose the corner room—soundproofed walls, tinted windows that look out over the main floor, and most importantly, complete privacy.

The decor is understated luxury—black leather furniture, modern art, and lighting that can be adjusted to suit any mood. I dim the lights to a subtle glow and pour myself another drink from the private bar. Then I send a discrete message to her.

Thinking of a songbird...

And I wait.

Time moves differently when you're anticipating.

Minutes feel elongated by possibility. I watch the main floor through the tinted glass, observing the choreographed chaos below—dancers gyrating under the flashing lights, women drinking the gifts of seduction offered to them by men who watch them contort their bodies in beat to the music.

My phone buzzes. A text from Bruno comes in letting me know he's there waiting, and Emilio will likely try to chase him off.

But Rosaria... Rosaria is different. She's spent her entire life being told what to do, where to go, how to behave.

Eventually, that kind of pressure creates cracks.

And cracks, once they appear, only spread.

The club's energy shifts around ten thirty.

The crowd grows denser, more electric. Money flows more freely.

Inhibitions lower with each drink, each line, each whispered promise in dark corners.

I've seen it a thousand times—the nightly transformation of Rome's elite from respectable citizens into creatures of pure appetite.

I'm finishing my second drink when Bruno appears in the doorway.

"She's here," he says.

The words slam into my chest and I set down my glass and stand, smoothing my jacket.

I am not used to being denied, but in this case I didn't hold out much hope that she'd be able to slip out of the Costa estate.

Through the tinted glass, I can see the main floor—a sea of moving bodies, flashing lights, and shadows. But I can't see her yet.

"Alone?" I ask.

"No tail that I can spot. We walked in through the front entrance about two minutes ago." He squares his chest and nods at me.

"Bring her up."

Bruno nods and disappears back into the corridor.

I move to the window, looking down at the crowd below.

The anticipation builds in my chest, a familiar tension that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with her.

Since that night at the estate, since our conversation in the garden, she's occupied space in my thoughts.

The door opens behind me. I don't turn around immediately. I want to hear her footsteps, want to know if she's here willingly or under protest. The click of heels on hardwood is casual, not hasty. Long, confident strides, a measured pace. She's not running away, and she's not being dragged.

When I finally turn, she's standing inside the doorway. The sight of her stops my breath in my throat.

She's wearing black—a dress that hugs her figure without revealing too much, sophisticated enough for the opera house but dark enough for the underground.

Her hair falls in waves over one shoulder, and her skin seems to glow in the dim lighting.

But it's her eyes that capture me. Dark fire, burning with an intensity that could melt steel.

"You called," she says, and her voice carries over the muffled music, "I came."

There's no fear in her tone. No uncertainty.

If anything, she sounds angry—the kind of controlled fury that comes from being pushed too far for too long.

She steps further into the room, and I notice she's not carrying a purse, not wearing a coat.

She came here with nothing but her own will and whatever she's planning to say.

"I wasn't sure you would," I admit, closing the distance between us by half. The room feels smaller now, charged with her presence.

"I'm tired," she says, and for a moment I think she means physically.

Then she continues, and I understand. "I'm tired of being treated as someone else's property.

I'm tired of decisions being made about my life without my input.

And I'm tired of men who think they can control me by controlling my circumstances. "

Her eyes never leave mine as she speaks. Each word is chosen carefully, delivered with tact. She's thought about this conversation long before it began, and she's not here because I summoned her. She's here because she has her own agenda.

"So if you want me," she continues, taking another step forward, "if you really want me and not the idea of taking a possession from Emilio, then you'd better be ready to deal with all of me.

Not the opera singer, not the Costa daughter, not the symbol of whatever alliance you're trying to build. Me."

The club noise fades completely. The bass line that was thrumming through the floor disappears. The laughter and conversation from below becomes distant static. All I can hear is her breathing. All I can see is the way the dim light catches the curve of her jaw, the set of her shoulders.

She's magnificent. Angry and defiant and absolutely magnificent.

I move closer, close enough to see the slight flush across her cheekbones, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume mixed with night air. She doesn't step back. Doesn't flinch. She holds her ground and waits for my response.

"You think I don't know who you are?" I ask, my voice dropping lower. "You think I called you here because of your last name or your voice or what you represent to other people?"

Her chin lifts slightly. "I think you're a man who takes what he wants without asking what the other person wants in return."

"And what do you want, Rosaria?"

The question hovers in the air between us. She studies my face, searching for sincerity, perhaps, or maybe proof that I'm capable of hearing her answer.

"I want to choose," she says finally. "For once in my life, I want to make a decision that's mine alone. Not because my uncle demands it, not because the opera house requires it, not because society expects it. Mine."

I reach out slowly, giving her time to move away if she wants to. She doesn't. My fingers trace the line of her jaw, feeling the warmth of her skin, the slight tremor that runs through her at the touch.

"Then choose," I tell her.

Her eyes widen slightly. She was expecting an argument, maybe even a command. She wasn't expecting permission.

"It's not that simple," she says, but her voice is softer now.

"It is that simple. Everything else—Emilio, the families, the politics—that's noise. This, right here, is the only thing that's real."